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coolturalworld · 4 years

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One night on vacation (Horror Story)

This story will only be my redemption, I do not know if this is an illusion or an aberrant reality in which I am immersed. I am in the basement of a cabin, this place is wet, it is sweltering and the night still present. I am miles away in a field, about five hours from the nearest town, I record this so you can know the details of why I am here.

I am a nurse, I work at night, in the mornings I rest, and sometimes in the afternoons, I give first aid classes. I have an ex-militant husband, he is a little lame and blind, since the war he undergoes from this, he works the whole day in a factory and barely has time to say hello, it is as if he does not live in the house. We have a son, a few months ago he turned four. Since my son was born, he has had behavioral problems, and he has a deformity on his face as though he had been put in heated water, consequently, so it has been arduous to integrate socially. Owing to all this hustle routine, my husband and I decided to go on vacation to a cabin far from the city, wishing that our son would have his first trip and could connect with nature.

We arrived at the cabin, and everything seemed perfect, in this house, there are three big bedrooms, a big swimming pool which is in the garden and a living room as big as the patio, here, the weather is sunny and wet, a perfect place to unwind. My son had never been in sunny weather, and his first impression was that it seemed like the purgatory to him, I did not know where those words came from, but I rebuked him.

In the evening, we began playing an unusual board game that was in the cottage. The aim was to answer to random questions, on aleatory topics, the rare thing was that their designs were wicked drawings, that is, they had mouths with big spikes, with bird's mouth and elf ears. I did not pay heed to the drawings, so we continued the game. It was my turn to take a card and ask, the interrogation that was on the card with a picture of a man dying was: what was your saddest death, In a muffled voice, I said it a little perplexed, though my husband and my son could hear. Unexpectedly, my son with a diabolical voice said: my eventual death was in a car accident, I was very high and I hit a lamppost, that same day my wife also died. Astonished by what he had said, I looked at my husband, and he carried a dull face, later I promptly asked my son, where he got that from, disturbed about what he had pronounced. He, in turn, replied that that was his last death, and requested me what mine was. The air felt heavy, I evaded with dread what he had said, and abruptly I said it was enough for today, we were tired from a long journey, it was better to rest.

We went to the rooms in silence, I was frightened and my husband without saying a single word was blank-faced, something was not right with everything, my husband, the game, and the words of my son. We didn't exchange a single word in the room, my husband went to bed right away, and I was a little fearful and thought about what my son had said, it wasn't the first time he had said something similar, it was as if he had lived before. Everything was so dark that not even the moon was shining, then I heard a noise, they were opening the door, I felt the emptiness of the bed, my husband wasn't there, I don't know at what moment he stood up, I assumed it was him, I wondered what he was doing out there. However, I didn't bug because he always goes out when he has nightmares, suffers from post-traumatic war stress, and therefore usually wakes up at night to check that everything is in order.

I fell asleep for an hour, and my husband didn't come back, I wondered if he had fallen asleep outside, I left the room, but the door was locked, I yelled at him, and he didn't answer me.

I awoke again, and this time I was in the living room, I don't remember anything since I found the door locked, I ran to the rooms, and there was nobody there, I shouted my husband and son's name, and nobody responded. My voice was weak, I could barely run, my head was whirling, my vision was distorted as if my eyes were stuck in a kaleidoscope, abruptly I hit the glass door that led into the courtyard. I didn't exactly fall on the ground, it was something abysmal because I felt that I kept on falling. With the strength I had left, I was able to get up, I saw two silhouettes at the bottom of the courtyard, behind the pool, they were my son and my husband, I rubbed my eyes and I couldn't see them anymore, what was all this, I wondered with astonishment and confusion.

Thereafter, my hands were bleeding, two bodies were standing in front of the pool, motionless, this time they looked clear, they were my son and my husband and they were carrying a red lantern. They were heading towards the living room with slow steps when I saw them coming towards me, I ran away, I felt that it wasn't them, it was something more infernal; to my bewilderment, I didn't run at all, my body movements didn't match what I request to my mind, I didn't have control of my body. Therefore I waited for them sitting down. They opened the door, came and sat down, my tears were running, and I was sobbing because I didn't understand anything. Then my son began to speak, he gave me a warning, his voice was thicker, and his face had become even more deformed, my husband's eyes turned red, and his mouth was wicked with sharpened teeth, I felt that this was not a dream, it was real, I was sitting in front of two insane beings that I did not know.

I asked disturbed, what this was, his answer was today is the day of the sacrifice, come and behold, he took me by the arm and escorted me to the courtyard where more houses with red lanterns could be seen behind. You are part of this, you are one of us, that is why you brought us here, my son was telling me, my father is not your husband, he is me, just a little older, I came from far away a long time ago to help you in the sacrifice. I didn't understand a single word, what sacrifice he was talking about, he kept on telling me that the sacrifice was going to redeem us from our sins, that we were going to go to Paradise.

The night was eternal, I had lapses of time, appeared in another place a little more exhausted, at one point I thought there was another person inside my body, as an alter ego, that somebody gave orders and was a member of that diabolic band, what I did not understand was the identity of my husband, as that might have been my son.

That's how I got here to this basement where I'm telling you about this horrible night, I record it so that someone knows the facts, and I want to make it clear that they will be a little distorted because I disappear and appear.

