This lunar beauty Has no history Is complete and early; If beauty later Bear any feature It had a lover And is another. This like a dream Keeps another time And daytime is The loss of this; For time is inches And the heart's changes Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted. But this was never A ghost's endeavour Nor finished this, Was ghost at ease; And till it pass Love shall not near The sweetness here Nor sorrow take His endless look.
Leeds Libraries are delighted to be supporting the Morley Literature Festival again this year. The festival, starting today, is celebrating its 10th anniversary and to celebrate they have a new name and logo. From this year they become the Morley Arts Festival and their logo represents the wealth of literature, music, performance and more that feature as part of the programme this year.
We are hosting several of the events at Morley Library and we would love you to come along. The Edith Cavell Story (Wednesday 7th Oct) is a one woman performance by Julie Ann Cooper to tell the story of the nurse who came to be a matron working in Belgium and finally to her arrest during the First World War.
Morley based poet Susan Darlington will be leading a Poetry Workshop at the library on Saturday 31st October. The workshop will use everyday objects to stimulate a creative response and is suitable for beginners and experienced writers alike.
This weeks poem is taken from The Collected Poems by Elizabeth Jennings.
Song at the Beginning of Autumn Now watch this Autumn that arrives In smells. All looks like Summer still; Colours are quite unchanged, the air On green and white serenely thrives. Heavy the trees with growth and full The fields. Flowers flourish everywhere. Proust who collected time within A child's cake would understand The ambiguity of this - Summer still raging while a thin Column of smoke stirs from the land Proving that Autumn gropes for us. But every season is a kind Of rich nostalgia. We give names - Autumn and Summer, Winter, Spring - As though to unfasten from the mind Our moods and give them outward forms. We want the certain, solid thing. But I am carried back against My will into a childhood where Autumn is bonfires, marbles, smoke; I lean against my window fenced From evocations in the air When I said Autumn, Autumn broke.
I was very sad to hear of the death of Jackie Collins yesterday. As a teenager of the eighties Jackie’s books were a revelation to me. They took me, a totally un-glamorous girl growing up in Nottingham just that bit closer to the bright lights of Hollywood. In her novels there were strong ladies that got what they wanted, both in business and in bed. I may not have been in the same league as Lucky Santangelo but I could learn a few things from her!
Here are a selection of her fabulous novels that are available to read from Leeds Libraries, including her latest book, the Santangelos. We also have a number of her novels available to read as ebooks.
At a club like Hobo, there’s no such thing as an impossible fantasy. It’s the nightspot where the beautiful people hang out: people like Tony Blake, our host and guide, people like Fontaine Khaled, jet-setting beauty with a weakness for men, and people like Alexandra, Fontaine’s nubile stepdaughter.
She’s a woman who’s never short of a man. They call her the bitch. Fontaine Khaled has an Arab millionaire among her yesterdays and hard-gambling Nico for all her tomorrows. Which only leaves the problem of choosing a man for today. From London to Las Vegas, Hollywood to Athens, Fontaine is the one who calls the shots.
A vicious hit, a vengeful enemy, a drug addled Colombian club owner and a sex crazed Italian family – the ever powerful Lucky Santangelo has to deal with them all. Meanwhile Max – her teenage daughter – is becoming the ‘It’ girl in Europe’s modelling world. And her Kennedyesque son, Bobby, is being set up for a murder he didn’t commit. But Lucky can deal. Always strong and unpredictable, with her husband Lennie by her side, she lives up to the family motto – never mess with a Santangelo. Lucky rules – the Santangelos always come out on top.
Moving in the fast lane from Las Vegas to New York, Beverly Hills to a Greek island paradise, ‘Lucky’ takes up where ‘Chances’ left off. Winning is all that matters – and luck has nothing to do with it.
Beth, Lara and Rio, three women with a common cause and vengeance in their hearts. They’re out to avenge a murder and they’ll got to any lengths. Their targets are the heirs of the Bassalino crime family.
They lunch at Ma Maison and the Bistro on salads and hot gossip. Dressed by St. Laurent and Galanos, they dine at the latest restaurants on the rise and fall of one another’s fortunes. They are the Hollywood wives, a privileged breed of women whose ticket to ride is a famous husband
The poem this week is taken from The Major Works by Alfred Tennyson.
A Farewell Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river: No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps will be, For ever and for ever.
Here is a selection of the new non-fiction titles that will be arriving this week.
From the cook, butler and housekeeper to the footman, lady’s maid and nanny, this is a glimpse behind the scenes of some of Britain’s grandest houses.
Combining cutting-edge nutritional science, wholesome vegan recipes and practical advice for making the most of a hectic daily routine, ‘Eat Yourself Beautiful’ is a functional and accessible guide to promoting beauty through nutritional wellbeing and the adoption of a balanced lifestyle.
Knitting may seem complicated, but in fact there are just two stitches you need to learn. Once you have mastered knit and purl, you can knit pretty much anything. The beginner’s section starts with a run-through of the basic tools and equipment you’ll need, as well as a handy guide to choosing yarn. Once you’re ready to start, learn the best way to hold your needles, and tackle the different cast-on methods to work out which works best for you. Once you’ve cast on, you are ready to make those all-important first stitches and choose your first project.
For the past 50 years, Paul Theroux has travelled to the far corners of the earth – to China, India, Africa, the Pacific Islands, South America, Russia, and elsewhere – and brought them to life in his cool, exacting prose. In ‘Deep South’ he turns his gaze to a region much closer to his home. Travelling through North and South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama and Arkansas he writes of the stunning landscapes he discovers – the deserts, the mountains, the Mississippi – and above all, the lives of the people he meets.
Maggie Smith: a biography by Michael
No one does glamour, severity, girlish charm or tight-lipped witticism better than Dame Maggie Smith, one of Britain’s best-loved actors. This biography shines the stage-lights on the life and work of a truly remarkable performer, one whose career spans six decades.
I love finding poems for the poem of the week on this blog. I will admit that although I enjoy poetry I really don’t read enough of it. However in doing this blog, and perusing the poetry shelves at Central library to find poems to add, I have come across some real gems. I would count this poem amongst them. It comes from the Selected Poems of Lord Byron and it is beautiful.
To Caroline (1)
Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffused in tears, implore to stay; And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o’erthrown, Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb’d with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow’d When thy sweet lips were join’d to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow’d Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench’d its flame; And as thy tongue essay’d to speak, In signs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, - But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! If thou canst, o’ercome regret; Not let thy mind past joys review, - Our only hope is to forget!