June 3


(A tale from the wooden room)

1Life became unbelievably lush when our onion business started to take off. My wife and I had so many new friends we were awash with glee. Also we had lots of ready cash, and didn’t tell the tax man.

Money makes people very attractive to other people. My wife ran away with a couple of chaps from out of town, and I ran away with a couple of young women who seemed strangely insatiable in the clothing departments of department stores. Our house was emptied by robbers, because we had both run away and not thought to arrange for a caretaker. I didn’t care. I was having so much sex I couldn’t care. I never had enough energy.

Then one day I was stopped in the street by a man who introduced himself as Geoff. He said I didn’t need to know his second name, and something in his voice made me not want to know his second name. I pretended it was Cassidy, for the hell of it.

He said he had a massage from my wife. I was amused. But I had misheard him, and he handed me a message from my wife. It was written on paper, with a pen, and the paper had been put in an envelope and the flap of the envelope had been stuck down. My wife had always been very thorough. Well, not always. Our sex life had not been great.

She wanted half the onion business. I had forgotten all about the onion business because I had been having lots of sex, some of it unusual. Some of it was, I think, almost innovative. Just thinking about it now, after all these years, makes me warm.

I went to see a lawyer, and he said not to worry. Then he asked me for a lot of money, and for one of my girlfriends. I said I would let him have my horse, and visiting rights to my children. This seemed to do the trick, and he negotiated a very pleasing arrangement with everyone concerned, which made everybody happy in a desultory kind of a way. My wife even telephoned to thank me for my munificence, and I said that was okay, although I wasn’t sure what munificence was.

Then I retired from the onion business. It had turned rubbish anyway. I preferred sex with women. I preferred it when they didn’t mention that I smelled of onions. It didn’t stop them doing things, but I preferred them not to mention the smell. But it was when one of them mentioned the taste, that was when I decided to retire from the onion business. I made my mind up in a flash.



June 6


Review by Sandra Tappenden

Collected Poems 1978-2003 by U.A Fanthorpe (Peterloo Poets, £15.00)

This is the second review I have written of this book. I lost half of the first one. Which, I think now, may have been a blessing, as I feel I was too supportive of the poet and not fussy enough about the poetry. We shall see. A week has passed since I finished that ill-fated first version, so here I go again.

Question: when a poem makes you laugh, does it hide the fact that it isn’t very good?
There are quite a few laughs in the collection, which spans eight volumes of poetry. The laughs are clever, appealing to a certain smugness at getting the references, which could be a problem. Here are some things which made me laugh, any road.

I am the two-headed anniversary god,
Lord of the Lupercal and the Letts diary.

(from ‘Janus’)

Even though I only guessed what the Lord of the Lupercal was/is (it’s ok; I’ve looked it up now, thank you) I appreciated the joke, and enjoyed the unlikely yoking (or zeugma, according to my Dictionary of Literary Terms). The poem goes on to do what many Fanthorpe poems do; it takes an idea between it’s teeth and worries it into submission. I admire the poet’s thoroughness. Is it a good poem? Well, it’s not at all bad; the humour is consistently tongue-in-cheek and, like many of the poems, it maintains a cheery tension between smart and undemanding.

In ‘Deus v. Adam and Another’ the joke is in the assumed courtroom-drama tone:

The document in this case refers to fruit.
The accused are vague: she says it was a lemon;
He thinks on the whole a raspberry.

There’s no mystery here, however. No surprises. Many of these poems rely on the chuckle-factor, and pleasure in the skilful writing. As a favourite, I can’t choose between the above poem and ‘What, in our house?’ which has several jokes in its rewriting of Macbeth, and laughs at itself too:

Macduff                                          Your royal father's murdered.
Malcolm                                          O, by whom?
Lady Macbeth         Such donnish syntax at so grave a moment!

Jokes aside, I get a sense of Fanthorpe’s world, and concerns. There is something solid or centred about her writing; no-nonsense, practical, compassionate without preaching. Her hospital poems, rather than give way to outrage or indignation, (which would be interesting, but inauthentic for this poet), examine the difficulty of administering systematised care, without recourse to blame, or histrionics. ‘From the Remand Centre’ gives an idea of Fanthorpeland. It’s restrained in form and length, which mirrors the subject matter. Here’s the whole poem:

Eleven stone and nineteen years of want
Flex inside Koreen. Voices speak to her
In dreams of love. She needs it like a fag,
Ever since Mum, who didn’t think her daft,
Died suddenly in front of her. She holds
Her warder lovingly with powerful palms,
Slings head upon her shoulders, cries Get lost,
Meaning I love you, and her blows caress.

