With only
four readers on hand, KRG had its lowest ever attendance at a session. Thommo offered a selection of mainly French poets,
and Anaïs Nin, who is known for her diaries. KumKum read some poems from
Robert Graves.
Kavita read the
poem Invictus, now, as before, a school children’s elocution favourite because of its stirring lines. Joe presented poems of the 1996 Nobel Laureate, Wisława
Szymborska. Here are the readers at the end —
Thommo, KumKum, Kavita, Joe
To read
more click below …
Full Account and Record of the Poetry Session May 10,
2013
Present: Kavita,
KumKum, Thommo, Joe
Absent: Priya (out
of station), Bobby (out of sorts excuse), Mathew (out of station), Sunil
(delayed by daughter & traffic), Zakia (out of station), Sivaram (Ayurveda
excuse), Gopa (out of station), Talitha (out of station)
June 14 is
the date set for reading Zorba The Greek
by Nikos Kazantzakis (selection of Gopa and Sivaram). July 12 is Poetry and P.G.
Wodehouse will be on Aug 9.
This was the lowest ever attendance at a KRG session. Please send the
word around we need four more members who are reliable in attendance and
subscribe to the Charter on our website. Thommo will try to get Liz Thomas (related
to Kavita) to join. She did librarianship professionally and her being in Yacht Club Enclave should help.
Thommo
Thommo read short poems by four poets of the early twentieth century,
chiefly French: Alain Bosquet (1919-1998), Robert Desnos (1900-1945), Paul
Éluard (1895-1952), and Anaïs Nin (1903-1977).
Alain Bosquet
Alain Bosquet was a French poet who came from a diverse background. His
father was Ukrainian, and translated Rainer Maria Rilke's poetry into Russian. His
mother was German-Jewish from Alsace. He fought in the war (WWII) and was
evacuated to England. In 1942 he came to New York and helped to edit a magazine
of the Free French forces. There he met a galaxy of writers and artists from
around the world. After the war he joined Albert Camus in editing the magazine,
Combat. He began contributing reviews
and essays to well-known literary magazines. He also taught at American
universities. He wrote scores of books on poetry and won all the major awards
in France, including the Prix Goncourt. He had the good fortune through his
friendships to have his poetry translated into English by men like Samuel
Beckett and Lawrence Durrell. His complete poems were published in a 900-page
volume in 1995.
Robert Desnos
Robert Desnos, born 1900
in Paris, started publishing poems in 1917, and published a book of surrealist
aphorisms in 1922. He tried his hand at ‘automatic writing.’ He was part of a
group of surrealist writers that included André Breton and Paul Éluard.
See Breton’s manifesto of surrealism:
He got to
know several American authors who went to Paris in the 1930s: Hemingway and Dos
Passos. During the war Desnos became a fighter in the Résistance. He was
captured and imprisoned in concentration camps where he died of typhoid within
weeks of the camp’s liberation.
Paul Éluard, circa 1930
Paul Éluard was a
surrealist poet too. He suffered from TB at an early age and met his first
wife, Gala, in a Swiss sanatorium. He was introduced to several poets of France
at the age of 23, becoming known to André Breton, Jean Paulhan, and others. Gala left him
for the surrealist painter, Salvador Dali. But he found another wife who died
prematurely of TB and inspired many poems. He died of a heart attack in 1952,
leaving a legacy of hundreds of poems which have been translated into multiple
languages.
Anaïs Nin
Anaïs Nin was a feminist, known for her erotica, written as a
commission from an American collector, for whom Henry Miller also wrote stuff.
Her diary is her famous work. She was born in France of mixed parentage, part Cuban,
part Danish. She married a rich banker who let her pursue her artistic aims. She
wrote critiques (the first of D.H. Lawrence). She underwent therapy with a
psychoanalyst, Otto Rank, and describes it as a turning point: “As he talked, I
thought of my difficulties with writing, my struggles to articulate feelings
not easily expressed. Of my struggles to find a language for intuition,
feeling, instincts which are, in themselves, elusive, subtle, and wordless.”