I hear footsteps coming into the room, my husband enters and says what are you doing here, it's time for the sacrifice, unconsciously I stand up and go after him, in the trouser pocket I had kept a knife, so I didn't wait a moment when I take it out quietly, and with all my strength, as we go into the courtyard I stick the knife in the neck of that demon that is in front of me in a couple of seconds he falls to the ground, lamenting I saw how he was bleeding on the floor, later, he told me with a muffled voice, why you did it, I am your husband, the one who loves you. When he says those words I discover that it is him, it is my husband, he doesn't have red eyes, I bend down and without believing it was him but I don't trust myself.

At the end of the corridor, I hear my son's voice, he yells at me, why did you kill Dad, I ran out to him in a fury, it's all your fault, I stabbed the knife in his chest, I knocked him down, and he kept sticking the knife in a rage. After this terrible act, I enter the basement, there my head spins around a lot without stopping, I don't feel the body anymore, I fall slowly.

The next morning, a policeman found me fainted in the basement, woke me up, told me I was under arrest for double homicide, astonished I shouted no, it wasn't me, I wasn't conscious, they had to check the tapes I had made. When they took me out of the basement, I saw that they were picking up the bodies of my son and my husband. I got into the police car, and they took me to the city, there they were going to interrogate me, and I was going to know my fate, I knew that my husband and my son were alive, I was going to find them.

The end

#horror #story #short story

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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Memories of a child slave

I was born in a slave house in the courtyard of the Fernández house, I never knew my mother, nor my father, I don't remember them. Everyone here was born alone, and others were thrown into the sea so as not to suffer this life, all these stories were told to me by Toña, one of the oldest slaves in the Fernández family, a great woman, she is the guardians among the community. I was lucky to be born -she said- but there has been no luck at all, I am not the owner of my life and sometimes I suffer the pain from hard work, my life is not like the other children.

My name is Alberto, Mrs. Toña gave me that name when I was four years old since I didn't possess one, she knew my parents and I feel that she knows where they are, but sometimes she doesn't want to speak about it. I am 13 years old, and along with other children we serve the Fernandez family, I am short and a little thin, I have sunken cheekbones, a flat nose, my forehead and eyes are prominent, and the shapes of my ribs are a little strange, sometimes I limp because I had a big wound on my left leg due to an accident. I dress in brown and white tetters, with the dirt and the work I do, they are always muddy, I am regularly in contact with the soil because I work in the orchard, and sometimes I have to take the food sacks and even take them to the kitchen. Sometimes when I do this work, I ask myself why I have to do it? I was born to do only this? Children were born to do this? I ask myself many questions, and sometimes I am jealous that I am not like the children of the masters, they play in the garden and have fun. When slave children have fun, the woman scolds us because we make a lot of noise.

One day Mrs. Toña came to me in her dirty muddy and slightly sweaty clothes, sat down next to me and told me stories about our ancestors until she told me about my parents. She told me that they wanted a better future for us, they tried several times but it was a hopeless case.

—Black people are condemned to serve whites, forever. —He said to me as the sweat dried.

—Why? Is there no chance we can be free? Mrs. Toña, sometimes I get tired doing my job and sometimes I wish I could be like the children playing in the garden, free as the wind. -I said to her, perplexed and angry inside.

—Don't worry about these things, you'll understand them better in the future. —The lady said with a disappointed face and a comforting voice.

I quit to the orchard frustrated, with a head bowed and I got skimming the future and my parents, I would like to know them, and I wanted to know more about them; why they abandoned me? Why I never met them? So many questions were hanging over my head while the fulgent sun hit me in the face. I opted to run to Mrs. Toña's place to answer my questions, but something prevented me as if someone had stopped me from nothing, hence, I better keep on farming and drawing up the yucca, perhaps today it was going to end faster, even though, I was a bit worrisome.

When the night fell, some children and I silently played with some rocks we found in the garden, they were round and could roll, so we made a hole in the ground and played to put the stones in the hole, it was fun, I won many times, I had quite a good aim. At that moment, I felt peace and serenity inside. Suddenly in the background an outcry was heard as if someone was being tortured, when we heard that scream we ran out to hide, but I wanted to know what was happening, somehow I was the oldest of the children, I looked out of the shuck behind the courtyard and beheld that a man was being whipped, Mrs. Toña and other women there were sobbing with frightened faces. When I witnessed this scene I was very shocked, and I wanted to get a little closer, with anger that all this happened, sometimes it was incomprehensible, to see someone suffering and that we could not do anything, the man was shouting and babbling something that I could not understand, the light-skinned man, the one who waved the whip on the man's back, began to curse us.

—All the misfortunes are because of you, you bring bad luck, you're all scum, you're useless. May you rot in hell! —The man said with the eyes of the devil, hitting even harder.

A very deplorable scene, I still feel creeps for everything the master said, echoing in my head over and over again. That very night after that man stopped, one of the men who worked with the tortured slave, killed himself, from what I could hear, the man with a blade cut his throat and waited until he bled out, leaving his body lying in the grass. Mrs. Toña did not allow us to see the dead and we stayed locked in the shelter, the man who was tortured was being healed with plants but it was not enough, he also departed. That night it felt unpleasant, and I felt that my chest was going to explode, my heart was pumping very fast, I was afraid that in the future it might be me who was being tortured.

The next morning I asked Mrs. Toña but she didn't want to go into detail because every time she named the dead slave her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears.

—Ma'am, are you all right? Why did the master whip that poor man? —I asked naively while Mrs. Toña was organizing the bed.

—This doesn't concern you, go and do your job. —Said the woman as if she didn't care.

—Why did he do it? — I shouted

Holding me by the arms tightly and looking at me with tearful eyes, she said: —You are still too young to understand, you must obey or else the same thing will happen to you as to that poor man.