In ‘Casehistory: Alison (head injury)’ a young woman is looking at a photograph of herself:

Poor clever girl! I know
For all my damaged brain, something she doesn’t:
I am her future.

and the idea of lost or stolen potential is there, ( a recurring theme, I suppose), but not in a brutal or bullish way.

Some may be troubled by Fanthorpe’s ventriloquism. I’m not. If I felt the poems were based on an irresponsible/ careless viewpoint, I might be. What I feel about this issue, if it is one, is that the reader is free to see for themselves. And a poem is not a person. It all depends on your experience, identification, beliefs.

The poems are remarkable often, because of their lack of sentimentality. 1Emotional targetting is generally the opposite of good poetry, I find. It certainly isn’t the same thing. There is a tendency to replace it with irony, mind you, but not all the time, thankfully. The poet propels you inside a problematic ethical consideration, and has the grace to leave it, er, hanging. I don’t feel pressured or shoved in any particular ‘right-minded’ direction. I can see how these poems may be deemed dishonest, via their appropriation of other voices, but you’d have to argue hard to convince me of that. It’s a possibility based on sensibility, not fact.

Stylistically, the poems often introduce themselves by way of ‘postcard’ language; brief, telegraphed sentences which, hmm, set the scene:

Clearly Eden. (the opening sentence of ‘Circus Tricks’)
Foreign ground. (the opening sentence of ‘Rite’)
Plane moves. (the opening sentence of ‘First Flight’).

You get the picture. This sort of thing happens a lot, and can become irritating in its predictability. (See below, re. longer poems). It has the effect of deadening the desire to read more than a handful of poems in one go. But then this is a huge Collected, with 468 pages, and who said anyone had to read more than a handful of poems in one go. It would be nice to not want to read more than a handful etc. because they needed to be taken in and reflected upon, because they amazed in some way, rather than not wanting to read more than etc. because I got a bit tired of the samey-ness. Still, if I hadn’t agreed to review the book, I would have taken my time. At least I do know (a) I want to read all the poems at some point, and based on the work I’d read previously by Fanthorpe (b) I’d have bought this book. At some point.

Poems I have enjoyed the most manage to hold humour, careful attention to the sound of the words, (robust, playful), and a certain tenderness in the balance. Take this from
‘Going Under’:

I turn over pages, you say,
Louder than any woman in Europe…

The dreams waiting for me twitter and bleat.
All the things I ever did wrong
Queue by the bed in order of precedence,
Worst last.

“Twitter and bleat”, and “worst last”, are very Fanthorpe, and I love the crunchiness of these juxtapositions. There’s another delightful poem, ‘Song’, which starts “Don’t eavesdrop on my heart / It’s a sneak.” I would have liked more love poems, in fact.

My surprise discovery has been that Fanthorpe often appears to lack the courage of her (structural) convictions. She has a smackable penchant for overkill, where last lines turn not just into closure, but the whole poem again, in case we didn’t get it. In ‘The Constant Tin Soldier’, the last lines are “I may be only a tin soldier/ but I have been constant.” Well, yes. And in ‘Knowing About Sonnets’, headed by a quote from Terry Eagleton, the reader is hammered, in the last line, by a point already quite expertly expressed. ‘Transitional Object’ is another last-line flop, but now, re-reading it, I think the whole thing not very good, being Very Emotive when I just said she didn’t do that kind of thing:

Sits, holding nurse’s hard reassuring hands
In her own two small ones.

Is terrified. Mews in her supersonic
Panic voice: Help. Help. Please.

and so forth, until

Whispers, Help. Help. Please. Cries for Mummy,
Philip. She is 83,

Resisting childhood as it closes in.

Still, I can’t think of this as the poet’s last minute U- turn appeal to the masses. Or I don’t want to. Oh, and lists. There are far too many lists. Are they padding? Discuss. (Please buy and read the book first.)

