Save the Algerian goldfinch!

In #RememberanceDayforLostSpecies  I dedicated this blog, some 5 years, in an attempt to bring to attention of readers in Algeria in particular, where the Algerian Goldfinch is endangered.
I launched an SOS , like a message in a bottle into the sea:

Save the Algerian goldfinch!

The Goldfinch, https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carel_Fabritius

Witness
When you write, who is watching you?
It’s true, that for a poet, he has his own muse, Erato, a musician his own muse it’s Melpomene, but Calliope, the muse for a writer, she never shows up when he needs her the most, she is whimsical at times. So we are always fascinated, in our quest, by the blanc of a page, waiting for the moment when inspiration strikes, and we forget to look around, to things that we treasures for the longest, they are witnesses of our moments in life, or some we lost, that is_

“Somewhere, those poor things must still be knocking about”__Constantine Cavafy

It has been in the traditions of  to many countries, and their cultures as well , for the longest as we can go back in to the past, in the history of literature, in humanities, we find that people has an intimated affection for the goldfinch, in particular, either through the religious interpretation of icons, in Arts, like in Christianity, referring to biblical scriptures, or for the profane, in the folklore, and artisanal arts and crafts,   in poetry, and in writing prose.

I had a photo of a pet, a Bird, The Goldfinch, that I took while I was in Algiers, I framed it and put it on top of a corner of the TV furniture, just facing me, on the spot, usually where I use to sit to write. It had a sad look, it seemed like, it wanted to tell me something, like bagging me, for a plea, each time I look at it.
I couldn’t bring a caged bird with me, on board the airplane, 5 years ago, when I returned home because, simply it’s insane, for, imagine having a cage bird inside the cabine, or put in the belly of the plane with the luggage, for 10 to 14 hours, it’ll be dead at the arrival. Secondo, not only its prohibited and a protected species, but with all hustle of authorised documents, and vaccines, and with the flu bird, forget it. I resigned one’s mind and gave the bird as a souvenir from me to cousin, then.

So I gave up after that on the breeding thing. And the very idea to have a pet bird.

I get inspired by two WordPress prompts, “Witness, and Last Call! commenting Boot camp.”
Here, with the same post below, that I posted 4 years ago, it was my fist blog, the story is:
It all started, more or less, like this_

Dear readers, يا اللاحبا ب ، و ىا لولاد ,       
Chers amis , l'heure est grave, time is running out,         
El_Mackeen, The Goldfinch, the Elegant Chardoneret Parva est en voie de disparition,         
the bird is endangered, and in its way of disappearance, do you know that?       
Dear friends in Algeria , let's  do it, let's make it happens!       
Let's make the first day of spring un event, let it be the day of  El Mackneen

At first glance, five years ago, it’s looked like gibberish, for anyone who has stumbled upon my blog, accidentally, or in purpose, he got there by chance, looking for some kind of, a matter of inspiration, he might said, “what is this!”, and passed on in a click, to the next blog.
Continue reading Save the Algerian goldfinch!

There You Are, And Here I Am

Source: There You Are 

“a dying language regressing
to your origin regressing
to the rib whittling yourself
down to a single bone to be
allowed another chance”

“Eden, nobody will be screaming
to harvest you in the new
Eden there will be birds
but no mirrors or dew
to reflect you back like a star
and force you to stare into
your own furred face and cry
there you are
again.”

_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

And sill here I am.
_The Cry of birds_Grew from the ramage of birds to the hurry of wind_Hugh McCrae

Here I am, for the nonce
Here I am in a cage
My cry grew from the ramage
Of birds, To the hurry of winds
Shall I  ever have a chance
To fly, fly, again, and drift away
Finally Home, I’ll cry and I’ll say
That’s, the one and only once
I need yes in deed, to be free
Thence, all I need is my wings
to spread in spree
Here I am, and always be
You put me one day in a cage
Can’t you see me today that I age?
Can’t you see me that I am bleeding?
Can’t you see me that I am weeping?
Like a violin bow, on its hair string
T’was the first day of Spring
That day going my way straight to my fate
That I used to be free before t’was too late
Then I was nattering in my joy and glee
With No motive for my killing spree
Spending my joy from tree to tree
Having no foe, nor a prey I was to be
Safe that a carol of joy betrayed me
I was caught In a dream-catcher net
It was a gloomy day, that’s Ô! My fate
Mother Nature comes to me, ready set for rejoice
Full of fun, laughing of plenty to hear my voice
For, You don’t know why I sing, ah! me
It was the first day of Spring, for me
It’s only but a prayer, from the bottom of my heart I sing
but a plea I wish you hear me, that upward to Heaven I fling
That one day  you may let me free, before it was too late
No more I can fly, nor my wings I can spread
It’s only Poetry, a lady
she knows toward me, she said

