Thursday, December 29, 2011

And because Love battles

                                                                  By Pablo Neruda

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: “The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera”.

And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach me
but only not to lack during every day of life.
I don’t know anything about light, from where
it comes nor where it goes,
I only want the light to light up,
I do not ask to the night
I wait for it and it envelops me,
And so you, bread and light
And shadow are.

You came to my life
with what you were bringing,
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,
and Like this I need you,
Like this I love you,
and to those who want to hear tomorrow
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,
and let them back off today because it is early
for these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give them
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf
which will fall on the earth
like if it had been made by our lips
like a kiss which falls
from our invincible heights
to show the fire and the tenderness
of a true love. 

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

If--- A poem

 I am sure that the title of this poem will immediately remind the name of Rudyard Kipling to most of this blog post readers. Who is Kipling? If you wondered, is a sign of lack of general knowledge. Kipling was famous author and poet who coined the historical phrase “The White Man’s Burden" in his poem of the later name. Kipling actually won the Nobel prize in literature in 1907. This is not a post about Kipling, thought I strongly suggest you read this Wikipedia article if I have aroused your interest.

“If”, today’s poem, was written by the forgotten African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar.  Dunbar was truly a creative genius though lesser known than Kipling due to racial prejudices of his time (which I will not discuss here.)   Please read this Wikipedia article about Dunbar,
There are many things I could say about Dunbar, though I fear I might not be able to do him justice but his work will. Let us judge is genius by his verses.

                       If by Paul Laurence Dunbar

IF life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme, —
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain, —
I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Page 347

                                                            By Mory Keita

             I hate boring stuffs though I am a boring guy.
 Guess I should hate myself.
I got bored and picked up a book to read, 678 pages long, and well packed.
The story was typical, boy falling for girl. I like those stories.

The boy did everything boys do to get girls attention in romance novels.
You know how it rolls. It was a coup de foudre the first time they met.
Then on page 347, the girl died.

I closed the book and found the writer’s email.
I wrote to her,
“Dear Ms. J.
 I‘ve read part of your novel and thus far I have hated everything I liked about it. Your writing is lyrical, your plot is catchy but I could not get over page 347.

The death of the girl pained me a lot. The boy worked hard to get her love and finally when he got it, the girl died. I guess you tried to mimic somehow Romeo and Juliette but Shakespeare ‘Killed’ those two at the end of the play. You killed yours at the middle, right when the reader hopes pours like water from a fountain. I do not know why you killed the girl on page 347, maybe she will return to the boy in her ghostly form or reincarnate in another girl. That is all fine but I will never be able to finish your novel after the girl’s death on page 347.

 This is no criticism of your craft (you are actually the first author I have ever emailed) your story is good but you could have ‘killed’ the girl a bit later. You could have allowed the boys efforts to come to fruition.

Best regards,
                Mory ”

                Ms. J replied two days later (I did not think she would pay attention my email.)
                Dear Mory,
               I am glad you sent me this interesting email. Thank you for reading my novel.
Your inability to read past page 347 tells me a lot about you.  Hypothetically speaking, if you were the boy you would have been stuck there after her death. Your problem is not the book it about your emotional state…
                I leaned from reading a book something that I may have never learned about myself. Till this day I haven’t been able to read past page 347.


Monday, July 18, 2011

Cool Kids by Mory Keita

This is based on a true talk i had with a boy yesterday.