The longer poem doesn’t appear to be Fanthorpe`s natural home. I’m not sure what I mean by that exactly, except they bore me a bit, because her style is truncated and choppy rather than expansive. So the longer poems can seem too mannered or contrived or something. What works best is the understatement and thoughtful restraint in much of the (shorter) poetry, marked by drollness, dry wit, and a noticeable lack of angst.(Luckily, much of the selection is “shorter poetry”. I suspect even U.A. herself feels more comfortable with one page of A4). And the apparent fact that Fanthorpe is not faking anything. There’s no pose or side to her writing, which is refreshing enough almost to be deemed quaint. That’s not to say there’s no subtlety or integrity of thought behind the words. These things are just not foregrounded, is all, and hooray.

I read some of these poems with my daughter, whilst she was studying for her English GCSE. I liked sharing them with her. The fact that my daughter remembers them, and fondly. A way in should not be despised. Ok, there’s the possibility that a certain laziness develops with poetry like this. It becomes too easily the bench-mark for what a poem should be. Well, I’m a meat-eater who likes vegetarian food. Does this mean I can’t appreciate the calling? I’m not going to say “don’t read this book because it embodies what is wrong with contemporary poetry by way of its graspableness”, because in the main it does what one can only hope has a valid point; it invites you in. (I think of it as a big hotel, where you can drink at the bar, or book a room, or get a job…)

A more sophisticated poetry-taster would very probably hate this book. I don’t at all; quite the opposite. I will return here, for laughs, for pleasure at a certain knowingness, for compassion, and to remind myself that poetry is many things, not least belief in human possibility, even if sometimes it’s wrapped in cling-film for my convenience. Fanthorpe believes in human possibility. The loss of it is something she is keen to repair in some small way, by showing just that, through mimesis. She may point out “the system” and its crassest failings of care, but always nudges one, albeit very politely and practically, forward into acceptance, via what feels like non-judgemental awareness. (Not all of her poems are assumed voices, I hasten to add.) Anyway, I think that’s what I mean by her centredness. Take it or leave it. (Have a beer and leave, or apply for a job in the kitchens.) Your choice.

So. If you were stuck overnight at an airport, (waiting for your Easyjet flight, no doubt,) with your packed lunch a mere memory, you probably wouldn’t refuse a cheese sandwich. In the departure lounge of all possible poetry, U.A. Fanthorpe’s “Collected Poems” could be that sandwich. It may not be the most adventurous comestible you’d ever eaten, but you’d be grateful.

© Sandra Tappenden, 2005



June 9


My father died today, which doesn't directly relate to this website, except I don't feel at all like doing anything. So I'm taking a few days out.

Normal service will, as they say, resume as soon as possible.

Update 15th June: Okay. There is stuff to do. Family stuff. Crap stuff. Posts will resume here on Wednesday 22nd June. Thank you for your patience, and thank you to all those who have sent their kind thoughts and condolences. Thank you. It means a lot.



June 22


Alice had been poorly, she was barely over it, and was thus feeling a little below the level of her usual calm happiness. So I gave her a snippet from a poem I had come across recently:

Your face is as white as linen on a board.
I pray that the skies will soak up your electricity,
the birds founder and come to heel,
the drive-by stabbings evaporate into friendly if noncommittal steam,

and tragedy draw his petticoat across your face
because it doesn’t happen enough.

I was delighted to see her face regain its colour and light up as if it had been lit up by something, something like a passing carriage lit on the inside with lanterns, and from the outside by moonlight. She smiled. “Drive-by stabbings”! she laughed. “That’s legend!” Alice uses phrases like “That’s legend!” So do her young friends.

Later, when I returned from my labours and put some flowers in a vase (or vase, as Americans say) she said she had been looking at that smidgeon of poetry over and over again. “I don’t know what it means,” she said, “but I can’t stop reading it, because it seems to be about me, and about you and me, and more than me, and more than me and you. Which I like. It makes me feel part of something great, and it’s okay to not know what it means.” (Perhaps it means exactly that.) “I mean, I know what it means, but I can’t say. I’ll make a cup of tea, I think.”

While she was saying this I had started cutting up some lovely root vegetables for the evening meal. Potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and rutabagas in a landscape etcetera. But I had a surprise for her. “Here’s another chunk to chew on,” I said. Inside me, bits of my existence were dancing with glee.

On the scrap of paper I gave her was this:

One might as well pick up the pieces.
What else are they for? And interrupt someone’s organ recital –
we are interruptions, aren’t we? I mean in the highest sense
of a target, welcoming all the dust and noise
as though we were the city’s apron.

