Who is your least character in Village By The Sea?

The character I hate most in village by the sea is Hari's father.
Hari's father is an irresponsible man. He always sleep until the sun sets and then get himself drunk. When he comes back home, he always beat up his wife and children and then sleep again. Hari's father was so lousy that Hari hoped that he was bitten by a snake and die.
Hari's father was a lousy father and a lousy husband. The reason is that he did not even care about his sick wife.
Futhermore, I think that Hari's father is the cause of all problems. He owed the Khanekhar brothers a lot of money, thus, the brothers poisoned Pinto and Pinto died.
Thus, Hari's father is my least favourite character.

Is progress necessary beneficial for the society?

In my opinion, progress is definitely necessary for the society.
Firstly, progress can transport us around easily. Transportation is very important for people living in the modern society. Vehicles used for transportation are able to move from one place to another freely and conveniently. Imagine a world without this high technology vehicles, peoeple will have a hard time travelling.
Next, progress provides us with tele-communication. Tele-communication is really important especially if you have to communicate to a person that is not infront of you.
If Singapore had not progress, she would still be a tiny fishing port.
However, progress can be abused as hackers could take advantage of technology and commit crimes.

He was a writer who wore several hats throughout his career, Alfred Austin was a critic, novelist and political journalist. Although he was educated in law, his professional life focused primarily on literature. Nonetheless, he carries the reputation of having been the worst and least read English poet.
I find him intriguing as he carries the reputation of having been the worst and least read English poet. Thus, I want to know more about the reason of his reputation.
From my opinion,his poems are long and boring, and thus makes it unentertaining. Most of his poems are dull, so I can infer that he is a very dull person. As many people loves entertainment at thatr time, I now understand the reason of his reputation.

Three poems by him:
At His Grave

LEAVE me a little while alone,
Here at his grave that still is strown
With crumbling flower and wreath;
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls,
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls,
And he lies hush’d beneath.

With myrtle cross and crown of rose,
And every lowlier flower that blows,
His new-made couch is dress’d;
Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild,
Gather’d by monarch, peasant, child,
A nation’s grief attest.

I stood not with the mournful crowd
That hither came when round his shroud
Pious farewells were said.
In the fam’d city that he sav’d,
By minaret crown’d, by billow lav’d,
I heard that he was dead.

Now o’er his tomb at last I bend,
No greeting get, no greeting tend,
Who never came before
Unto his presence, but I took,
From word or gesture, tone or look,
Some wisdom from his door.

And must I now unanswer’d wait,
And, though a suppliant at the gate,
No sound my ears rejoice?
Listen! Yes, even as I stand,
I feel the pressure of his hand,
The comfort of his voice.

How poor were Fame, did grief confess
That death can make a great life less,
Or end the help it gave!
Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane,
But his well-ripen’d deeds remain,
Untouch’d, above his grave.

Let this, too, soothe our widow’d minds;
Silenced are the opprobrious winds
Whene’er the sun goes down;
And free henceforth from noonday noise,
He at a tranquil height enjoys
The starlight of renown.

Thus hence we something more may take
Than sterile grief, than formless ache,
Or vainly utter’d vow;
Death hath bestow’d what life withheld
And he round whom detraction swell’d
Hath peace with honor now.

The open jeer, the covert taunt,
The falsehood coin’d in factious haunt,
These loving gifts reprove.
They never were but thwarted sound
Of ebbing waves that bluster round
A rock that will not move.

And now the idle roar rolls off,
Hush’d is the gibe and sham’d the scoff,
Repress’d the envious gird;
Since death, the looking-glass of life,
Clear’d of the misty breath of strife,
Reflects his face unblurr’d.

From callow youth to mellow age,
Men turn the leaf and scan the page,
And note, with smart of loss,
How wit to wisdom did mature,
How duty burn’d ambition pure,
And purged away the dross.

Youth is self-love; our manhood lends
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends,
So that when age steals nigh,
How few find any worthier aim
Than to protract a flickering flame,
Whose oil hath long run dry!

But he, unwitting youth once flown,
With England’s greatness link’d his own,
And, steadfast to that part,
Held praise and blame but fitful sound,
And in the love of country found
Full solace for his heart.

Now in an English grave he lies:
With flowers that tell of English skies
And mind of English air,
A grateful sovereign decks his bed,
And hither long with pilgrim tread
Will English feet repair.

Yet not beside his grave alone
We seek the glance, the touch, the tone;
His home is nigh,—but there,
See from the hearth his figure fled,
The pen unrais’d, the page unread,
Untenanted the chair!

Vainly the beechen boughs have made
A fresh green canopy of shade,
Vainly the peacocks stray;
While Carlo, with despondent gait,
Wonders how long affairs of State
Will keep his lord away.

Here most we miss the guide, the friend;
Back to the churchyard let me wend,
And, by the posied mound,
Lingering where late stood worthier feet,
Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet,
A loftier dirge would sound.

At least I bring not tardy flowers:
Votive to him life’s budding powers,
Such as they were, I gave—
He not rejecting, so I may
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay,
Unchidden, on his grave!

The Haymakers’ Song

HERE’S to him that grows it,
Drink, lads, drink!
That lays it in and mows it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
To him that mows and makes it,
That scatters it and shakes it,
That turns, and teds, and rakes it,
Clink, jugs, clink!