I know why The Caged Birds Sing

I know why The Caged Birds sing, ah me,
 when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore
 when he hit the bars, and would be free;
 it is not a carol of joy or glee,
 But a prayer that he sends from his hearth's deep core,
 but a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings
 I know why the caged bird sings_Maya Angelou

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Know_Why_the_Caged_Bird_Sings

Let It Be
Paul McCartney
Lyrics
When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

That’s my carol of joy and glee
Now that’s here I am, and free
_Homage to El Baji,an Algerian singer and songwriter of Algiers of Old, Kalimelo

Wanderer

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-wanderer/

I had become a souvenir,
I was an edelweiss, once_
a weathered bud, for the nonce
Flattered whim between the fold
Of a yellowed diary pages_ I was told
Now I have a place where I rest.
I wished  It were near to your heart
Yesterday, I was standing stress-free
Cleansed by the hilltop winds,
Reached only by, at eagle’s wings
None of a poet, did it  for his killing spree
That the snows, it was my nest.
Downhill the Mount Everest,
I picked it for you, my soul-mate
What can I do now to please you_
My dear, the summit that I climbed it.
That Life is already consumed,
Strewn by miracles, on our way.
We saw the day of wonders we met,
the birds at our knees, we knelt
I put a flower in your hair
That Spring was it, in the air
Our souls were we had melt.
Still do you remember, do you?

_Kalimelo

Memorabilia

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Out of Your Reach.”

And also, to Jeffcolemanwrites, kindly

http://blog.jeffcolemanwrites.com/2015/01/14/how-can-i-rediscover-the-magic-of-childhood/

I had published a post with a similar topic to these above, few months ago, and with the same Prompt,as it recurres like if it was, for in a same dream that we do sometimes, the one like we find ourselves in a place we had never hbeen there before, but it recalls to us that like we knew it same as it has been always our place that where we live, thence I would love to share one of those things that we keep deep in our memories, we treasure since childhood. And sometimes,the other day, although l changed my itinerary to go to work,  it chanced  that I passed by the same store where I had spotted it lately, the same object in à-propos; and it was still there, in display, and what a coincidence! How can small things trigger you sometimes to the core of the marrow, and in a split of an eye-blink it sent you some decades back to the days of childhood. Then,I was astonishing by such, and such of a propinquity of things can accomplish: of being in the same place, with an object long wished for at out of your reach, and at the same time, of different epochs.

I just turned seven years old then,  and that year I had contracted some kind kids rush that had kept me home and from going to school. It was Chrismas Eve, an event drive was set up to distribute the gifts, and I couldn’t go to pick-up my gift, a Secret Santa wish-list; and it was a guitar that I had wished for.

So, after recovery, the day I was back to school, the teacher had kept my gift for me, it locked in the cabinet with the school supplies, I was happy then, when he give it to me, well wrapped with glossy paper-wrap, and a best-wishes card, and recovery for me, from the whole class, tapped on it.

Back home, and once I unwrapped it, I was so disappointed to discover that it wasn’t the gift that I had wished for, instead it was a banal toy, a corvette replica-car, with a static motion drives back to those times, with no batteries powered motor yet.

l never had a guitar, since. It was something , “Out of Your Reach.” Although I played guitar later on, and I could afford it, but it had never crossed my mind to have one once grown up.

The Brown Bag Reader: (extra)ordinary object

 

Reading by the candle

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/extraordinary/

Carrying Your Ideas With You

image

What a small brown bag can carry? Apart from your regular coffee and bagel, be it, you’re a monk, a scholar, or an artist, simply don’t throw it, who knows, a humble brown bag, it may carry your thought of the moment, an idea,  a draft of a future project. It’s like throwing the baby in the basin, with the waters of the bath: you’ll regret it, then it’s too late _kalimelo

 

Gone get the milk,

“Memory on the Menu.”

