Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
http://www.president-office.gov.mm/briefing-room/daily-news/news1266 people running the website are soo efficient many "old names" such as Amanda Zappia, list not in alphabetical order and many mis-spellings and some names in Burmese, dunno why.
http://www.sea-globe.com/Regional-Affairs/learning-curve/Page-2.html Frankly, I don't feel anything and I don't know when or why I was put on the list. Here, have a fried tarantula and a Thai tulip in soup to celebrate. This is how we eat the wild "Thai" tulips in Burma. Never yet tasted a tarantula though. KMK
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
http://www.youtube.com/user/voaclips in Burmese 8-29-12 broadcast use your cursor at bottom of screen to pinpoint images. k
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
I had a really good omen yesterday on my flight home as author David Baldacci - was sitting in first class just a few rows in front of me. I've seen him before in person, in about 2008 when the Northern Virginia Review published 3 of my stories,Black Rice, Beast and 53 Red Roses, in consecutive years and he came to present the prize, to that year's winner Barbara Esstman. Three years before that my novella Black Rice and my art entry Lady Vanda won Best in Show. Kyi May
Monday, August 20, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
poetry post: the return of the exile by Giorgios Seferis the return of the exile
‘My old friend, what are you looking for? After years abroad you’ve come back with images you’ve nourished under foreign skies far from you own country.’ ‘I’m looking for my old garden; the trees come to my waist and the hills resemble terraces yet as a child I used to play on the grass under great shadows and I would run for hours breathless over the slopes.’ ‘My old friend, rest, you’ll get used to it little by little; together we will climb the paths you once knew, we will sit together under the plane trees’ dome. They’ll come back to you little by little, your garden and your slopes.’ ‘I’m looking for my old house, the tall windows darkened by ivy; I’m looking for the ancient column known to sailors. How can I get into this coop? The roof comes to my shoulders and however far I look I see men on their knees as though saying their prayers.’ ‘My old friend, don’t you hear me? You’ll get used to it little by little. Your house is the one you see and soon friends and relatives will come knocking at the door to welcome you back tenderly.’ ‘Why is your voice so distant? Raise your head a little so that I understand you. As you speak you grow gradually smaller as though you’re sinking into the ground.’ ‘My old friend, stop a moment and think: you’ll get used to it little by little. Your nostalgia has created a non-existent country, with laws alien to earth and man.’ ‘Now I can’t hear a sound. My last friend has sunk. Strange how from time to time they level everything down. Here a thousand scythe-bearing chariots go past and mow everything down.’ Giorgios Seferis (1900-71) translated from Greek by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard George Seferis: Collected Poems (1995) -- KKt ko ko thettApples on home made plate - plate and photo copyright Kyi May Kaung
Monday, August 06, 2012
http://www.youtube.com/user/voaclips in Burmese: Summary- There are now no producers of music in Burma and musicans are having to finance their own music productions. Yet when Rambo 4 and The Lady came out the govt banned illegal copying completely. . . so it is a matter of whether the (junta) wants to do it or not. Instead of standing on the side of the creators/artists, they (seem to be) in league with the thieves. Thar Xo informal translation kmk
Sunday, August 05, 2012
Friday, August 03, 2012
In Search of Vanished Blood There’s no sign of blood, not anywhere. I’ve searched everywhere. The executioner’s hands are clean, his nails transparent. The sleeves of each assassin are spotless. No sign of blood: no trace of red, not on the edge of the knife, none on the point of the sword. The ground is without stains, the ceiling white. This blood which has disappeared without leaving a trace isn’t part of written history: who will guide me to it? It wasn’t spilled in service of emperors- it earned no honor, had no wish granted. It wasn’t offered in rituals of sacrifice- no cup of absolution holds it in a temple. It wasn’t shed in any battle- no one calligraphed it on banners of victory. But, unheard, it still kept crying out to be heard. No one had the time to listen, no one the desire. It kept crying out, this orphan blood, but there was no witness. No case was filed. From the beginning this blood was nourished only by dust. Then it turned to ashes, left no trace, became food for dust. Faiz Ahmad Faiz From the Veiled Suite, Translated by Agha Shahid Ali -- KKt ko ko thett
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