—I want one day to be able to talk about my parents, I still have more questions about them. —I told her without expecting an answer.

—You see, your parents aren't here on this earth and they won't ever come back, they broke the rules. —The old woman said to me, cruelly.

—But you know you can count on me, I've brought you up as if I were your mother, you can't reproach me for anything. —She replied with a face more like one of disappointment when I hear it.

Without answering her, I ran out of that place with tears in my eyes, without hope of knowing what would happen to me, I didn't want to continue to suffer, I didn't want to end up like that man, I wanted to know more about my parents, I wanted to be like those children in the garden.

The days went by, I was doing my job faster than usual as the harvest was about to rot and they said there was a plague. The supervisor would ride by with the whip to inspect, if we didn't collect enough, we were sold because we didn't produce enough.

One afternoon, a slave lady I had never seen before, called me by name, I ran out at her call, she seemed very interested in telling me something, she was wearing a neat white dress and had her hair combed, she looked at me and gently grabbed me by the face. It seemed as if a delicate flower was brushing my face.

—You look like your father, and you have your mother's mouth. —She said to me with his eyesight lost in my face.

—Did you know my parents? — I asked him, surprised and a little confused

—Come with me, I'll show you something. —We walked to a tree, and she start told me that my parents were meeting there with certain slaves in the early morning to discuss our rights.

They told us that we could ask for our freedom without having to give money to our masters to buy our freedom. —Looking at me, he began to relate.

—Look, boy, they had an eloquence in speaking and they could read, apparently a master taught them on the sly, and they in turn stole law books and learned a few things. Nobody discovered them and so they could tell everything they knew. The blacks have been enslaved for a long time, they told us that we came from far away, from Africa, a continent far from here. —The woman spoke with an interest in telling me more.

—But you may wonder why it was only the blacks who were chosen to be slaves, it all comes from an idea that the whites have of being the pure race, that is, the Aryan race, the only race that can have power and possess land. Black people have been regarded as the servant, the hard worker, our skin colour has condemned us to be as we are. —With his face fixed on me he stood there for a moment thinking and analyzing what she had said.

Reasoning from this fact I was processing all that information, it is as if someone finally answered my questions.

—If so, what can we do to change that idea? What is the right that my parents were talking about? and why after so many years of slavery no one has done anything? look how many of us are suffering, how many of us are suffering this misfortune that we do not deserve, that we did not choose, that they did impose us. —I said to the lady in a loud voice, I didn't know where she got those words from, but I think they made sense.

The perplexed lady looked at me and said, —You sure got that temper from your parents.

—I don't know how to answer those questions, but I do know that what you can do now is think that freedom goes beyond not working for the masters but is within you, you can't choose your future but you can do it better from the love of your neighbor and in what you do, you must accept that this is your future, living in bitterness is not an option, maybe you or someone in the future will raise their voice, sooner or later this must end.

Thinking about what he said, I thought about my parents, if they were about to make a change, what happened to them.

—Where are my parents? —I said, hoping for some answer.

—They're in heaven. —She said quietly.

—What does that mean?

—That means they're living in heaven, they're in paradise, heaven, they've already left the world, they died with dignity fighting for our rights.

—Who killed them? —I said grieving.

—It doesn't matter who killed them but why they were killed. —She told me

—If heaven is paradise, why don't we all go there?

—It's not easy if you do bad things here on earth, you must serve, be a good boy, live with your condition without hurting anyone.

—If I go to heaven, can I meet my parents again?

—Maybe, but I can't assure you of that. We can meet our ancestors there.

—I want to go to heaven. -I said with emotion.

—To go to heaven is to die, nobody wants to die, you have to keep on living.

—What for?

—Because one day we'll be rewarded for our work.

She got up and walked away until I lost sight of her, then I went to the orchard, anxious to know more, about heaven and our detachment from all this misfortune.

The months passed, I had a lot of sleepless nights, remembering the words of that unknown woman, I pictured heaven with my parents, with the hope of finding my freedom. Mrs. Toña looked at me strangely because I did everything with good grace, in the right way, and I didn't throw outbursts every time they carried me for work. Something changed in me after that woman spoke to me. But I didn't continue to see the woman, something happened with her, I didn't see her anymore after that day, I asked Mrs. Toña if she had seen her, but she told me that she had never met a lady with the same characteristics. Then I asked the other women, and they told me that they did not know her and that they had never seen her, the children did not recognize her either. For me it was something strange, I had never seen her before either, it seemed like she came from somewhere else.

It was very discouraging that no one knew about it, and I find it a little strange that it came out of nowhere to tell me these things. I was depressed all afternoon and Mrs. Toña came to me worried.

—You've been very cheerful these days, why are you like this today? Is something wrong? —She says, holding my hands.

—I met a woman who said she knew my parents, she had a clean appearance and her eyes were very deep; she told me about my parents and all that they did for our rights and the meetings they held. —I said to the lady looking at the floor.

—It's impossible, I can't believe it. —The lady was disturbed and started walking around.

—What's wrong?

—It's all right, she's an angel, she comes from heaven, many say she calls herself a white angel. But, weirdly, she shows up now, every time something strange happens.

—What's an angel?

—They are beings sent by God, they give advice, many say that they don't really do it and that it only happens in people's dreams. Some time ago a child also appeared to this angel and days later many men disappeared.

—But it was not a dream, it was very real, I felt his presence. —I told him confused.

—Okay, don't worry, sometimes it's good luck to have an angel appear. —I'm not sure.

