Winning Writers description:
>Highly recommended free contest gives prizes of $3,000 in New Writer and New Illustrator categories for published picture books that portray the universal qualities of childhood, a strong and supportive family, and the multicultural nature of our world. Books must have been first published in North America and in the English language. Authors may be of any nationality. Winners must attend ceremony at the University of Southern Mississippi to receive award. No self-published titles. Only original stories qualify for the New Writer award; no folktales or retellings. Publisher must send 11 copies of book for consideration to the various addresses specified on sponsor's website.
From the contest website:
>The EJK Award is given to a new writer [and a new illustrator] for a picture book written in the tradition of EJK that:
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>● Highlights the universal qualities of childhood and the strength of the family.
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>● Reflects the multicultural nature of our world.
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>● Has an original text and original story (no folktales or retelling of folktales).
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>● Unifies illustrations and text.
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>● Avoids stereotypes.
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>● Is respectful of the child’s intelligence, sensitivity, curiosity, and love of learning.
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>● Displays freshness and originality of language and literary expression.
Contest details
- Sponsor: Ezra Jack Keats Foundation
- Category: Children's picture book (with prizes in both writing and illustration)
- Submission length: No limit (hard copies only!)
- Entry fee: No fee
- Awards: $3,000
This is a picture I heard about on NPR today as they were speaking about the 50th anniversary of Ezra Jack Keats' book "The Snowy Day." Thought it may give some of you guys a little inspiration. The picture depicts a small African American boy receiving a vaccination shot in Georgia. The first slide is of a happy child, then as he receives the vaccination his arm is drawn close and portrays a look that says "Why did you hurt me." As it relates to our lives dealing with the symptoms of Bipolar Disorder we are faced with these scenarios that at the time seem to cause great pain and effect us deeply, but maybe with deeper understanding along with insight and reflection we can see that these times, "these shots" we are being immunized to future pain and hardship. Maybe the situations that we are facing are not as huge as we think or feel they are, and there is a method and a force for good valid in an instance of pain. For your consideration.
The text is translated from Russian, if you notice a mistake or something is unclear, please write to me *
Admit it, who reads mini-dialogs when meeting companions? In the meantime, they hide interesting stories and references.
So, for example, when choosing "Shadows of London," Vincent says, "Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies." If you choose John Keats' answer for 15 stamina, he answers, "I'm surprised you know who wrote 'Ode to a Nightingale.'
It's an incredible Ode, be sure to read it in its entirety. On the pic I will show you the very passage that is mentioned in the game.
https://preview.redd.it/axdvo6l46fc81.jpg?width=769&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=52d9c40d9ce7d3a53b9dce7733230ac46cb31e47
https://preview.redd.it/kyk8nq6b6fc81.jpg?width=971&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=8b29db831e68515075b293cdaf2ff61fe187773e
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm south,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim—
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the view less wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards.
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous gloom's and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Dark-ling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears
... keep reading on reddit ➡
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
https://soundgasm.net/u/Stuball27/John-Keats-Ode-on-a-Grecian-Urn
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-on-a-grecian-urn/
Can't seem to figure out why my recordings are tilted slightly to your right ears no matter what I do. I hope lefty doesn't feel too left out.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
Ode to faith
Kneel at the gleaming stoop of faiths pyre,
Hands clasped in reaching, yearning grace
Eyes lifted, piercing through muck and mire
For thou holy, glorious face
Where man can love, can live, can learn
Where sorrow’s yoke is lightened quite
Where mourning’s grip loosens its noose
Yet those who don’t agree will burn
And she may try with all her might
To hide that she has seen through the ruse
Not an owl of wisdom will seek the truth
He sits on his post in indescribable peace
Nor the dawns morning dew dry from its youth
Any sooner than its calmness needs
But is the owl's peace a mindless state? Separated from pain he’ll never know?
The morning's dew sits patiently, but will dry when the sun awakes.
Does the owl know that everything ends? Beauty and joy are so quickly lost.
The fear of eternal burning in that fiery place below
A man in perpetual torment makes
But still with hope that prodigal son draws near, and to faith he accosts
And when that weary, gasping breath is close
Our living hand clings to something kind
A friend will offer a card or a rose,
But we’ll yearn for something to ease the mind
So I will sit at this gleaming stoop of hope
Of things written and things undone
But my hands are soft and un-wanting, still
For mournings noose has loosened its rope
And if that shining kingdom comes
Like the owl, I’ll sit peacefully still