During the war she left France with her husband for New York city. In the
late forties she began a dual life with an actor-turned-forest-ranger (Rupert Pole) on
the West coast and her husband, Guiler, on the East coast. Her enduring work is
her diary published unexpurgated (with all the references to famous people,
authors, artists, and psychoanalysts, and to her husband) after her death in
1977 by Pole. You can read all about it at:
About Bosquet’s poem No Need,
simple in conception and quirky in execution, KumKum thought the last word was ’explain.’
Joe whose left eye acts as a magnifying glass easily read it as ‘understand’ in very tiny print.
The second poem, a curse by Robert Desnos, is aimed, surrealist fashion,
at somebody in the universe; just who, is the question. Joe related a joke of
cricket sledging: as Ian Botham took guard in an Ashes match, the bowler Marsh welcomed him
to the wicket with the immortal words: "So how's your wife and my
kids?" Botham replied:" The wife's fine, but the kids are a bit
retarded." Thommo was inspired to relate the joke of Lady Astor and Winston
Churchill. Astor said: "Winston, if you were my husband, I'd put poison in
your coffee." Churchill replied: "Nancy, if you were my wife, I'd
drink it."
The third
poem by Paul Éluard lays out an
elaborate excuse for shagging. For there was nothing else to do, under the circumstances!
The last
poem Thommo chose, by Anaïs Nin,
is more of an aphorism than a poem; it is constructed with wonderful insight
and only the line divisions signify it is intended as verse rather than a
one-liner in prose. KumKum called it ‘very nice!’ Joe was mistaken to think of Anaïs Nin as lesbian. Not at all, she had
a strong heterosexual drive and was always on the lookout for a lover. KumKum also
recalled she was a fashion person who didn’t shrink from wearing turbans.
Anaïs Nin with Rupert Pole, her West coast husband
KumKum read from the poems of Robert Graves (1895-1985)
Robert Graves was born on July 24, 1895, in Wimbledon, England.
As a young man he was interested in mountain climbing and boxing.
He got a scholarship to study at St. John's College, Oxford. He joined the army
and served till 1918. All through his youth and continuing he composed poems.
During his time in the Service, his first book of poems, Over The Brazier,
was published.
Robert Graves
In 1918 Robert Graves married Nancy Nicholson and took up a
teaching position at St. John's College, Oxford. His poems up to this time were
about nature, bucolic pleasures and WWI of which he had firsthand experience.
He had already established himself as a poet.
In 1926 Graves met Laura Riding, an American poet and critic. It
was an event that changed his life in many ways. Ms. Riding critiqued his
writing, pointing out their flaws: digressiveness, philosophising, and a general
rambling on about things.
How far Robert Graves changed his style of writing under Laura
Riding's influence is not of great importance; what is important is that it
changed their personal lives. In 1927 Graves separated from his first wife. He
published his autobiographical book, Goodbye to All That, in 1929 and it continues to be in print, a classic. In the same year Graves went to live in
Majorca with Laura Riding. He published more collections of poems and volumes
of criticism. Some of these essays were co-authored with Laura Riding. During
his time in Majorca, Graves tried his hand at writing novels. He said it was to
earn money. His historical novel, I, Claudius, and its sequels came out
at that time. BBC later produced a popular television series based on Graves' novel by
the same name.
During the Spanish civil war Robert Graves and Laura Riding fled
to America. There both found new lovers. After the WWII Graves and his new
partner returned to Majorca. He continued to write, compose poems, and
translate. During his lifetime Graves earned a fair share of fame and success.
In 1961-65 Robert Graves returned to occupy the prestigious chair of Professor
of Poetry at the University of Oxford. The last decade of his life was sad on
account of declining health and failing mental faculties. He died in Majorca in
1985 at the age of 90 from heart failure, having over 140 works to his credit.
