The hunt for Sentences

It’s the last Afternoon in School:

Finally The Last Lesson; I’ll unleash the hounds, Tomorrow The hunting season is open, Do you breed sentences?

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds: I can now  start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge
I know they hate to hunt,
but I can haul them and urge them all  to more.
I can endure more to bear the burden
Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score
Of several studies of boring pages and scrawl
To slovenly work what  they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take on me
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their ore dross, skimmed of, and burn the scroll
Of their scores in full ? – I will do
I will spend  my time to embers for them,
Yes all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep afire
Some of my strength for myself, for if I should spiel
It all for them, I should Love them –
– I will sit and wait for the bell.

Today is the last day of  school,

Départ is such sweet sorrow
I’ll stay nice and cool
One more hour is not often.
In the morn of Tomorrow
the hunting season is open
Then, I’ll unleash my pack of hounds




D. H. Lawrence’s “Afternoon in School: The Last Lesson”


Afternoon in School: The Last Lesson

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
I can haul them and urge them no more.
No more can I endure to bear the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score
Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll
Of their insults in punishment? – I will not!
I will not waste myself to embers for them,
Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep
Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell
It all for them, I should hate them –
– I will sit and wait for the bell.

Actaeon, My Slougui’s Name

Actaeon

My pack of hounds

_ Courtesy to: Ellensburg film festival

A Pack hounds, you know them all by name.

Actaeon
BY A.E. STALLINGS

You fostered them from purblind whelps
At their dam’s teats, and you have come
To know the music of their yelps:
High-strung Anthee, the brindled bitch,
The blue-tick coated Philomel,
And freckled Chloe, who would fetch
A pretty price if you would sell—

All fleet of foot, and swift to scent,
Inexorable once on the track,
Like angry words you might have meant,
But do not mean, and can’t take back.

There was a time when you would brag
How they would bay and rend apart
The hopeless belling from a stag.
You falter now for the foundered hart.

Desires you nursed of a winter night—
Did you know then why you bred them—
Whose needling milk-teeth used to bite
The master’s hand that leashed and fed them?

A. E. Stallings, “Actaeon” from Hapax. Copyright © 2003, 2006 by A. E. Stallings. Reprinted with the permission of Northwestern University Press, http://www.nupress.northwestern.edu/.
Source: Poetry (2003) _Courtesy

— Read on
www.poetryfoundation.org
/poetrymagazine/
poems/41852/actaeon

Why My Slougui Blog

http://en.blog.wordpress.com/2015/10/28/what-inspires-us-to-blog/

Release the hounds!

“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
– Mary Oliver, Wild Geese“

A Stirring Conversation With my muse

“Did you know then why you bred them—
Whose needling milk-teeth used to bite you,
The master’s hand that leashed and fed them?”

The pack of hounds, you know them all by name. To be proud of when someone checks your hands, and says to you: _“Congratulations, They are beautiful!
🃏

The hounds with
“Ears that sweep away the morning dew ; Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never halloo’d to, nor cheered with horn.”

At what might be My Slougui dreaming of? It might be simply of reveries, dreams of ignorance, or perhaps, of those faraway horizons, remembrances of gallops on hot sands of the Algerian Sahara desert, running after gazelles, hares, and the like. Then in the aftermath of a hunt, you took a rest, looking for some freshness, under a tent, in the shades of The oasis of BouSaada, in the south of Algeria, at the Gates of the Algerian Sahara Desert.

These delightful beings, of dream, tripping in the shadow from the light of the sun, meddling playfully in the live s of mortals, blessing the bridal bed and presiding over the golden summer-time, with those later creatures of the darkness, in Macbeth, incentive to crimes of horror, foreboding dire calamity. _Sheikspeare ”

Have you ever run bare foot on a beach, had you felt the crispy and scolding grains of sand under so les of your feet, then after that you dived in to the fresh waters? certainly yes, in deed!.

Then, imagine the cool waters of the oasis running on your skin, as you step out quivering for some heat of the desert. Or It might be also, that and as it happened often, you went asleep for a nap while  listening  with an absent-minded ear, to a stirring conversation between your master and his visiting guests, while the waiter is preparing a hot tea for them under the  convivial atmosphere of the tent.

Since you are  of the concerned subject about other topics of their conversation, debating  in view of the ritual preparations of the for forthcoming hunting party of the morrow, and that is, he is proud of you and of your pedigree reputation,  as you made history among the community, in the vicinity around.
But anyway, it’s inasmuch  in the human language, as it is a stranger to you that it can be, apart from your master love and care for you, even though you are used to it, and apart from being familiar signs of communications, and body language  to you.
By then, the golden tea, in a copper kettle  is brought by the waiter to the guests and ready to be served in  foaming tiny glasses, the smell of mint tea embalmed the tent, and you stirred up from your daydreams, as your master is  calling you while he  tended to you a piece of your favorite treat; a sun-dried lamb meat.

_Nota Bene: The character of the hound is known for being whimsical, do you breed Jurassic raptors? And Sentences.