With those words, she withdrew thoughtfully.

The night fell, the twilight formed shadows under the trees, we had already finished the work, when suddenly a truck arrived, a white man got off it and exchanged a couple of words with the man. Then they approached us, sent us into line. I was very nervous about what was going to happen.

—Whoever I call, they step forward. —Said the master.

—Francisco, Miguel, Alberto, Juan.

The master sold us to a man named Manuel, he seemed to be a respectful man, he didn't yell at us or hit us. We got into the truck where there were four other men, when we arrived they were talking and I heard something about a runaway. At that moment I didn't see Mrs. Toña and I felt a great pain for not saying goodbye to her, I had a lump in her throat. The other men weren't even grimacing, they were inexpressive and followed orders. When we were already on the road these men spoke to us in a low voice.

—We have to get away, we can hit the master and we can run away. —One of them had a crack in his face with a thick, rasping voice, convinced that this was his moment of freedom.

—The plan is as follows, we have to hit the man on the head so we can escape.

—Do you know which way to go? —One of the men who came in with me asked

—Yes, there is a place they have called the palenque, where escaped Negroes are sheltered, we can go there.

These men had everything figured out, although I did not understand much of what they were saying because they used a strange language, yet I was able to know what it was all about. I was a little scared by what these men were planning, but I remembered the words of that woman and I was filled with courage.

The man next to me got up, took off his sweater and began to hang the master, hit him, until he was unconscious for a moment, the truck stopped and we ran away, running through the bushes so hard that I could not feel my feet. From a distance some shots were heard, the master was already catching up with us, we ran, but some were hit by the bullet, the master kept shooting and suddenly I fell, I felt my leg numb, I was shot and I was bleeding to death, the only thing I was thinking about was my freedom and the sky, I couldn't crawl, I didn't have the strength, everything was dark, in a moment I saw my body lying on the grass, it was floating in the air, I had achieved my freedom.

The end

#short story #slavery #slave #colonial america #america

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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The Harlem Renaissance

The Harlem Renaissance was the development of the Harlem neighborhood in New York City as a black cultural mecca in the early 20th Century and the subsequent social and artistic explosion that resulted. Lasting roughly from the 1910s through the mid-1930s, the period is considered a golden age in African American culture, manifesting in literature, music, stage performance and art.

Great Migration

The northern Manhattan neighborhood of Harlem was meant to be an upper-class white neighborhood in the 1880s, but rapid overdevelopment led to empty buildings and desperate landlords seeking to fill them.

In the early 1900s, a few middle-class black families from another neighborhood known as Black Bohemia moved to Harlem, and other black families followed. Some white residents initially fought to keep African Americans out of the area, but failing that many whites eventually fled.

Cultural Achievements

ART

Fine artists flocked to Harlem during its rebirth. Most of these figures focused on painting, sculpting, and other means of artistically exploring the African American story. This approach culminated in a vast collection of historically significant works, from the powerful and poignant sculptures of female artist Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller to the modernist murals of the Jazz Age by Aaron Douglas.

Aaron Douglas, “Aspirations,” 1936 (Photo: Wiki Art Fair Use)

WRITING

During this time, people involved with the movement relied heavily on print media and poetry as means to spread the word.

One magazine that proved particularly popular was The Crisis, a quarterly publication published by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). Intended to “show the danger of race prejudice, particularly as manifested today toward colored people,” The Crisis shared work by black writers. W.E.B. Du Bois (a prominent activist, sociologist, historian, and writer) was the editor of the magazine—which is still in circulation today—until he resigned in 1934.

MUSIC

The Harlem Renaissance emerged when the Jazz Age was in full swing. This period is characterized by the rising popularity and proliferation of jazz music—a genre characterized by expressive, syncopated rhythms and varying degrees of improvisation—among all sorts of American demographics. Like the ragtime and blues genres that inspired it, jazz was invented by black musicians, making it an intrinsic part of the Harlem Renaissance.

FASHION

Fashion also received a makeover during this time period, as young black men and women were inspired to dress more flamboyantly. Instead of long, traditional skirts, women wore drop-waisted dresses and flashy accessories like feather boas and egret-trimmed berets. Similarly, men began wearing “Zoot” style suits, which featured a high-waisted, wide-legged pants and a long coat with padded shoulders.

LEGACY

Though Harlem’s golden age ended in the middle of the 1930s, its legacy remains strong today. In addition to the contributions made by its artists, writers, and musicians, the movement paved the way for future achievements. From modern artists like Jacob Lawrence to the iconic Apollo Theatre, the area has continued to shape even more important figures and sites over the course of the last century.

In 2013, First Lady Michelle Obama spoke in the New York City neighborhood, which she praised as an important site for African American History. “There’s a reason why I wanted to bring you all to Harlem today,” she said, “and that is because this community is infused with the kind of energy and passion that is quintessentially American but that has also touched so many people around the world.”

Some sources of information:

https://www.britannica.com/event/Harlem-Renaissance-American-literature-and-art

https://www.history.com/topics/roaring-twenties/harlem-renaissance#section_13

https://nyphil.org/education/learning-communities/~/media/pdfs/education/1819/1718_CurriculumGuide_FinalEdition.pdf

#harlem #history #music #jazz #literature #movement #freedom

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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The influence of William Shakespeare in English writing

This 16th century English playwright, poet and actor is considered the most important writer in the English language, as well as one of the most famous writers of Universal Literature. Only this information should make us understand the importance that his person and works have had for later writers; Shakespeare is a teacher for many. A playwright who despite living centuries ago, has managed to imbue with his essence the works of countless contemporary authors.