Majorca is famous for pearls. About the first poem, A
Pinch of Salt, KumKum noted that in America in winter they leave
salt out for birds. Thommo spoke of elephants in plantation regions expecting to
lick salt and getting unruly if the salt is not put out. Their bodies need the
salt. The second poem, Counting the Beats,
has words ringing to the beats the poet talks about. It is a lovely unison of
sense and rhythm. At the third poem, Dew-drop
and Diamond, Joe stopped to discover the sense of comparing the shine of a dew-drop to
a diamond's glitter. It’s obvious the girl being compared to a dew-drop comes off
better than the girl compared to a diamond, but precisely why, the poet leaves
the reader to intuit. Artificiality? Hardness? Ability to cut and splinter?
Is Graves comparing Nancy Nicholson, his first wife, to Laura Riding, his
second? Or is it the third partner whom he never married?
Kavita read the often-cited poem by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
called Invictus (‘Undefeated’ in
Latin). It is technically perfect. The poem claims the author to be morally superior
for having withstood the blows of fate. It is his resilience following a limb
amputation that is on display.
William Ernest Henley
Another poem
of his proclaims the virtue of fighting for God and country; it is called Pro Rege Nostro. It has the following
lines repeated in a refrain:
What have I done for you, England, my England?
What is there I would not do, England my own?
Joe thought
of Invictus as pompous. How can a guy set himself up as a model of heroic
virtue? It is not the immodesty of it, but the fact the poet immediately loses
the sympathy of the reader. Here’s what the poet and critic John Ciardi says:
“One feels that Henley is not really reacting from his own profoundest depths
but that he is making some over-dramatic speech about pessimism. There is a
failure of character in the tone he has assumed. The poet has presented himself
as unflinchingly valiant. The reader cannot help but find him merely inflated
and self-dramatizing.”
Nevertheless
the words
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
shall live
on, and inspire those who do not want to kowtow to others in life.
Joe read three of the four poems he had selected by Wisława
Szymborska (1923-2012).
Wisława Szymborska in 1996
Wisława Szymborska was born in 1923 and lived
right into the 21st century, She died last year and was composing
poems until the end. She lived her entire adult life in her native Krakow in
Poland. Although she experienced the catastrophes of the WWII, and then the
authoritarian rule of a Communist state, she seems to have escaped the worst.
She started writing poems quite early and when someone asked her soon after she
won the Nobel for Lit in 1996, why her work was so sparse (about 350 poems) she
replied tartly it was because she kept a waste-basket by her desk.
Initially, she was a sympathiser of Communist rule
and even wrote some poems to celebrate Lenin et al. It does not matter in her
case, for like Arundhati Roy she mainly celebrates the small things, and
occasionally where the small things intersect with the big things. Apolitical
and non-religious, sceptical and ironic – all these adjectives would fit her.
She writes herself out of her poems, and therefore it has a quality of
universality. Being from central Europe
she was fortunate to escape the disease of unintelligibility that afflicted
post-modernism in the West. If you pay attention, she keeps it quite simple and
you won’t have to re-read if you read it slowly to get at what she is saying. I
think you will like her words, as I did.
She won the highest honour of Poland in 1985, but
while she was a widely read poet in her own land, recognition worldwide came
later. She published sixteen poems in The New Yorker between 1992 and 2006. Her translator
of this volume (View with a Grain of Sand,
a culling from several of her earlier volumes which has sold over 100,000
copies in America) is very good; he is Stanislaw Baranczak, himself a poet,
aided by Clare Cavanagh. I have selected 4 poems and shall read as many as time
permits.
****
At the end the company exchanged some stories
about cricket, e.g., Ravi Shastri winning an Audi in Australia in 1985 and driving round
the ground in a lap of honour. Thommo’s mom would watch if India was playing, and once
when being carried away after a fall at home, wanted to know the score. Thommo
himself was fed up once when he got a ticket to Eden Gardens to watch India
play England in a Test Match with endless defensive tak-tak strokes. Everyone
recalled Pearson Surita, the best among the radio commentators, and Vizzy (the Maharajkumar of Vizianagaram), who was a player and organiser
of cricket before he became a commentator.
