Thursday, February 28, 2008

Are women Human? and Other great books....

By Jeremy Lovell
LONDON (Reuters) - They may not leap off the shelves into the best-seller category, but the books shortlisted for the oddest book title prize certainly grab the attention.
"I was Tortured by the Pygmy Love Queen" recounts the tale of a fictional U.S. World War Two fighter pilot who is captured by jungle pygmies led by a sadistic woman.
Its sequel, which is not on the shortlist released by trade publication The Bookseller ( Friday, needs no explanation: "Go Ahead, Woman, Do Your Worst."
"How to Write a How to Write Book" and "Cheese Problems Solved" are likewise self-explanatory as is the equally eclectic niche tome "People who Mattered in Southend and Beyond: From King Canute to Dr. Feelgood" that strives to put the English east coast resort on the map.
While none of the above may challenge the sensibilities too much, others are likely to prove more divisive. Try "If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start With Your Legs" or "Are Women Human? And other International Dialogues."
"I confess: I have been anxious that as publishing becomes ever more corporate, the trade's quirky charms are being squeezed out," said Horace Bent, The Bookseller diarist and custodian of the prize.
"But happily my fears have been proved unfounded: oddity lives on. Drawing up the six-strong shortlist was a fraught and wildly controversial process."
Bent paid tribute to those books that failed to make the list, including titles such as "Drawing and Painting the Undead" and "Glory Remembered: Wooden Headgear of Alaska Sea Hunters," wishing them better luck next yea
Literary enthusiasts wishing to cast a vote can visit the Web site. The winner will be announced on March 28.


Thursday, February 14, 2008

Your Touch

Your Touch

The warm smell of
sleep and heat
surrounds me with your
quilt, your bed;
my hair spread like down
across your pillow
and drowsy senses,

Happy Valentine's Day


Friday, February 8, 2008

The Gypsy came, riding.

The Gypsy came,
riding! With thunder hooves
his horse played herald
to his royal approach
and I, a Lady, turned my head
and hurried

I burned like Lot's wife
and glanced - my undoing -
his eyes met mine
a gypsy like a ghost
from the romances
my mother read
a gypsy king
a vagabound

He hung around
and the Gentlemen began
to talk of him
a fine fellow
a rare on for the dogs
and games played with badgers
on moonfull nights
and rare one for the ladies
and other nocturnal sports

He stared and me
til I lost countenance
and lowered my eyes
and he began
to woo me, like Desdemona
had been courted -
with stories.

And I became the
the Gypsy's lady
favoured of all his patrons
Until he left, my GYpsy
not fled but moved
amid flurry and laughter.
I would not plead.

Next Summer I watched
the roads
in dust and cool
at twilight, at dawn, at
all those times the poets love
and women hate with reason.

I heard last year
there was amerchant's son wed
a flightly lad given to sport
a darkhaired, wideeyed man
who used to spend each summer