Alice was very quiet and didn’t speak to me for ages. It must have been twenty minutes at least, because I had been out to get some eggs, and come back. I had forgotten I needed eggs if the meal was going to be edible.

“We are interruptions, aren’t we?” she eventually said, with a hint of a smile and also a hint of a new-found expression on her face. But I was in the middle of watching football highlights on TV while supper simmered on the stove, and didn’t wish to be interrupted. So she said it again, with a kick, and I was forced to acknowledge that Yes, you could certainly look at it that way.

“Who wrote these things?” she asked. “It sure as hell wasn’t you. You’re good, but not that good.” I kissed her, but I didn’t use my lips. You meant more than life to me. I lived through you not knowing, not knowing I was living.

Anyway, Alice (I think her name was Alice. It may have been Bethany, or perhaps Gertrude. But a brunette, for sure; Operators are waiting to take your call…) from that moment on, she was sold on this writer of those sprinklings, that poet of those brief beams of barn-light into the la-la of day times and night times. She twisted my arm until I told her who had written those chimes of freedom. She needn’t have twisted my arm, for godsake, and all that hurt, because I was going to tell her anyway. I was going to wrap the book from whence they had come up in pretty paper and tie it with a ribbon and give it to her instead of a bunch of grapes. Which I did, henceforth.

Over to Conchita, for she has the book now, and wants the review fee, such as it is, so she can buy some new clothes:

Hi. Conchita here. I am wrapped in linen, and stroking a cat. I am also holding a book in my little hands. It is called “Where Shall I Wander” and it’s by John Ashbery. My paramour Miguel gave it to me. He is such a sweetie. There are things I wish to tell you about this book of poems, apart from the fact that it has blown my fucking mind.

This is where my degree in English kicks in. Poems are weird things, and often they are boring. (If I sound like someone else while I say this stuff, so be it: we all, sometimes, sound like someone else. It’s all an art, and pretence or lack of it gets us through the difficult times. If someone rubs off on you, perhaps it’s because they like you. Or you them. Or something.)

I don’t like poems that tell me how to live. Nor do I like poems that tell me little bits of information I already know, or could get from a newspaper or off the TV. I’m not sure if, in theory, I should like poems that wake me up and alert me to what it’s like to be alive, and getting by. I’m not sure I should like poems like that, because I kind of feel I shouldn’t need that waking up. But I do. Maybe we all do.

But Miguel gave me this book. It made a change from underwear, that’s for sure. Perhaps he was going for the element of surprise.

(Please, do not try and explain what everything fucking means. Who cares what everything means? That’s half our problem, wanting meaning. How do you explain life, experience, that which moves your soul and your bones? Is it beyond words?)

Or, isn’t that Art? “If one could paraphrase the meaning of something it wouldn’t be art, would it?”

Anyway, I’ve slept on this book, and thought about it long and hard. Then I thought I didn’t want to think about it, as such, I more exactly wanted to be in it in the same way it’s in me. I kind of know that the guy who wrote it is pretty old, like 78 or something, and if you wanted to you could read lots of things into these poems because he’s old, like 78 or something. And I think you could do that if you wanted and it would be okay, although I think also you’d know while you were doing it there’s way more than that going on in here, way more than just an old guy being wistful and old, with intimations of mortality in the same lines as pure vitality. I hope when I get that old, if I get that old, I have the kind of wits about me this guy has. If we were all tapped into life the way this fella is, Jesus, that’d be something. Thing is, when you give yourself to these poems, they are so full of a brilliant world, so bursting with that notion, do you know what I mean? that notion how life is so rich, so bountiful, but yet so sad because it's finite, but you can’t be sad, even though you are, and it’s like, it’s like the guy doesn’t say this, it’s what you think while you’re reading, but also you think, Wow! and in some ways you’re not thinking at all because you don’t know what’s going on but in other ways you’re thinking in a way you didn’t know you could, because it’s a beautiful (yes, I mean beautiful) exhilarating – I mean, like, it’s not some clever shit poetry that makes you feel you have to work it out.

They said you’d be here sooner. It’s still early, but I can wait
no longer. It’s bed and the movies for me.
Tomorrow, exceptionally, there may be a flawed native pearl for breakfast,
and in October, lots of weather, much of it cruder.