From there the readers digressed to people falling
asleep at long sermons in church. This originated from a discussion of Bertie
Wooster’s wager on who will give the longest sermon; see
Joe gave his version of Father Fernandes of Santa
Cruz Basilica in Fort Kochi taking off from the words of the Gospel ‘I am the
vine and you are the branches’ to talking about the merits of wines in general,
the process of winemaking by pressing
grapes with the feet in Italy (he himself had participated), and then to California
where he visited the vineyards of Napa Valley, and thence to the vineyards of
N India as he said (turned out to be Nashik). It took a good 25 mins before the
wine tour ended and he could come back to the meaning of Christ’s words.
Of course, the reverse of Nashik being in N India is
that everyone from the South used to be labelled a ‘Madrassi’ in Calcutta. Joe would
close his eyes and shift his mental attention once the sermon began; that’s
okay, but Thommo’s friend would nod off
in Thoburn Methodist church in Dharamtollah right in front of the priest, as
Rev Morgan was speaking from the pulpit.
The Poems
Thommo four poems
No Need by Alain
Bosquet
The elephant's trunk
is for picking up pistachios:
no need to bend over.
The giraffe's neck
is for grazing on stars:
no need to fly.
The chameleon's skin,
green, blue, lavender, white,
as it wishes,
is for hiding from ravenous animals:
no need to flee.
The turtle's shell,
is for sleeping inside,
even in winter:
no need for a house.
The poet's poem,
is for saying all of that
and a thousand thousand thousand other things:
no need to understand.
translated by F.J. Bergmann
is for picking up pistachios:
no need to bend over.
The giraffe's neck
is for grazing on stars:
no need to fly.
The chameleon's skin,
green, blue, lavender, white,
as it wishes,
is for hiding from ravenous animals:
no need to flee.
The turtle's shell,
is for sleeping inside,
even in winter:
no need for a house.
The poet's poem,
is for saying all of that
and a thousand thousand thousand other things:
no need to understand.
translated by F.J. Bergmann
Dove in the
Arch by Robert Desnos
Dove in the Arch
Cursed!
be the father of the bride
of the blacksmith who forged the iron for the axe
with which the woodsman hacked down the oak
from which the bed was carved
in which was conceived the great-grandfather
of the man who was driving the carriage
in which your mother met your father.
Curfew
by Paul Éluard
What else could we do, for the doors were guarded,
What else could we do, for they had imprisoned us,
What else could we do, for the streets were
forbidden us,
What else could we do, for the town was asleep?
What else could we do, for she hungered and
thirsted,
What else could we do, for we were defenceless,
What else could we do, for night had descended,
What else could we do, for we were in love?
Risk
by Anaïs Nin
And when the day came
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom
KumKum poems by Robert
Graves
A Pinch of Salt
When a dream is born in you
With a sudden clamorous pain,
When you know the dream is true
And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
When a dream is born in you
With a sudden clamorous pain,
When you know the dream is true
And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.
Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
Flirting the feathers of his tail.
When you seize at the salt-box,
Over the hedge you'll see him sail.
Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.
Flirting the feathers of his tail.
When you seize at the salt-box,
Over the hedge you'll see him sail.
Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.
Poet, never chase the dream.
Laugh yourself, and turn away.
Mask your hunger; let it seem
Small matter if he come or stay;
But when he nestles in your hand at last,
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.
Laugh yourself, and turn away.
Mask your hunger; let it seem
Small matter if he come or stay;
But when he nestles in your hand at last,
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.
Counting the Beats
You, love, and I,
(He whispers) you and I,
And if no more than only you and I
What care you or I ?
Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.
Cloudless day,
Night, and a cloudless day,
Yet the huge storm will burst upon their heads one day
From a bitter sky.
Night, and a cloudless day,
Yet the huge storm will burst upon their heads one day
From a bitter sky.
Where shall we be,
(She whispers) where shall we be,
When death strikes home, O where then shall we be
Who were you and I ?
(She whispers) where shall we be,
When death strikes home, O where then shall we be
Who were you and I ?