Perhaps the secret to Shakespeare's importance is connection to the public. Obviously this connection must be based on something, perhaps on the topics discussed; Shakespeare speaks and embodies human weaknesses better than anyone. It simply summarizes the enormous variety of emotions within the human being, giving rise to really complex characters. This has always fascinated, perhaps because the man himself is complex and there is always a Shakespearean character to be identified with.

Shakespeare is also important because of his great ability to use poetic language as well as dramatic resources. A true teacher who created a school; and it is that we cannot deny that at present many quotes and aphorisms of Shakespeare are used in half the world, such as "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark", "What is in a name?" or "Now is the winter of our discountingFew poets have been as essential, as influential to the evolution of a language—both the written word and the spoken tradition—as William Shakespeare was to English.

His poems, particularly his sonnets, which became renowned for their particular form and human themes (love, death, time, memory, etc.), are still studied, memorized, recited, and enjoyed; his plays, likewise, are classics. Shakespeare’s words and stories are returned to again and again and have earned him the title of the “Immortal Bard.” In celebration of Shakespeare and his legacy, which continues to live on more than 400 years later, we’ve curated a selection of poems, books, and other resources.

Shakespeare wrote 37 plays (though some experts think it may have been more). He wrote three different types of plays:

● Histories - about the lives of kings and famous figures from history

● Comedies - which end with a marriage

● Tragedies - which end with the death of the main character

Shakespeare also wrote plenty of poetry and in 1609 published a book of 154 sonnets.

We know his work was popular at the time because he earned enough money to live in a smart area of London, where he wrote some of his most famous plays.

Words Shakespeare invented

He had an incredible influence on the English language and invented hundreds of words we still use today.

Here are some of the more than 1,700 words first used in Shakespeare's writing:

● Amazement ● Bedroom ● Champion ● Dawn ● Eyeball

● Fashionable ● Gossip ● Moonbeam ● Olympian ● Puking

● Swagger ● Unreal ● Zany

Shakespeare's Sonnets

From the Italian sonetto, which means “a little sound or song,” the sonnet is a fourteen-line poem written in iambic pentameter. While Italian poet and scholar Petrarch popularized the form in the 1300s, 300 years later, Shakespeare introduced a different type of sonnet, now called the “Shakespearean” or “English” sonnet. The Shakespearean sonnet has three quatrains and a couplet, with the rhyme scheme abab, cdcd, efef, gg, and the couplet provides the volta in the poem. Here is a roundup of Shakespeare’s most popular sonnets.

When my love swears that she is made of truth (Sonnet 138)

William Shakespeare - 1564-1616

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor’d youth,

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best,

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:

On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:

But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love, loves not to have years told:

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

● In this sonnet the subtlety with which the author plays with words is evident, he always transmits a message to his audience. We can read how love links the lie between a man and a woman. For many people today shakespeare will be living in the writings and hearts, their lyrics will hardly be forgotten.

Thanks to Willian Shakespeare for the wonderful works she did and the great variety of works that we continue enjoying today.

Some sources of information:

● https://poets.org/influence-william-shakespeare

● https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/31941581

● https://www.williamshakespeare.net/poems.jsp

#shakespeare #writing #writers

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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Our creations... Love letters

In this space you can see two types of letters, one imitating those that were written by lovers in the 90s another written like the ones that we write today. We hope you like it. <3

Cartagena de Indias, July 15, 1900

Dear Roberto

I write this letter expressing all my sentimental heartbeat that every day grows like heaven, that has no beginning or end, an offspring portrait of all the love and affection I feel.

Today I remembered those kisses we gave ourselves the first time on the beach near the center, when you promised me all that love that has charmed me so much to be able to withstand this distance that I am sure we will overcome.

I know that there are many couples in the world who have passed through this arduous and challenging path, because I am sure that we will meet very soon to express all our desires.

You know I haven’t stopped thinking for a second about your wonderful self; the memory of your manly body lying on my chest makes me forget the cold nights that for the moment want to freeze my heart, your eyes are a hypnotic source that envelops me in a sheet that governs my concentration and my thoughts placed at your mercy.

Always yours, Candida Antoinette

Hello Luisa,

Baby here you got me fulfilling the promise, almost challenge you told me to write this letter, which does not make it so difficult for me to express my feelings through this medium.

You know well that that my thoughts are continually guided on you, my beautiful brunette with thick legs and strong arms, that with the zigzag of your walk magnetizes me and I can fly in a jiffy to your rich chest.

Every day as usual I wake up and I see a picture on my phone of you to start the day with a motivation of love that accelerates my heart and tells me that there is a certainty that soon we will meet again in that tenuous and candid little boat of the city, our perfect escape space for the will of the Salsa and the good Merengue of our days.

Proving also that I can write to you in letters, Your sexy brunette of love,

Carlos José

#love #letter #love language #writing

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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What do you know about love stories?

Cleopatra and Mark Antony When we think about love stories, we define them as a story that involves romantic relationship, two people who fall in love, developing romantic feelings for each other. An interesting is the fact is that the word “romance” which we use to define these kind of stories, didn’t mean love. Instead, it was fist use in the 14th Century, and originally meant "French" usually referring to stories, poems, or songs. They were usually written in French, which was the language used for stories to entertain the common people.

These stories were often about knights and dragons, epic quests and damsels in distress, and they were called "romances". The word “romance” begins to acquire the sense of love in the seventeenth century when love stories started being include in this category.

Well, that was an interesting fact, now, let’s go to romance novels and the history.