Doesn’t that just make you know how life is full of ordinary and absolutely stupendous all at the same time? Which I guess I already knew, but I tend to forget, but even that isn’t it, not it, not really. Because actually what’s great about it is that you’re reading it, and engaging with it, so you’re alive and kicking, and it’s not some stodgy text, it’s actually buzzing with fucking life, excuse my Spanish. And isn’t it just great to actually, physically, simply read? Hold on, Miguel is saying something from the kitchen…

Oh, right. We need to get a new stove, I think…

All in all this has been a fairly active and satisfying year, and I’m looking forward to the next one. Where it will take me I do not know. I just hang on and try to enjoy the ride. Snow brings winter memories. There is a warning somewhere in this but I don’t know if it will be transmitted.


John Ashbery’s “Where Shall I Wander” is published by Carcanet, and costs £7.95. Everything above that is coloured blue was written or said by Mr. Ashbery. Anything in any other colour was not. As far as we know.



June 27


I admit it. I'm not above being low. A friend who runs a poetry press recently received an e-mail from someone who would very much like to have their poems published. Probably lots of other poetry publishers have received the same e-mail and the same poems but the better presses are, I'm sure, unlikely to publish them. As for the less than better ones, I cannot say. But I enjoyed the mail and the poems so much I want to share them with people. Sharing is good. What I'm not doing is telling you the sender's name, or including all six poems. I'm not above being low, but I'm not cruel. Here goes. Hold on to your hats.


Dear Sir,

I have written a book of poetry. It consists of 95 poems. The title of the work is “TSUNAMI – POETRY OF A TOURIST ABOUT NATURE AND PEOPLE”. I would like to publish it through your prestigious organization. I am providing the synopsis and a sample of six poems for your consideration. I look forward to working with you for the publication of my work.

Synopsis: This book of poetry consists of 95 poems exploring various aspects of lives of different people living in different conditions. Some of the poems cover the recent Tsunami that struck many Asian countries recently. The work also covers various contemporary issues such as, nature, environmental pollution, terrorism, women, child labor, poverty, beauty, population, present world, love, Rich and Poor, freedom, government, earth, sea, wealth and various aspects of the nature.

About the author: he is an assistant professor in India. He also wrote a novel, “DREAMS OF LIFE: A NOVEL” this is to be published.

TARGET AUDIENCE: this work is written to attract all kinds of audience.

Sample poems:


Looking from the top,
Our civilization looks like a Disneyland!
Everything on Earth, looking like toys,
Cities looking like arrangements of matchboxes,
And villages like beautiful gardens!

Suddenly the Earth trembled,
Expressing the entire wrath it has accumulated,
Unable to bear the growing sins of the people,
Unable to tolerate the gigantic burden it has to bear,
And unable to tolerate the exploitation of its resources,
The Earth expressed its fury!
All the buildings fell into ruins,
People trapped in the rubble,
Many suffered from broken bones, deep cuts and bruises,
And within minutes, many perished in sleep!

The giant tremor struck underneath the sea floor,
It opened wide agape,
And drew huge mass of water into it,
Everywhere shoreline retreated miraculously,
And it caused great admiration for all!
Many went in, to collect the shells and fish,
But soon the sea floor adjusted itself,
And water surged forward with great force!
They traveled in all directions,
Huge waves marched forward,
And they caused a great catastrophe!


As if to reach the sky,
The waves started rising high
Everybody bathing in the sea ran out for safety,
And people’s lives fell in jeopardy!
Marching at few hundred miles per hour,
Tides chased us away!
Hitting hard with a mighty force,
They threw all of us to a distance,
And to the impact of the mighty force,
Many hearts have stopped perhaps!
Devastating everything on its course,
It encroached deeply into the villages and towns,
And played havoc with people’s lives!

The boats of the fisherfolks shattered into pieces,
And their huts and nets washed away into the fields!
Fish dried in the open sand carried away in the flood,
And fish from the sea came on to the roads!
The waves have uprooted many trees,
And they are floating on the water!
With even big houses falling into ruins,
The waves proved to be extremely fierce!
Sweeping into the houses, they destroyed years of toils,
And people caught hold of whatever is available,
But the power of nature is invincible,
And most of the people lost their lives!
The power of tsunami is invincible,
And it posed a serious challenge to the people
It came as a surprise,
Made the people near the coast as hostages
And finally left many dead and abducted many into its deeps!


If anyone out there would like to read the other poems.....