Not
there but here,
(He whispers) only here,
As we are, here, together, now and here,
Always you and I.
(He whispers) only here,
As we are, here, together, now and here,
Always you and I.
Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.
Dew-drop
and Diamond
The difference
between you and her
(whom I to you did once prefer)
Is clear enough to settle:
She like a diamond shone, but you
Shine like an early drop of dew
Poised on a red rose petal.
The dew-drop carries in its eye
Mountain and forest, sea and sky,
With every change of weather;
Contrariwise, a diamond splits
The prospect into idle bits
That none can piece together.
Mountain and forest, sea and sky,
With every change of weather;
Contrariwise, a diamond splits
The prospect into idle bits
That none can piece together.
Lost Love
His eyes are quickened so with grief,
He can watch a grass or leaf
Every instant grow; he can
Clearly through a flint wall see,
Or watch the startled spirit flee
From the throat of a dead man.
Across two counties he can hear
And catch your words before you speak.
The woodlouse or the maggot's weak
Clamour rings in his sad ear,
And noise so slight it would surpass
Credence--drinking sound of grass,
Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
Chumbling holes in cloth;
The groan of ants who undertake
Gigantic loads for honour's sake
(Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin);
Whir of spiders when they spin,
And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
Of idle grubs and flies.
This man is quickened so with grief,
He wanders god-like or like thief
Inside and out, below, above,
Without relief seeking lost love.
His eyes are quickened so with grief,
He can watch a grass or leaf
Every instant grow; he can
Clearly through a flint wall see,
Or watch the startled spirit flee
From the throat of a dead man.
Across two counties he can hear
And catch your words before you speak.
The woodlouse or the maggot's weak
Clamour rings in his sad ear,
And noise so slight it would surpass
Credence--drinking sound of grass,
Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
Chumbling holes in cloth;
The groan of ants who undertake
Gigantic loads for honour's sake
(Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin);
Whir of spiders when they spin,
And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
Of idle grubs and flies.
This man is quickened so with grief,
He wanders god-like or like thief
Inside and out, below, above,
Without relief seeking lost love.
Kavita poem by Wiliam
Ernest Henley
Invictus
Out of the
night that covers me,
Black as the
Pit from pole to pole,
I thank
whatever gods may be
For my
unconquerable soul.
In the fell
clutch of circumstance
I have not
winced nor cried aloud.
Under the
bludgeonings of chance
My head is
bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this
place of wrath and tears
Looms but
the Horror of the shade,
And yet the
menace of the years
Finds, and
shall find, me unafraid.
It matters
not how strait the gate,
How charged
with punishments the scroll.
I am the
master of my fate:
I am the
captain of my soul.
Joe Four poems by Wisława
Szymborska translated by Stanislaw Baranczak,
& Clare Cavanagh
The Joy of Writing
Why
does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For
a drink of written water from a spring
whose
surface will image her soft muzzle?
Why
does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched
on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she
pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence
—
this word also rustles across the page
and
parts the boughs
that
have sprouted from the word "woods."
Lying
in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are
letters up to no good,
clutches
of clauses so subordinate
they'll
never let her get away.
Each
drop of ink contains a fair supply
of
hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared
to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround
the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They
forget that what's here isn't life.
Other
laws, black on white, obtain.
The
twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and
will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full
of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not
a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without
my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not
a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is
there then a world
where
I rule absolutely on fate?
A
time I bind with chains of signs?
An
existence become endless at my bidding?
The
joy of writing.
The
power of preserving.
Revenge
of a mortal hand.
Psalm
Psalm
Oh,
the leaky boundaries of man-made states!
How
many clouds float past them with impunity;
how
much desert sand shifts from one land to another;
how
many mountain pebbles tumble onto foreign soil
in
provocative hops!
Need
I mention every single bird that flies in the face of frontiers
or
alights on the roadblock at the border?
A
humble robin —
still, its tail resides abroad
while
its beak stays home. If that weren't enough, it won't stop
bobbing!