In this special moment: be happy!

♥Don’t worry, be happy, and happy new year, courtesy Getty Images

My thought goes to whom  they can not celebrate it…

Tea-a-la-menthe


As you approached the desert city-oasis  of El Oued by air, the well-known city of thousand domes; you are in dalliance awe, a coup-de-foudre when you fall in love for the first time in your life, with the city,  as it extends its resplendent scenery offered before your eyes, in a magnificent panoramic view, and revealed itself,  to vanishing horizon, such as in front of an  Art of Monet_The “Hyphae’s”;

at bird-eye, these are grooves of dates palm-trees; like thousands china saucers  with their glasses tea-cups dressed on top, a couple of mint leaves inside them, all that set incrusted  on a table-cloth of white sands. Then, as the Convair 640 airplane hovered over the palm grove near to the airport, in a circle at 45º angle, the pilot aligned it before landing on the runway, the plane resumed then to disappear from the view in seconds as it  glided, nosed up then touched ground in two bounds, and landed.

As soon as the door opened, the atmospheric ambience was ethereal; a  breath of heath blew on your face, wrapped you up right into your skin, then  never leaves you, and let you linger  for a moment longing for the attractive interior freshness of the cabin. As you stood stunned, as the lasting  images remained whirling in your head while the vibrations of the old plane still crawling like ants on your body. The first step you put on the tarmac; a square mat of crisp gravels the size of a handkerchief, over an immensity sea of sand, you spot at a distance the silhouettes of palm trees, behind,  the cubics-ocher houses and the few buildings facility of aerodrome  with  their particular domed ceilings; the loss in translation we guaranty it: a postcard grand view worth to be  in your travel notebook, to impress you friends later on, when back home. The  director of the airport welcomed us with a warmth-lasting smile, at the feet of the plane, accompanied by a little girl handing a pitcher of sour sweet goat milk with a sprig of rosemary in it on one  hand, and a plate of succulent black round dates on the other hand. We followed him to his office, where on the desk, a tray with a tea-pot of the tea a-la menthe and tiny glasses were waiting for us. And a beginning of a thirty years long as flight-attendant.

Apart from the generous hospitality of the Sahara desert, from all the schmooze of the Grand Opening which are of  pure  formalities; to a handful fist of sands fleeting from the fingers, remained to us  the  only remembrance of the men of the desert, the gentleness and a dear friend.

Why My Slougui Blog

Why My Slougui Blog

http://en.blog.wordpress.com/2015/10/28/what-inspires-us-to-blog/

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
– Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

At what might be My Slougui dreaming of?
“These delightful beings, of dream, tripping in the shadow from the light of the sun, meddling playfully in the live s of mortals, blessing the bridal bed and presiding over the golden summer-time.”_Sheikspeare

It might be simply of reveries, dreams of ignorance, or perhaps, of those faraway horizons, remembrances of gallops on hot sands of the Algerian Sahara desert, running after gazelles, hares, and the like. Then in the aftermath of a hunt, you took a rest looking for some freshness, under a tent,  in the shades of  the leafy oasis of BouSaada, at the Gate of the Algerian Sahara Desert.

Have you ever run bare foot on a beach, felt the crispy and scolding grains of sand under your feet, then you dived in to the waters? certainly yes, in deed! Then, imagine the cool waters of the oasis running on your skin, as you step out quivering for some heat.  Or It might be also, that and as it happened often, you went asleep for a nap while  listening  with an absent-minded ear, to a stirring conversation between your master and his visiting guests, while the groom is preparing a tea for them under the  convivial atmosphere of the tent. Since you are  the concerned subject among other topics of their conversation, in view of the ritual preparations of the for forthcoming hunting party of the morrow, and that is, he is proud of you and of your pedigree reputation,  as you made history among the community, in the vicinity around. But anyway, it’s inasmuch a human language, as it is a stranger to you it can be, apart from your master love and care for you, even though you are used to it, and apart from being familiar signs of communications, and body language  to you. By then, the golden tea in a copper kettle  is brought to the guests and ready to be served in  foaming tiny glasses, the smell of mint tea embalmed the tent, and you stirred up from your daydreams, as your master is  calling you while he  tended to you a piece of your favorite treat; a sun-dried camel meat.

Nota Bene: The character of the hound is known for being whimsical, do you breed Jurassic raptors?

On Home, and Tea and or a Coffee perhaps

It has been 8 years since I wrote this post. Before I was stranger to WordPress, I had no home_(website) to settle down at and put down my load of thoughts. Like anyone else I was struggling for the matters of the living, and only have my sketchbook and a small notebook either to take notes or doodling whatever thing I encounter with in the moment. In the past, in my early career I traveled the world a lot. I was happy then, like Ulysses, who has made a beautiful journey, he visited cities and villages, countries and sea. I, instead I could say that I took the route of the sky airlines. In my debut like a steward 👨‍✈️ onboard the aircrafts  I grooved my days long to the arrivals at exotic places in the vast Algerian desert, the Sahara. It was exotic to me because all I know about it was in the books of geography and history, and some nostalgia for books I read like the Atlantide, of Pierre Benoît the French writer of the Movies. Hence it was my encounter with Thé à la menthe au Sahara.