What is a romance novel?

The romance novel or romantic novel is a literary genre. Novels in this genre place their primary focus on the relationship and romantic love between two people, and must have an "emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending."

Through the late 20th and early 21st centuries, these novels are commercially in two main varieties: category romances, which are shorter books with a one-month shelf-life, and single-title romances, which are generally longer with a longer shelf-life. However in classical times, Romances were considered very basic literature and reading a romance was a plebeian activity. Separate from their type, a romance novel can exist within one of many subgenres, including contemporary, historical, science fiction and paranormal.

One of the earliest romance novels was Samuel Richardson's popular 1740 novel Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, which was revolutionary on two counts: it focused almost entirely on courtship and did so entirely from the perspective of a woman protagonist. In the next century, Jane Austen expanded the genre, and her Pride and Prejudice is often considered the epitome of the genre. Austen inspired Georgette Heyer, who introduced historical romances in 1921. A decade later, British company Mills and Boon began releasing the first category romance novels. Their books were resold in North America by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd, which began direct marketing to readers and allowing mass-market merchandisers to carry the books.

So now, what are the characteristics of romance novels?

There must be a conflict challenging the relationship that needs to be overcome.

Romance novels are generally told through the perspective of a woman and feature strong-willed and clever female characters.

Romance novels usually follow the moral principle that good behavior is rewarded with unconditional love.

They usually have a happy ending, or maybe not...

Love is a powerful emotion. Throughout history couples in love have caused wars and controversy, created masterpieces in writing, music, and art, and have captured the hearts of the public with the power of their bonds. From the allure of Cleopatra to the magnetism of the Kennedy's, these love affairs have stood as markers in history. Prepare to swoon over these love stories of the centuries.

The 5 Greatest Real Life Love Stories from History

Paris and Helen

She was another man's wife, but when Paris, the "handsome, woman-mad" prince of Troy, saw Helen, the woman whom Aphrodite proclaimed the most beautiful in the world, he had to have her. Helen and Paris ran off together, setting in motion the decade-long Trojan War. According to myth, Helen was half-divine, the daughter of Queen Leda and the God Zeus, who transformed into a swan to seduce the queen. Whether Helen actually existed, we'll never know, but her romantic part in the greatest epic of all time can never be forgotten. She will forever be "the face that launched a thousand ships."

Cleopatra and Mark Antony

"Brilliant to look upon and to listen to, with the power to subjugate everyone." That was the description of Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. She could have had anything or anyone she wanted, but she fell passionately in love with the Roman General Mark Antony. As Shakespeare depicts it, their relationship was volatile ("Fool! Don't you see now that I could have poisoned you a hundred times had I been able to live without you," Cleopatra said) but after they risked all in a war on Rome and lost, they chose to die together in 30 BC.

"I will be a bridegroom in my death, and run into it as to a lover's bed," said Antony. And Cleopatra followed, by clasping a poisonous asp to her breast.

Henry II and Rosamund Clifford

The first Plantagenet king of England had a rich, royal wife in Eleanor of Aquitaine and mistresses galore, but the love of his life was "Fair Rosamund," also called the "Rose of the World." To conceal their affair, Henry built a love nest in the innermost recesses of a maze in his park at Woodstock. Nonetheless, the story has it that Queen Eleanor did not rest until she found the labyrinth and traced it to the center, where she uncovered her ravishing rival. The queen offered her death by blade or poison. Rosamund chose the poison. Perhaps not coincidentally, Henry kept Eleanor confined in prison for 16 years of their marriage.

Dante and Beatrice

Rarely has a woman served as such profound inspiration for a writer—and yet he barely knew her. The Italian poet Dante Alighieri wrote passionately of Beatrice in the Divine Comedy and other poems, but only met the object of his affection twice. The first time, he was nine years old and she was eight. The second time, they were adults, and while walking on the street in Florence, Beatrice, an emerald-eyed beauty, turned and greeted Dante before continuing on her way. Beatrice died at age 24 in 1290 without Dante ever seeing her again. Nonetheless, she was "the glorious lady of my mind," he wrote, and "she is my beatitude, the destroyer of all vices and the queen of virtue, salvation."

Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII

When the Tudor king fell for a young lady-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn, who possessed eyes "black and beautiful," he was long married to a Spanish princess. But Anne refused to be a royal mistress, and the king rocked the Western world to win his divorce and make Anne queen. Ambassadors could not believe how enslaved the king was by his love for Anne. "This accursed Anne has her foot in the stirrup," complained the Spanish emissary. To comprehend the king's passion, one need only read his 16th century love letters, revealing his torment over how elusive she remained: "I beg to know expressly your intention touching the love between us…having been more than a year wounded by the dart of love, and not yet sure whether I shall fail or find a place in your affection." (Their love affair ended when he had her beheaded.)

#love story #love #english #stories #short story

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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Our poems

Below we share some verses written by us, the topics we cover in the poems range from love to social issues. The purpose is to show how poetry can touch the fibers and emotions of our being and how it can make a positive impact on others.

I want to be for you, what music is for me

an anew liberated bird, an uncomplicated cat

the entelechy that arises when the rain falls down

coffee in the mornings with a taste of: you can do it

the spirit of laughing and sobbing at the same time

the hurried tear of wetting the burning cheek

that adjective that shakes up a sleepy noun

the March flurry that adorns the walls.

It's the life that doesn't drop that halts and nods

its authenticity is the dimples on my back

hidden, florid and deep

uncovers the cumbersome life of past

is what music can furnish

is what I can give you

tiny details

in what I rejoice, and

in what makes me float in their Valhalla.