Now here ’s to him that stacks it,
Drink, lads, drink!
That thrashes and that tacks it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
That cuts it out for eating,
When March-dropp’d lambs are bleating,
And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting,
Drink, lads, drink!

And here ’s to thane and yeoman,
Drink, lads, drink!
To horseman and to bowman,
Clink, jugs, clink!
To lofty and to low man,
Who bears a grudge to no man,
But flinches from no foeman,
Drink, lads, drink!

Agatha

SHE wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower;
She leans her face against the buds,
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.
She feels the ferment of the hour:
She broodeth when the ringdove broods;
The sun and flying clouds have power
Upon her cheek and changing moods.
She cannot think she is alone,
As o’er her senses warmly steal
Floods of unrest she fears to own,
And almost dreads to feel.

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone;
The joy she fear’d is at her side,
Spring’s blushing secret now is known.
The primrose and its mates have flown,
The thrush’s ringing note hath died;
But glancing eye and glowing tone
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She only feels she moves towards bliss,
And yields her pure unquestioning soul
To touch and fondling kiss.

And still she haunts those woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now
To mind of spring or summer days,
Are sodden trunk and songless bough.
The past sits widow’d on her brow,
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,
To walls that house a hollow vow,
To hearth where love hath ceas’d to blaze:
Watches the clammy twilight wane,
With grief too fix’d for woe or tear;
And, with her forehead ’gainst the pane,
Envies the dying year.

Reference:
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/alfred_austin/biography
http://www.poemhunter.com/alfred-austin/

A Girl by Ezra Pound

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are, And all this is folly to the world.


1.)How are the figurative language used in the poem? Give the specific word(s), explain what type of figurative language it is and why the poet chose to use this figurative language?

Ans:This poem uses alot of figurative language.The poet uses similies and metaphors in this poem, as they compare the words with another object.This is mainly to make this poem sound more entertaining and more attractive and thus, making it a good poem.

2.)Tell us why you like this poem in no less than 100 words.

I like this poem as it is very entertaining. It uses figurative language to attract me to read this poem.Futhermore, the poem is paragraphed nicely, when it does so, the poem will apear short. As I glanced through the poem the first time, I found it short and sweet. So, I like this poem.

(57 Words)

I rather be a city rat than a country rat

I rather be a city rat rather than a country rat.
While living in the country, you get to live a simple life, you are able to survive well. However, when living in the country, one will be lagging behind in the modern world. One will be unable to use the high technology equipments and could not live in the house with electricity supply.
When reading this post, many will ask,"Why do we need all the electric equipments when we are in the country?" That is because I think we should all "upgrade" ourselves and cope with the modern world. If I choose to live in the country, I will live simply and will still survive, just that I will live without satisfaction as I think life is like an adventure game we have to complete the game and end the game while feeling satisfied with what we had done. From my point of view, being satisfied is not just about fun although it is also important, but it is about the experience of the things I had gone through.
While living in the city however, makes the game more fun and one will be more satisfied than living in the country as we can cope well in with modern technology. Futhermore, the city world is bigger than the country world, and that enables us to venture more places.
Thus, I rather be a city rat than a country rat.

Confessions of a genius

I am making a confession that I am a genius. Upon seeing this, I am very sure that quite a number of people may think that I am arrogant, however, I am not being arrogant at this point of time.
To be honest with you, I am not very good in academics. I am the worse in the entire class in term of my results. So, how can the worse student in results be a genius?
I looked up the dictionary and found that the definition of genius is a highly talented, creative or intelligent person. Thus, I think I had meet up with the requirements. There are many class jokers in the schools in Singapore, however, being an intelligent joker ,is not being a clown and do funny movements to bring laughter to everyone.Jokers are people who tells jokes and makes people laugh. It requires alot of quick thinking and planning.
Let me give you an instance: My idol, Rowan Atkinson, otherwise known as Mr Bean, is one of the most funny and well knowned comedian in the world. Suprisingly, he graduated from Oxford University, one of the world's most well known and best University.Before he starts acting in his show,it requires more than ample amount of preparation of the show. The outcome is that everyone watching his shows laugh. Now, he is known as a genius.
Being a class joker, I have to be creative, creating new jokes for everyone to laugh as people do get bored upon listening to the same jokes over again.
From my opinion, jokers are the real geniuses in the world. Reader's Digest, a highly read magazine pays everyone who 'donate' their new jokes a hundred dollars. They are not buying their jokes, but to actually congratulate the person who creates the joke, for being intelligent and creative.
Overall, I hereby confess that I am a genius and being a genius does not require you to do fabulously well in tests.
Please comment!!!

Book Review of Our Literature book:VBTS

The book, village by the sea has a very nice and sweet storyline. I like it as it shows a very descriptive information about the scenary and the villagers. I can really imagine myself at that place when I read the story. The book is about how a family of five live in a village by the sea .The family consist of a drunkered father, an ill mother and three young children, two girls and one boy. The book has a nice start and a beautiful ending.

However, the story is too draggy when the author spend alot of time/efforts in describing. Although I like the book, I feel that many more people will like it if the author uses less descripting words and spend more time on the plot.