                 Cool Kids

The boy was no shit-talker, no Casanova, no regular boy
I met him alone, on the sidewalk, throwing stone at pigeons
I said, “What you doing here, Boy.”
“Why you care anyway? I am watching birds.”
“Boy,” I sat near him, “you’re no birdwatcher, and you’re a punk.”
“Shut up.  See what you have done. She is gone!”
The boy’s eyes were damp, his eyes fixed at his ex  going with the cool kids.
“That girl?” I said
“No stupid. Birds!”
“Your eyes say the girl. You look like you’ve seen an angel.”
“She is a bitch!” the boy said.
“You mean that bird that flew away.”
“No. her.” The boy said pointing at the girl, “they all leave me anyway.”
“The bird left you because you stoned him.”
“And she left me because I am a sucker.”
“Don’t say that boy. She is a six and you are a seven. “
“Don’t Bullshit me, tall guy. I am no fool.” The boy said angrily.
“I am dead serious boy. Tall guy is a fool, but he is no liar.”
“If I’m a seven and she’s a six, why she’s going with them?”
“Boy you got no ball. I mean guts.”
“And you got them?”
“That’s out of your league, boy.” I said. “That girl is a stupid bird. Forget her.”
“She’s no stupid bird. She is smart. She makes good choice. She left because I am a loser.
I got no swagger, no money, no cool sneaker and now no girl friend.”
I patted the boy. “Boy, you and I are alike. But I am no loser and you’re no uncool boy. I like you.”
The boy look at me like my brother does sometimes when  I advise him good.
“ Boy you’re a fool like me. Fools do not give up. I am tell you a story.”
“ how a story going to help to win her back.”
“ you will see.” I said. “Once upon a time there was an old fool living in Spain. He’s name, Don Quixote. He was an old fool, a knight when there was no knight. People told him he was mad and knight are all gone. But the old fool didn’t listen to their bullshit because he was no people man and had a dream. That’s boy.”
“ and what? How’s that going to help me.”
“ I don’t know boy. I read it from a book; A good story. You make  of it what you want.”
“What do you mean?” asked the boy.
“people thinks you’re no cool, you’re a loser, boy. “ I said. “But who are they to judge who‘s cool?”
“What do you mean?”
“Boy, you’re the coolest son-of-a bitch alive not because I say so because you should think so. You got something none of these cool kids does.  Trust yourself boy. Let the girl go. She is a bird amongst millions and all birds aren’t gray.”
I said no more word and left the boy as I found him.

I hope the boy found his way. He was a good boy. I liked him.


Thursday, July 7, 2011

Hell is a lonely place

 Charles Bukowski is the newest poet i have discovered. His poetry his eloquent and impregnated with passion. I particularly enjoy his poem, which i am posting for the day, Hell is a lonely place. I hope you enjoy each of its words as i do. The poetry is indeed sad but it's beauty is exquisite.

                                                       Hell is a lonely place
                                                                 By Charles Bukowski

he was 65, his wife was 66, had 
Alzheimer's disease. 

he had cancer of the 
there were 
operations, radiation 
which decayed the bones in his 
which then had to be 

daily he put his wife in 
rubber diapers 
like a 

unable to drive in his 
he had to take a taxi to 
the medical 
had difficulty speaking, 
had to 
write the directions 

on his last visit 
they informed him 
there would be another 
operation: a bit more 
cheek and a bit more 

when he returned 
he changed his wife's 
put on the tv 
dinners, watched the 
evening news 
then went to the bedroom, got the 
gun, put it to her 
temple, fired. 

she fell to the 
left, he sat upon the 
put the gun into his 
mouth, pulled the 

the shots didn't arouse 
the neighbors. 

the burning tv dinners 

somebody arrived, pushed 
the door open, saw 

the police arrived and 
went through their 
routine, found 
some items: 

a closed savings 
account and 
a checkbook with a 
balance of 
suicide, they 

in three weeks 
there were two 
new tenants: 
a computer engineer 
and his wife 
who studied 

they looked like another 
upwardly mobile 


Sunday, June 26, 2011

The jerk, a poem

By Mory Keita ( This is a revised version of the previous poem.)

He is the jerk, dreams of girls.
He is the charming prince in their reveries,
The bold superman who knows how to care.
They love him because he is manly,                                                          
And he loves them because they love him.

Yeah, he is the jerk, the man.
He is the one who knows how to woo girls.
He is one who makes them cry tears of love at nights.
Yeah, he is the king, the boss of their hearts.

He holds the key to female’s hearts,
And jealously keeps its secret with malice.
He walks like a star, and speaks like a dork.