Curious how music comes into us

every time their melodies

wake up in the eardrum.

the sound waves come in to dazzle

the tiny bones are shyly happy about their presence

with force, its waves reach the round window

until it embarks on the round cochlea

entering to touch the nerve and

merge like a feast in the brain

a ceremony between sound and the ear

the show that makes you recreate what you thought

a collective work par excellence

between the physical and the spiritual.

Look at everything that music beget in me

my most trustworthy company,

the one that remits me write

discovering and creating the unthinkable.

Then I invite you to reciprocate

that I'm the melody and you're my brain nerves

just as music is to me, and I am to music.

Together, let's be

A woman alive, not absent

she gathers what she can

does not expect the unknown

just being, is outraged

suffered on the day she is born

just know how to survive

eager to be reborn

is broken inside

physical and intangible wounds.

There is never a guilty party

she perpetually is

justifiable reasons

of the female physiognomy

your improper garments

and your huge hip too

something biological they say

somewhat cultural, also say

I state it's more

a social invention

of a feudal civilization.

Nodding woman

to something you don't want

compelling woman

to something that doesn't need

woman in hiding

of some murderer

weeping woman

of some abusers.

Now don't be worried

together, let's be

don't raise abusers

more inclusive education

together, let's be

don't stop being

for what they say on TV

resilient woman

together, let's be

call for respect

for your dignity

deaf ears

to these who label your body

together, let's be

a man does not define you

a home neither

we define ourselves by loving

together, let's be

in the fight the more we are.

#poems #poemsworld #love #women #music #musiclover #literature #english

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coolturalworld · 4 years

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Poetry to know the world history and cultures

Poetry through time has served to know the world and others. Poetry gives us a route to discover millions of worlds in which we can engage ourselves and explore universes, that is what makes poetry a great way to enjoy the details of life that sometimes go unnoticed. Poetry also serves to know the history of a town. Thanks to the epic poems of the ancient civilizations, for example, we can come to understand how they lived and how they faced fundamental aspects of life such as education or the art of war.

Thus, in this analysis, we will talk a bit about poetry as a means to discover the history, culture, and the world.

Poetry through time from different cultures

Old age

During the old age period, in Greece, some authors were writing epic poetry. Epic poetry is the narration of feats of historical or legendary heroes, it started being oral and sung, and it’s written in verse and using slow and majestic versification. Epic poetry generally tells the exploits of a hero based on the tradition of a people. One of its pioneers is Homer with his most outstanding works the Iliad and the Odyssey, these tell the story of the legendary Trojan war.

In these two poems, Greek society and social reality are reflected at a certain point. As for the political structure, Homeric poetry gathers it well referring to the Mycenaean period, where there is a Palatial civilization whose visible head is the King, surrounded by a Nobility named by him with a reversible character and a complex bureaucratic apparatus. As for the social organization of the Mycenaean world, we can see it clearly in the Homeric poems, and it is centered on the family cultivation unit.

In the East, during the 8th century AD, poets Li Bai and Du Fu were considered the greatest national poets in China in times of the Tang dynasty. At that time, both Chinese and Japanese made impressive poetic anthologies. Here is a poem by Li Bai:

“His verses bring us closer to a real human being, with a strong temperament, very sensitive and very cordial. The energies that run through his lines, concise and imaginative, transmit warmth, sincerity, enthusiasm and life. This is how its diffusion in different environments is explained by culture, space or time.” Dañino Ribatto*

*Writer, translator, recognized among the main foreign actors in Chinese cinema.

During this time in India, the Hindus made their great epic works, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, it is considered as their most important national poems, to the point that, today, India is called Bharat in its own language. According to Gabriel Mondragon this last book is the most extensive poem in the world, with around one hundred thousand paired verses, and its name means great weight, because, according to tradition, it weighed more on a scale than the four Vedas, the religious books of India, written also in verse.

Middle Age

According to Britannia, in Europe, during the Middle Ages, the so-called minstrels or troubadours were very popular, they walked through the towns and cities singing the deeds of their great warriors and their kings, and who came to create the true collective memory of their towns at a time when most people were uneducated. Parallel to them, there was another form of poetic and moral creation, cultivated in the religious fields and monastic schools, known as the master of the clergy, and which was essential to give form and structure to the mystical and religious poetry of later centuries.

Here is a poem that was written in Old English, and the meaning. An extract taken from the web page Interesting Literature:

Somer is y-comen in

Sing cuckóu, nou! Sing cuckóu! Sing cuckóu! Sing cuckóu nou!

Somer is y-comen in, Loudë sing, cuckóu! Growëth sed and blowëth med And springth the wodë nou Sing cuckóu!

Ewë bletëth after lamb, Lowth after cálve cóu; Bullok stertëth, bukkë vertëth, Merye sing, cuckóu!

Cuckóu, cuckóu, Wél singést thou, cuckóu, Ne swik thou never nou!

“Somer is y-comen in” i.e. ‘Summer has come in’ it is a medieval poem about the summer, designed to be sung as a "round" with several people. The poet pleads with the cuckoo (bird) to sing aloud as the seed grows and the meadows flourish, and the wood now turns into leaf. The ewe bleats after the lamb, the cow after the calf, the bullock leaps, and the buck cavorts.

In the East, in India the bhajan or kirtan was spread, a Hindu devotional song. Bhajans are often simple songs in lyrical language that express emotions of the love for the Divine. Here is a poem that was written by Kabir, he was a 15th/16th century devotional poet, and social critic from northern India.