@nytimesarts: Harper Lee’s ‘Go Set a Watchman’ http://t.co/yzdI1ofKlj

image

“It’s always exciting when a long-forgotten manuscript is unearthed, dusted off, and at the eve of being published. But when that book is related to To Kill a Mockingbird — one of the most beloved modern classics, the BPL treasures which I return to for my readings often, and I crave to see old movies,  and rare books, also that I had borrowed from, lately — anticipation goes through the roof.”

calendar/kill-mockingbird-special

“Memory on the Menu.” Coincidence is mother of opportunities, as the saying goes.
“Speaks, memories.”_Vladimir Nabokov
So, what is the relationship between the two modern classics?One may say.
As it comes in recall, with  a prompt  at your rescue, like if it was  a Saint-Bernard doggie; then you have no choice rather than to muse on: Which memories are better  fit? – the recent and vivid ones, or those that time has covered in a sweet haze?_No doubt, both, and how whimsical it is; it triggered you to the core of the marrow, and in a split of an eye-blink, it sands you some decades back to same places of childhood, always. Isn’t it? The Early Years

Rereading again How Kill The Mocking bird, and Go set a watchman, some fifty years later, as memories mingle together with the present, and the past, standing at the edge of two abysses it’s like seeing oneself absent from the cradle in the photo, as the parents standing aside smiling at you, then where are you at that moment?like in “speak, Memories of Nabocov narrative.

“One must live his life, and only once, seize the opportunity as it comes to you, and make it happens, to see his dream comes true one day, and  make history. Your own history.”_ Kalimelo
For, having the chance to live actually in the same era as when was set up the How to kill the mocking bird story in the book, it’s a great deal now, to recall all those olden times.
Some go fishing, some go hunting, others birds watching, and seashore rattling, I belong to the tribe of old movies goers, rare books reading, and sentences watching.

In the early 60s, at the time  of the events in America, I was twelve years old then , and I was fascinated by Color movies the cinema with panoramic view, Marvel comics, and also was a Sc-fix movies-goer, how to say, it was in the brink of the ” L’Air-Du-Temps,” as it may appears to some readers a banality nowadays, but it was about to witness at a turning point of time, History on the making, you’re witnessing with eyes wide-open, that marvelous era, at things under your reach. Fifty years later, hystory is made, again and a recommencement of a fairy tale, almost a déjà-vu, the other, in the morning I was gone to get the milk, and the New York Times newspaper  because I have been used to  it, since that time of yore.

And For the anecdotal, because one day,( gone get the milk, )  I went to attend the event of the publication  “Go Set a Watchman”and I end up seeing the movie“calendar/kill-mockingbird-special” at Central  Library-Dweck

_That’s all fictional, and once more  for sure, but reality is, it’s sad today  to lean in the NYTimes, that the author died few days ago, it is like a panel of memories just want of, and my heart went on with the author.  Rest in peace Mocking bird

and I, the while, the sole, unbusy thing…

And I, the while, the sole, unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Broken-heart

_ T'was by a lovely morning
_ When the summertime came
_ and just before that school closed
_ Going my way, nice and easy, in deed
_ suddenly, I felt inside of me something bleed
_ making my day not so bright
_ a surge of tears, an urge to cry, in despair 
_ I had none, something to tell, or to whom to write, 
_ nor to recite, this piece of poetry, nor pair
_ that's when sometimes you got the blues
_ and you had the heart torn away, too loose.
_  I encarved our hearts into a trunk of a tree,
_ At the fork of two roads, I lingered as often, 
_ I decided, but to choose that day the one not taken, 
_ I stopped by, at the school of cutting classes,
    where you play hide, and seek, by the bushes
_ where you learnt the tools of the trades, arts and crafts, 
_ those small things of life, state-of-art, of everything,
_ things that people envy you for, gossip about and jibe, 
_ but silently wish to do, and dare never did. 
_ Sweet sixteen, smoking cigs, makes you feel not at ease, 
_ just because to show off, among friends, and but just to please. 
_ What had left, at last, of things that had to pass, 
  but then when there is no more of such sweet thing, 
_ of see you later, I love you and for forever, alas 
_ who fancy, to tell me how? It’s all fake
_  you, who knows, where and how to take
_ "and I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
_ Not honey to make, nor pair, no build or sing" 
_ It was all about love, and understanding.
_  Bitterly, this is it, C’est la vie, yes I learnt
_ By the road not always that people took,
_  I went to see the railroads men, and departing train.
_ with pain in my heart, and the day as it mights rain 
_ I will tell you such, and such where the joy 
_ tears, laughter, wounded limbs of a lit’l boy
_  If you please, take pain to listen to me
_ it's a nonsense, you may say
_  then you burst in laughers,
_ and that, also I know, and dare say
_  Oh, my heart, you still remember, do you?
_ When Marie went to draw water from the well
_  She was so pretty and jolly.
_ Then, Fatima, the brunette, oh! Holy molly, 
_ when I took her hand, it was so smooth 
_ ever than a step stone, where we sat,
_  at the threshold of a fountain
_ tearing off petals of daisy flowers, hours, and hours
_  we thought then, nights and days, that the world was ours
_ To please them both, I learnt poetry, De Musset, 
_ Baudelaire, et Rimbaud, Aragon, Hugo and La Fontaine. 
_ Love me, love me not, a love play 
_ Forget me not, Proust, the Swann's way. 
_ à L'ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs. 
_ But I forgot love it's a leur
_ Cutting classes, The Fridays afternoon 
_ And Sweet Tuesdays, with moon 
_ For the love of a girl’smile
_  you can do anything, like walking  hundred and a mile
_ Many years, later on, I can’t help But still remember now and then 
_ Those were the days, my friend That seemed never end 
_ Please tell me where are they
_ When, eat, love and play 
_ Was a day of not worried