Look! He is the master of the game.
The chess-player who has mastered mind-games;
Yeah, he is the jerk the best at his game.
He has learned that a girl’s heart his a chess game,
So he has become a dauntless chess player.
He deceitfully manipulates its 16 pieces like a "real man".

Sometimes, I envy the jerk and his jerky tricks;
Truly, he is a skilful master of psychology.
For, though he is a bloody manipulative “bad boy”,
He has earned the dreams of men : women’s hearts.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Death Song of Boromir

                                  By J.R.R Tolkien from The Lord Of The Rings

Boromir was a mighty man encompassing human both man strength and weakness. Ready this article to learn about Boromir

Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you
bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide
and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked
But you came not from the empty lands where no men

From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from
the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring
to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell -- so many bones
there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the
stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind
sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs
But you came not with the ailing gulls from the grey
sea's mouth.'

From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past
the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you
bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they do the water
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid
to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'


Saturday, May 28, 2011

I am still here

Hello everyone,
        It has been about three months I have not updated the blog. Many of you may have worried. I just  want to let everyone know that i am still around.  The good news is I will shortly Begin  posting you  poems and many things we share in the Blogsphere.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Le poète-- Poesie

                                                            Par Mory Keita

Quand le poète  s’assoit sous  la nuit étoilée,
Les etoiles forment des constellations d’anges,
Grand créatures céleste plein de vie et d’amour,
Qui  errent  insouciamment au-delà des nuages.

Ces  créatures  errent comme des enfants dans les rues.
Ils se lancent  au-dessus des nuages comme des pigeons sur le vent,
 Tout en Chantant comme des oiseux pencher  sur  un arbre
Et  ils sourissent comme des bonhommes de neige.

A peine le poète commence-t-il à muser sur sa vie amère,
Qu’il se plonge dans les  profondes ténèbres de l’existence humaine.
Il se met à frissonner comme si frapper par un grand bise,
Ou comme une passerine effrayer par un épouvantail.

Les anges, attristés par les larmes du poète, descendent sur terre.
Ils encerclent le poète, lui couvrent avec leurs ailes comme un bébé.
Et Soudainement le froid qui froisse le cœur du poète se dissipe.


Wednesday, March 2, 2011

When the Rose is gone

By Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkh ( Rumi)

When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth


Saturday, February 19, 2011

My heart is like a star

                                                      By Mory Keita

My heart is like a star, brighter that Sirius.
Its light illuminates this dull world,
Like sun shine upon us at dawn.

When my heart shall be broken,
The stars shall shatter like broken mirror
And darkness shall envelope this world.

Without my love there is no love,
Without my light there is no light,
And without light, night shall lonely sleep.
O heart, what is this world without light?

My heart is a star perched above clouds.
When the stars shall shatter, my heart shall break.
But, as long as Sirius and its companion shine,
My love shall always illuminate this dull world

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Tales of an idle man-- a poem

                                                  By Mory Keita

They call me the idle man, the pest, a nuisance to society.
They claim that I spend my days insolently daydreaming,
Because I read tales of man neither my forefathers nor I had seen.
I do not disclaim their sordid claims, for indeed I am a daydreamer.
I have seen far beyond the bounds of common men's thoughts in dreams.

For many a day, I have plucked and pocked my nose in this bathtub,
Visited and slept in golden palaces where I met many fair maidens,
And drunk drinks of fierce battle and lived my youth once more.

In my dreams, I fought alongside intrepid Jason against evil enchanters.
We parted in quest of the Golden Fleece to obtain his rightful throne.
I branded my golden shield like Achilles  roaring like the Nemean lion.
After that battle, Ares himself hailed my bravery and troops sang my name.

I also visited Caesar’s palace in Rome and sat at his dinner table.
we discussed issues pertaining to the good of the republic.
then, i was given command of legions of centurions to fight barbarians.
but such a task was too barbarous for my civility.

and then, I flew on a carpet to India and sat atop the Taj Mahal,
listening to the enchanting call to prayer of the Muslims.
It was  there that I was  taken to a fairy land with enchanting beings.
There I rescued damsels in distress from witches and evil doers.