Modern Age

These forms evolved to give birth to European lyrical poetry from pre-Renaissance times, which reached its peak in the work of poets such as Dante and Petrarch. Later, during the sixteenth century in Spain there would be a resurgence of cultured literature around classical themes, in what came to be called the Spanish Golden Age, where the great figures of Hispanic letters of the time shone, Quevedo, Lope de Vega, Calderón de la Barca, Góngora and Argote, among many others, without forgetting, of course, the magnificent Cervantes.

The Chains of Love

Some made links and chains; and some made chains from love!

For there’s steel forged and bent, and true love to find or invent!

Some made coins from the best metal! And some made chains from love!

Miguel de Cervantes

English translation by Paul Archer of Bien haya quien hizo cadenas.

As we can see in this poem, the author transmits a certain state of mind. Lyric poetry is usually characterized by introspection and the expression of feelings. Most of the lyric poems are characterized by their brevity, it is not often that they exceed one hundred verses.

During this period, there was also an explosion of similar genius in England, as in many other places, which produced figures of the stature of Shakespeare and Marlowe, among a whole host of great writers and poets.

Sonnet 130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare

In this period, romantic and nationalist movements in a large part of the world took on special importance, and poetry acquired a new and vigorous impulse.

Contemporary age

During the 19th century, poetry experienced different moments of renewal and reinvention, especially those related to the avant-garde.

The tension between the traditional themes of poetry and the horrors of war is expressed in the Poetry of war by different poets, especially Wilfred Owen. Owen's poem "Strange Meeting" has been described as "a dream of a conversation with a dead lyric poet, or possibly even the dead letter itself." But after World War I, he explores the political issues of Irish independence, nationalism, and the civil war.

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,— By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained; Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. ‘Strange friend,’ I said, ‘here is no cause to mourn.’ ‘None,’ said that other, ‘save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something had been left, Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled. Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress. None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine, and I had mystery; Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels, I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. [...]

Wilfred Owen

In summary, the poem is narrated by a soldier who dies in battle and finds himself in Hell. There he meets a man whom he identifies as a ‘strange friend’. This other man tells the narrator that they both nurtured similar hopes and dreams, but they have both now died, unable to tell the living how piteous and hopeless war really is.

During the twentieth century, poetry experienced several changes and adaptations that broke the old models, to make access for a more free and subjective poetic performance, the topics are very different, from wars to surreal experiences. This renewal, both in stylistic form and in content, had a great influence on contemporary authors.

Among these trends are cubism, surrealism, and expressionism, all with its particularities, but united in the search for a new artistic language.

Dawn

Dawn in New York has four pillars of muck and a hurricane of black pigeons splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York moans on the immense staircases searching between the corners for spikenards of depicted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth because neither morning nor hope are possible: at times furiously swarming coins perforate and devour abandoned children.

The first to arise know in their bones there will be neither paradise nor leafless loves: they know the muck of numbers and laws awaits them, of simple-minded games, of fruitless labor.

The light is buried by chains and noises in a shameless challenge to rootless science. Insomniacs stagger around in each district like refugees from a shipwreck of blood.

Federico García Lorca

We can see, one of the aspects in which this type of poetry changes is in its stylistic structure. As in the rest of the aspects, the absolute freedom of the artist is imposed. While a very rational internal structure was traditionally respected, contemporaries begin to experiment. In this way, the times mix freely, it is no longer mandatory to maintain a chronological order of what is related.

From now on, poetry does not know rules, the rules are set by the author, it is valid to play with different literary figures, the structure can change without having a defined order, and different themes can also be approached, unlike epic poetry, This is characterized by being narrative and lyrical, with short verses.

Poetry has passed from generation to generation telling stories, revealing landscapes, gods, prayers, cultures, in addition to bringing out the most recondite thoughts and feelings of the human being. Through poetry, towns were made known, the story would tell from other perspectives, it is a mean to declare love to a lover, and to give life to inert things. Now poetry continues to be a resource to see the world from another vision, with a broader repertoire of topics from politics, ideologies, and movements to topics like animals, nightmares, and rainy days.

The importance of poetry lies mainly in that it allows us to broaden our horizons. Reading poetry can help us to better understand the world or to find new ways of saying things. It is necessary to clarify that poetry is also a space of revolution. In this sense, many poets have committed to their time and have written to denounce injustices and promote a change of attitude in others.

Bibliography

Mondragón, Gabriel (2018, April 9). Poetry, origins and history. Retrieved from: https://enciclopediaonline.com/es/.

Gerald R. Lucas. (2019, August 14). Epic Poetry. Retrieved 19:21, June 12, 2020 from https://grlucas.net/index.php?title=Epic_Poetry&oldid=4320.

Minstrel | Definition, History, & Facts. Retrieved 13 June 2020, from https://www.britannica.com/art/minstrel

10 Short Medieval Poems Everyone Should Read - Interesting Literature. (2015, January 10). Retrieved 13 June 2020, from: https://interestingliterature.com/2015/01/10-short-medieval-poems-everyone-should-read/

Lyric poetry - New World Encyclopedia. Retrieved 13 June 2020, from https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Lyric_poetry

Words Have Discovered How to Make Love: 3 Poems by Surrealist Masters. (2017, June 5). Retrieved 14 June 2020, from https://lithub.com/words-have-discovered-how-to-make-love-3-poems-by-surrealist-masters/

#poetry #history #culture #poemsworld #world #poem #english #studyblr #study notes #epic poetry #history of poetry #literature

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