Later on it was my foreign encounter with The English Breakfast, Peackoe Orange, the Ceylon, and The Ottoman teas, since the green teas I was Already and always been accustomed to it, with cardamom, lemon and mint. Rest the Japanese, and that was the travel time of 19 and half hours plus taxi to the hotel, passing by the Northern pôle route, stop in Alaska before landing, what day was it? After jet-leged I went in a tour to visit the Emperor palace and there, the house tea with the ceremonial and all the ritual of the preparation and serving the Japanese green tea by an authentic old lady geisha  at that time, 40 years ago.
So, finding a home is a quest for a place where to rest and have a cup to tea. A tea-house, a wooden tent in the Gobi desert or made of stone or wool, it’s where you are and the emotional moment you live, and that you make history.

A wander in a his quest for a home;

”Perhaps the house I felt ready for
wasn’t a physical place,
but an emotional one.“

“Perhaps my search for home
wasn’t over just yet.“

— “Home Is a Cup of Tea”

Courtesy to _ http://www.candaceroserardon.com/

https://longreads.com/2017/07/03/home-is-a-cup-of-tea/

All illustrations by Candace Rose Rardon

https://longreads.com/2017/07/03/home-is-a-cup-of-tea/

Thé à la menthe au Sahara

Algerian Thé à la menthe

 

 

A woolen-tent In the Sahara Desert  is home of a cup of tea, and sometimes for a coffee, depending on the time of the day in when the ceremony is held. And the time of your arrival.
A 3 cups of tea, is a tradition usage  proper to the Men of the Sahara Desert, the Tuaregs. Their kindness and hospitality are legendary. It’s in the habits offering of a cup of a hot tea to a Passer-by wanderer, in this wast land which  is the Sahara desert, he became a guest the sooner he approached the whereabouts, he is welcomed and invited inside the woolen-tent.
The passer-by into a  rudimentary stone house at a perched village clung downhill on one of  the Karakorum Himalayan mountainous sides; Often he found himself called in at a distance by an habitant in the middle of nowhere in these mountainous escarpments and invited for a cup of tea,  it’s a  sign of showing hospitality to visitors escalating those faraway horizons. Equality, you are invited with a refinement and elegance, inside a Japanese tea house, as a guest and in a Japanese way. The ritual proper to  the “country of quite morning,” in that far eastern part of the world, and or with a spontaneous welcome and warmth, and simplicity of manners. For Instance, and being in the know of the matter of tea and the manners of preparing and serving it, 

A digne Touareg has always with him in is travel bag, a kettle, a bag of tea, dried mint leaves,  hard sugar slabs, and a wrap of dried curried camel meat, or lamb,  and a must have, a gourd  of water, always.

And always think, that  is to humble oneself before the modest present , and seat right on the ground, to honor the house host by accepting to take a cup of tea from his hands, to sit on a Tatami, or on the sands, at the detour of a dune under a scarce tree and a faintly shade.

On parlance of coffee, this is  another story, there is also green coffee with cardamom, nutmeg and other spices added, like there are great green teas,  black and white teas, brought by caravans in exchange of  salt_ back to ages, as salt was considered a reliable source as money for trades_from journeys throughout to far away souks, and markets, nestled deep into the heart of the African countries. In the desert,  it’s a domestic chore,  wich preparation is a reserved domain, for women living under the Khymas, a nomadic tent woven with fine camels wool. The best  preparation  of the coffee and the ritual can take several days, first because of the sun-dried coffee beans, then the roasting process could take a couple of hours, and last but not the least the brew with meticulously mix of spices, or drop of orange blossoms water. Then comes the moment  of delight, the time of the savoring the 4 o’clock afternoon coffee. Usually it takes place when the muezzin  calls for the mid-afternoon prayer, and the time of milking the goats.

What is the mysterious thing that attracted writers, artists and exegetical scholars in this fascinating desert? to stop at its doors,  and spent his entire life, like Etienne Dinet did at the oasis of Bousaadah, in Algeria, or André Gide, a simple passage to Touggourt , and or to the point to spear one’s own life  as Le Pere Foucault did it, between Tamenrasset and Bechar, on the extreme borders. There are too many writers and artists who wrote novels, books and diaries, from Tunis to Rabat, like The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles, or simply lived their life and made history, for posterity like Isabelle Eberhart,and the list is long. Tinged of total mystery and attractive charm, the desert remains  a challenge of questions inspiring poetry and mysticism till today.
l have posted this blog 4 years ago, and then as I continued  receiving prompts and following WPress blogs, when I read the post on Home and Tea, it send me back in a split of a second to the time when I was hovering over the oases of the Sahara desert as a flight attendant, and the standby in the tiny airports, for refueling and between the time of disembarking and boarding passengers, for the crew taking a little break to sip syrupy tea mints. But those moments are lost among other things of life.