As I retired from my noble quest, I was taken into the land of the pharaohs.
I felt in love with Cleopatra, fought with mark Antoine and Caesar and reigned.

In short i have lived and traveled across the Milky Way in a hot bathtub,
and I  have lived my life to the  fullest like the great Ulysses.


Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Laughing stones-- a poem

By Mory Keita

Friends do not joke.
Their hearts must be stone.
Their smiles, dry like the harmattan.
Joke around and be called a fool,
Show friendship and be hated.
Friends must not laugh together.
Friends are foes, foes friends.
Friendship has reached dead end.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Elementary Linear Algebra 9 th ed solution manual

Below is the link to download the complete solution manual to Anton's Elementary linear algebra.

DOWNLOAD Elementary linear algebra solution Manual

Good luck!

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Le cimetière

By Mory Keita

Les cadavres de morts englouties  le terrain,
Comme des corbeaux penchés  sur de la viande fraiche.
La sérénité du cimetière me fait pense’ a l’éternité.
Ah éternité !  Englouti moi dans ta profondeur sèche ;
Englouti moi que je puisse échapper à la mort.

 ( English version)

Dead bodies engulf the terrain,
Like crows perched upon fresh meat.
The serenity of the cemetery makes me think about eternity.
Ah eternity! Sink me into your dry profounder,
Sink me that I can escape death.


Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Midas -- A poem

                                                     By Mory Keita

O Muse who sings undying songs into my ears,
Sing unto me songs of that mighty king fate wronged.
When he stood atop Olympus, above cold-hearted Hera,
And said unto the people of Pessinus and to all of Greece,
“I have amassed fortune beyond the Olympian himself,
if you follow me, I shall lead you to greater fortune.”

And the priests of the temple of Hera said unto him,
“O son of Gordias! do not let the curse for your sacrilege
Befall upon your house and people. Beware of the immortals.”

And wise men amongst the people of pessinus came unto him.
They said, "O mighty king! When shall this treasure befall upon us?
Surely we shall hail your name if you fill this town with treasures.”

He unwrapped the golden turban from his hand and said,
“O my people, this is our treasure. Your wish has been granted.”
And they said, “By Hermes,  is  this the granted treasure?”

He raised his hand towards Helios, bursting out of laughter,
“Hermes is poor.  This hand of mine shall enrich us. Hail me.”
And they asked, “Show us gleam of it, if you are truthful.”

He walked in the courtyard and touched a pot. It turned gold.
They sang his name, bowed to him. Cold-hearted Hera burned.
He called upon his young daughter to feast his miracle,
But lo and behold!had he touched her that she turned golden.

“O fate! My beautiful daughter, she is cold like water.”
 Midas battered his chest, felt upon his knees in imploring.
He ran to the priests demanding the mercy of the Olympian,
But had he touched them that they too turned gold.
And so were all the peoples of pessinus turned into gold by Midas touch.
And it is said that since that day Midas became poorer and died miserable.


Friday, January 14, 2011

Part 1 :My miserable existence

                                                       By Mory Keita

                                                  Part 1: Genesis 

             This forest of solitude, with singing birds perched on its colossal branches at sunsets and sunrises, has always been a sanctuary of meditation and peace of heart for my troubled soul. Its enchanting floras and fauns, earth and heaven, and perfumed air like fresh coffee bring the spirit of life itselfa spirit strange to my monstrous being; for of little meaning and relevancy is an outcast’s existence. A life voided of love, affection and things dear to men’s hearts. The more I see of it, the more I realize how miserable and  dull my vagabond life has been. Punished by the hands of my own father to endure the curses and sufferings of Atlas, the titan and Sisyphus, the king and hated by men and beasts alike, I hurled my rage in an empty bottle, for my universe is a vacuum with silence and grief as my sole companions. I attempt to relieve my grief by writing down my feelings. My life is but damnation, I do not know the tenders hands of a mother , the enchanting kiss of a lover or heard the wise advice of a caring father like others living creatures. I was born motherless, a result of my father’s experiment to defeat Hades, the god of the underworld.
         Atlas supports the earth on his giant shoulders for his rebellion against Zeus, the mighty god of the Olympus, Sisyphus is cursed to eternally  push a gigantic boulder to the top of the hill, only to watch it roll back down and to repeat it forever for his avarice, cruelty and mischief. But, I was punished only for being reborn. This miserable existence of mine began in a dark cold cloudy winter days when my father, Victor Frankenstein, a scientist obsessed with life, began his mad quest to discover the secret behind heavens most precious and sacred gift, life.

