Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", and especially the second and third lines, are said to herald in modernism in poetry.  His is an excellent example of a unique voice. The voice reverberates from the words, almost jumping out of the page. It resonates for the reader, reaching out to decode the metaphorical content. T.S. Eliot wrote this poem in 1910 when he was twenty-two years old. It was first published in 1915 at the instigation of Ezra Pound. [embed]https://youtu.be/JAO3QTU4PzY[/embed]

I keep coming back to the question of voice, because it's the least understood of all writing craft terms in my experience. I'm still experimenting with developing authentic voices when it comes to creating believable characters in fiction. [caption id="attachment_10899" align="alignnone" width="676"] Writing is the painting...

It’s on the opposite side of the earth from Sydney, the language spoken is very different, and it’s much colder in autumn. But Copenhagen is an amazingly liveable city. We felt surprisingly comfortable there, and were impressed by this city during our brief visit. There were...

Like for most things, you can only understand the strong emotions grandparents feel  towards their grandchildren once you've experienced it.

Some live only for their children and grandchildren. I cannot imagine this. I feel so lucky and priviliged to have my twin passions, my family AND my writing. I've reconnected recently with people from my past, one who told me that he is bored with his life.  What about the joys of learning new things, of travel, exploring different places, cultures and scenery? How can anyone be bored when there is so much to do and to see, even in one's own country, not to mention other places on planet earth?

 High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or ever eagle flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr

We’re heading for the air space over la Belle Paris, where we will spend such a memorable few days, meeting up with Véronique and Thierry, and Manya and Hakeem. You can tell it’s France down below from the beautifully sculpted blocks of land, some tilled, others awaiting cultivation: the richness of the French agricultural tradition. french-countryside-2cvWhereas Venice will be a feast for the eyes, Paris is style, fresh food in street markets, wonderful cuisine and products in delis, and interesting, generous people. Admittedly, there’s also a creeping sense of depression there, as the young abandon ship and take off for richer pastures further afield: New York, Sydney, Berlin … anywhere they can find work. But things augure well for the future, so long as its youth return, once the economy recuperates. Few leave for good. Mark had one day working hard in Paris teaching the Lidcombe Program. He was exhausted afterwards, but we were served dinner: ‘foie gras d’oie’—home-made by Thierry!—and baked lamb with vegetables and sauce and lots of red wine!  It was a real feast, and a once-in-a-lifetime experience, like staying in the Presidential Suite in Cavtat. But I must admit to suffering from ‘mal au foie’ the next day.