June 30

3, 4, 5 AND 6

Every time I open my e-mails there is someone asking to see the other four poems I mentioned on Monday. OK. If I have a better judgement this is almost certainly against it.



As a tiny bud I was born,
And wishing to present my beauty to this world,
I rose up fast with a lot of eagerness!
My petals grew in size,
Spreading my fragrance around,
And I instill pleasantness everywhere!

Swinging in breeze and greeting the passersby,
I develop and become an attractive flower!
Imbuing bright colors of the creation,
I attract everybody to relish my nectar!
Capturing the due at night,
By morning, I make them sparkling diamonds!

When everybody praise me that I am beautiful,
I feel proud and blush with pride!
When someone pluck me and take me with them,
I get a chance to wander with them,
Witnessing the beauty of this creation,
I realize that it is more beautiful!

Soon I start losing my grace,
And understand that my lifetime is very limited!
Still, I give out the maximum fragrance
And try to refresh everybody around!
I tell everyone, my lifetime is short
And in this little span, I try to give the world some delight!


In the pleasant village,
I have seen a beautiful teenage rose.
Her charm is beyond description,
And how God created her is unknown,
So simple but with a lot of grace,
Eyes struck to her face!
Nothing is extraordinary in her,
But everybody becomes her admirer!

Her smile attract us first,
And her magnetism may trap us at last!
Beautiful white clouds are her dress,
And enchanting nature is her address!
Smiles as a fully blossomed rose,
And she arises in us pleasant feelings!
When angry, she is the Sun during midsummer,
And her looks arise in us a lot of fear!

When pleasant she is a full moon,
And for an enjoyable play invites everyone!
Laughs like a cascade,
And lets cheerfulness to pervade,
Walks bringing a cool breeze,
And her presence revitalizes the environs!
Runs like a river,
And she reveals all the charm in her!

Sings like a bird,
And her voice reverberates in mind!
She has beautiful long hairs,
And they dance freely in the air!
Wearing a beautiful garland,
Looks like a carefree bird,
And looking so sweat
She touches the heart!


When I am eating tasty food,
I remember the faces of millions of starving people!
When I find water wasted here and there,
I visualize women carrying drinking water from distant places!
When I find the rich squandering their money,
I think of the poor old people begging on the streets!
When I see people wearing costly dress each day,
I imagine the rags and bare bodies of the poor!
When I observe their costly shoes,
I remember the hardened bare feet of the villagers!
When I see high-rise apartments,
Those living under the shade of trees come into my mind!

We cannot help all of those in dire poverty and need,
But we can brighten as many lives as possible!
We can share our wealth with at least a few of them,
And find the spark of happiness and gratitude in their eyes,
It is far more satisfying than winning millions of dollars!

Each grain of food can sustain a life,
Each drop of water can quench the thirst of someone,
Even small amount of money can help someone in need,
Even a little charity can bring smiles in the poor faces,
And those are blessed who serve as many needy as possible!

Let us get rid of the idea of ‘Self’,
And we may win over all the petty interests!
Let us broaden our mind to share our life with others,
And they may admire us!
Let us treat all the people as our own brothers and sisters,
And they may adore us!
Let us treat all the creatures as our own images,
And we may become equal to the God!


Close your eyes and look into the future!
Is it bright like a fully blossomed rose?
Is it happy and resplendent as a carefree deer?
Is it vibrant like a peacock spreading its feathers?

Or is it dark as a crematorium?
Is it lifeless as a dead planet?
Is it hopeless as a withered plant?
Is it barren as a lifeless desert?

Or do you find the glaciers melting?
Then a deluge may engulf the Earth!
Do you find all our civilization raged to the ground?
Then, layers of soil may cover it!

Or do you envision a new creation?
It may once again rise form the oceans!
Then the Earth may once again be vibrant,
And it may be joyful with a new breed of living beings!

Everything is in our hands!
And we can make the future bright or dark!
We can make it colorful or make it lifeless!
What we do today decides our tomorrow!

Wake up dear friends! Wake up!
Let us save the Earth from the imminent threats!
And together let us ensure a happy future!
If today we neglect, tomorrow may not be there for us!

Before the nature asserts itself,
Let us wake up!
And before the lights go off,
Let us brighten our wisdom!


OK. That's it. There are no more. Not here, anyway. I suspect there may be hundreds where these came from, but you can have too much of a good thing. Apparently.