_Kalimelo

Re: a spoon of Caviar Belugha, and The Noblest Brandy of them all

Re: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/sliced-bread/ “What is the best thing since sliced-bread?”

_a spoon of Caviar Beluga on a slice of rye bread, a zest of lemon, with a glass of vodka, and or perhaps,  a half-a-dozen of oysters with a flute of champagne Taittinger: a diner at The Fouquet’s, Paris with my Valentine

For sure, there is some denials rising in the air; déjà, I hear someone’s saying: Oh! No, no, no! Monsieur, Je protest!(with The finger up)_a bath in a hot water tab, coffee, pousse-café_VSOP, Cigar José-Maria…

Whatever, ok I agree with you, the letters of Nobility first:

A Class BAIGNOIRE. It is all about time

The 1906 design of the watch that would later be christened the “Baignoire” demonstrated Cartier’s prowess in crafting watchmaking forms. An elegant ellipse uniquely forged in a single line, the “Baignoire” watch is the essence of Cartier style: an unmatched marriage of purity and timeless chic.

B, the bath-tub, created under Louis XIV, for Marie-Antoinette, with the cutlery, the fork to not spoil the hands then, please.

The Noblest Brandy of them all

0 Reviews Write review New York Magazine 14 Mar 1977 Search all issues
 

Cees, Caviar: Esturgeon-fish eggs, a caviar extracted from a fish that grew in the Seines River, the red, the Rusian Black Sea, and the Beluga the Iranian caviar is the best.

Cognac, Champagne, since it’s related to the same epoch of they inception: VSOP, Napoleon, á votre Santé!

First Crush

First Crush or  “The Early Years” never die”

First crush o’ “The Early Years,” never dies

She  walked in a hurry, and passed side by side of both of us, me and him, her hair was long and dark that falling on her shoulders, like a shadow of a tree in a desert like looking for some freshness at noon, and she smiled to both of us, furtively as she continue walking and we following her behind.

We were kids of just  ten years old then,  or twelve my friend maybe, and stilI remember, that day; ‘t was a day like today, sunny and bright, like after a snowstorm, ‘t seemed like a brand-new day  just for us _at least it’s what  I believed, or maybe that was love, the first time. I grabbed a handful of snow and  threw it gently at her, mid-fearless, mid-brave, with a smile that just hidden  the swoony feeling in my guts.

She turned back, and look at him, but then at me, her eyes regard fallen oblic on my mitts wet by the snow , and then  she smiled at me, and contained her laughter within her hand to her mouth, oh! my. And I, standing shy with a penod and guilty air, I felt what a pity I was in, then suddenly, I felt my face red like a thousand suns had burned my checks, and my hearth; I would loved I could have died instantly, and would dived and hidden in the deepest of your black eyes, at that instant, to cool down the fire that she  just had started  ablaze in my heart.

I may have forgotten her name with time, and barely fathom the features of her face, but now and then, from time to time, as I cross a street,  it seems that I recognize you in the face of that beautiful woman who just  walked  to me, and passed, I looked behind over my shoulder, And  smile.

Time, and again

It reminds me a song of AbdelHaleem Hafiz, an Egyptian singer of the sixties, known also by the nickname of the Rosignol of the Middle-East