         In his boundless insanity, he spent many years studying the function of the brain, natural philosophy and alchemy at the university he attended. After graduation, he spent his fortune conducting experiments in an isolated laboratory situated at the heart of Berlin, the site of modern western science and civilization. There he  gradually began planning his sacrilege creating the needed chemicals and electric circuits to accomplish his inhumane goal. After completing his preparations, he stole my dead body from my grave andiit revived  with his electrical machine. Thus, I was reborn. After seeing me, he ran from the laboratory, heart pounding afraid.


Part 2 :My miserable existence

By Mory Keita

Part 2: Adventure in the Garden of Eden

         After being abandoned by my father, I was drawn to the daily spectacles taking place outside  the box in which  I lived in. The incessant noises of the crowded streets, the dark smoke of the trains passing by, merchant women calling on pass byes to buy their merchandises, children playing catch me if you can and running in the avenues, a group of old men smoking pipes while others  played chess and shared life experiences charmed my wandering spirit. I was particularly intrigued by a university professor, whose  name escapes my short memory, who seemed very bright and righteous. Therefore, one night, I decided to secretly venture into his chamber to question him about my father and myself, for if there was a man who would have been able to tell me my identity, it had to be him.
        I went to his chamber walking slowly and calmly, like a cat. Seated in the right corner of his vast room, he was reading a book of geology which he seemed to enjoy. I approached him as politely as I could, and then tapped his shoulder. He turned his face towards me.
“Who is this?” he said with a soft gentle tone.
“Sorry for the interruption sir….” I replied back as gently as I could.
         Before I could articulate my sentence he ran heart pounding afraid and disappeared from my sight . I went back to the laboratory, wondering about the cause of the professor’s sudden disappearance. “What is the ghost that scared this gentleman or was it simply my giant posture and pale face?” I wondered throughout the day in solitude.
        Long I spent waiting, thinking and dreaming—dreaming like a lazy dog of an unknown father’s return, but my patience was in vain. So, the next day, at dawn I disguised my self like a typical townsman by wearing some old cloths left by my father before his sudden departure.Dressed like an upper class gentleman,  i walked slowly and confidently. To my unpleasant surprise, the people seemed to be in fear of seeing a hideous monster like me, as they murmured to each other. Hatred  consumed their souls, but despite their envious and heinous eyes, I continued my journey of exploring the town.  
           The town, with its majestic vista and rich people had nothing more enchanting than my precious Lady Janet. She was a pearl of heavenly beauty—a beauty above earthly minds.
                                          Soft and gentle like snow,
                                          She climbs the moon like shadow
                                          Then her beauty fades forever.
        The first time I saw her passing by, our eyes met and like a god-sent angel, she smiled at me. Much I marveled in knowing that such an enchanting ghastly creature could have a sincere interest in a monster like me. Isn’t fantastic—beauty and the beast.I followed her gently to pay my compliments to her loveliness. “Excuse me my lady. May I know your name?” I said calmly approaching her, “Ewww, Monster, Monster!!” she yelled hysterically running like a fearful tiger chased by elephants or Cerberus itself. Much I marveled again, “Why such a delicate flower would run from a gentleman being courteous”. Saddened and disappointed by this unorthodox conduct, I isolated myself for days to meditate on reasons people are scared of me, and decided to venture into the wildness. After days of thinking, I came to the conclusion that in the Garden of Eden, all creatures of god are not equal in status— only appearance matters, not personality nor intention.