Among
innumerable insects, I'll single out only the ant
between
the border guard's left and right boots
blithely
ignoring the questions "Where from?" and "Where to?"
Oh,
to register in detail, at a glance, the chaos
prevailing
on every continent!
Isn't
that a privet on the far bank
smuggling
its hundred-thousandth leaf across the river?
And
who but the octopus, with impudent long arms,
would
disrupt the sacred bounds of territorial waters?
And
how can we talk of order overall
when
the very placement of the stars
leaves
us doubting just what shines for whom?
Not
to speak of the fog's reprehensible drifting!
And
dust blowing all over the steppes
as
if they hadn't been partitioned!
And
the voices coasting on obliging airwaves,
that
conspiratorial squeaking, those indecipherable mutters!
Only
what is human can truly be foreign.
The
rest is mixed vegetation, subversive moles, and wind.
Sky
Sky
I
should have begun with this: the sky.
A
window minus sill, frame, and panes.
An
aperture, nothing more,
but
wide open.
I
don't have to wait for a starry night,
I
don't have to crane my neck
to
get a look at it.
I've
got the sky behind my back, at hand, and on my eyelids.
The
sky binds me tight
and
sweeps me off my feet.
Even
the highest mountains
are
no closer to the sky
than
the deepest valleys.
There's
no more of it in one place
than
another.
A
mole is no less in seventh heaven
than
the owl spreading her wings.
The
object that falls in an abyss
falls
from sky to sky.
Grainy,
gritty, liquid,
inflamed,
or volatile
patches
of sky, specks of sky,
gusts
and heaps of sky.
The
sky is everywhere,
even
in the dark beneath your skin.
I
eat the sky, I excrete the sky.
I'm
a trap within a trap,
an
inhabited inhabitant,
an
embrace embraced,
a
question answering a question.
Division
into sky and earth —
it's
not the proper way
to
contemplate this wholeness.
It
simply lets me go on living
at
a more exact address
where
I can be reached promptly
if
I'm sought.
My
identifying features
are
rapture and despair.
Hatred
Hatred
See
how efficient it still is,
how
it keeps itself in shape—
our
century's hatred.
How
easily it vaults the tallest obstacles.
How
rapidly it pounces, tracks us down.
It's
not like other feelings.
At
once both older and younger.
It
gives birth itself to the reasons
that
give it life.
When
it sleeps, it's never eternal rest.
And
sleeplessness won't sap its strength; it feeds it.
One
religion or another —
whatever
gets it ready, in position.
One
fatherland or another —
whatever
helps it get a running start.
Justice
also works well at the outset
until
hate gets its own momentum going.
Hatred.
Hatred.
Its
face twisted in a grimace
of
erotic ecstasy.
Oh
these other feelings,
listless
weaklings.
Since
when does brotherhood
draw
crowds?
Has
compassion
ever
finished first?
Does
doubt ever really rouse the rabble?
Only
hatred has just what it takes.
Gifted,
diligent, hard-working.
Need
we mention all the songs it has composed?
All
the pages it has added to our history books?
All
the human carpets it has spread
over
countless city squares and football fields?
Let's
face it:
it
knows how to make beauty.
The
splendid fire-glow in midnight skies.
Magnificent
bursting bombs in rosy dawns.
You
can't deny the inspiring pathos of ruins
and
a certain bawdy humor to be found
in
the sturdy column jutting from their midst.
Hatred
is a master of contrast-
between
explosions and dead quiet,
red
blood and white snow.
Above
all, it never tires
of
its leitmotif - the impeccable executioner
towering
over its soiled victim.
It's
always ready for new challenges.
If
it has to wait awhile, it will.
They
say it's blind. Blind?
It
has a sniper's keen sight
and
gazes unflinchingly at the future
Though attended by only four members of KRG, it was no less enjoyable than the well-attended sessions we have usually. There was as much variety in the selection of poets and poems.
ReplyDeleteBut, we did miss our friends who could not attend the session. Hope, there will be 100% attendence for the next session, when we will discuss Nikos Kazantzakis's book "Zorba The Greek".
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