Friday, November 15, 2019


Sarah Fecteau is a Quebec artist born in Thetford Mines on August 24th 1983.

As a young girl, Fecteau develops a passion for drawing and a dedication to detail that would characterize her work up to the present.  She discovers the work of hyperrealist American artist Steve Hanks and starts painting with acrylics in a style that, while reminiscent of her spiritual mentor, show all of her feminine and Latin side as well.

At the age of nineteen, Sarah Fecteau decides that art will be her life calling and becomes a professional artist.  At that moment begins a steady and undeniable rise to success in her adopted region of Monteregie where Sarah Fecteau becomes one of the favourites at art festivals and symposiums.  Her hyperrealist style of painting reaches new art lovers every time she participates in one of those events.

By the end of the 2000 decade, Sarah Fecteau begins her cross-Canada career by having her work on display at many a Canadian major gallery.

In 2009, she is chosen to be a part of a Quebec delegation at a major art event at the Caroussel du Louvres in Paris where her work garners the attention of European art lovers.

Still in her early thirties, Sarah Fecteau is well representative of the new generation of artists and her growing success seem to promise a long and fruitful career for this sensitive artist all over the world.

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Children of India

Rasa and Expressions

Thursday, November 14, 2019

NEVER KNEW - by Leticia Hogeda


by Leticia  Hogeda 

I never knew how much I loved you 
until the day you went away
And no matter how much I wanted to or tried, 
I just couldn't get out what I wanted to say.

I never knew how much I missed you
until the day you didn't answer your phone.
And even though I knew I wasn't...
I felt so alone.

I never knew how much I wanted to hug you
until the day you hugged me.
And it seened like that hug
could last for an eternity.

I never knew how much I longed to hear your voice
until I heard it that one night. 
And it made me feel like somehow
everything was going to be alright.

I never knew how much I loved you,
but now, I really do.
I love you so much.
And I love only you.

PROUDLY A TAILOR - by Frank Adie


by Frank Adie

I cut out pieces from a whole
And put them together to make a more valid whole
My duty is to cover the nakedness of men
And I do that every now and then
I am a professional; I am a tailor
Oftentimes I combine more than a single colour
Creativity is essential to my profession
It is really what drives the world of fashion
With my craft, I make people appear very astonishing
And such feeling is very accomplishing
Sometimes I have to come out with a draft
All in bid to perfect my craft.
I design the costumes of clowns
And make the best of wedding gowns
I am an indispensable artisan
A skilled craftsman, and not a charlatan
I am a proud producer of a basic need
For everyone irrespective of colour and creed
Most times people tend to look down on me
A common tailor is how they address me
Forgetting that a professional is neither only a lawyer nor a doctor
I am a professional craftsman; I am proudly a TAILOR.

IF I COULD SHOW YOU.... - by jr jr


by jr  jr

If I could show you
How beautiful you look
I'd show you Acres of Roses
Daises and Tulips with Diamonds
in between.
If I could show you
How beautiful you look
I'd show you a universe with moons
and millions of stars, do you know what I mean?
I'd show you a million doves
in clear eyes view 
They'd spell out three words
"I miss you"
Your beauty surpasses 
many views.
Even many a sight
Though beautiful 
you are to me.

To the beautiful woman 
I found in you...

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

YOU'RE MY NUMBER ONE ! - by Rose Bloom


by Rose  Bloom

I choose you...
In the whole wide world,
from the stars, from the sun, from the earth,
You are my guiding light.
From every being, you are the one i love.
You are my destiny.
My hopes and dreams are all in you.
My heart found its way to you,
And forever i will stay with you,
Giving you my all, my love, my world.
I love you like no one ever will,
You're the reason that makes life worth.
You and i will forever be...
You and i will never part,
I promise you i'll always be the place that you call home.
I'll leave you no regrets, i'll cherish you my dear.
Thank you for loving me like you do.




They Offer Complete Protein

One egg has 6 grams of the stuff, with all nine “essential” amino acids, the building blocks of protein. That’s important because those are the ones your body can’t make by itself. The egg white holds about half that protein and only a small portion of the fat and cholesterol. 

They're Nutrient Dense

That means eggs have more nutrients - vitamins, minerals, amino acids - per calorie than most other foods. Have an egg and you'll get:

    High-quality protein
    Vitamin B12
    Multiple antioxidants, which help keep your cells healthy 

They Help Your 'Good' Cholesterol

This “good” cholesterol, called HDL, seems to go up in people who have three or more eggs a day. Of course, LDL, the “bad” type, goes up, too. But the individual pieces of each get bigger. That makes it harder for the bad stuff to hurt you and easier for the good stuff to clear it away.

They Can Lower Your Triglycerides

Your doctor tests you for these along with HDL and LDL. Lower triglycerides are better for your health. Eating eggs, especially those enriched with certain fatty acids (like omega-3s), seems to bring down your levels.

They Can Lower Your Odds of a Stroke

Though studies vary, it appears that a daily egg might lower your risk. In a recent Chinese study, people who had about one a day were almost 30% less likely to die from hemorrhagic stroke than those who had none.   

They Help With Portion Control

At about 70 calories per egg, you know exactly what you are getting. And they travel easy, too. Hard boil a couple and stick ‘em in your cooler.  Add a salad or a couple of slices of bread and you’ve got a quick, healthy lunch.

They're Affordable

At 20 cents a serving, you can’t beat it for a high-quality protein that won’t break the bank. Add a slice of whole-grain toast, some avocado, and a little hot sauce, and you have a meal fit for a king at a pauper’s price. And you don’t have to worry about sugar or carbs because eggs don’t have either. 

They’re Heart Healthy

Surprised? It’s true. Overall, people who eat more of them don’t seem to raise their chances of heart disease. Even people with prediabetes or type 2 diabetes were just as heart healthy after a high-egg diet designed for weight loss. In a recent Chinese study, people who ate about an egg a day were almost 20% less  likely than non-egg eaters to develop heart disease.

They Satisfy

Have them for breakfast and you’ll feel full longer. That'll make you more likely to eat less throughout the day. For example, on average, teens who eat an egg in the morning have 130 fewer calories at lunch.

They Help Your Eyes

Doctors know that the antioxidants lutein and zeaxanthin help keep you from getting eye diseases like cataracts and age-related macular degeneration. Green, leafy vegetables like spinach and kale have them, too. But eggs are a better source. That's because the fat they have makes it easier for your body to use the nutrients. 

They Help Sharpen the Brain

Eggs have vitamin D, which is good for your gray matter and hard to get from food. And they have something called choline that helps the nerve cells (neurons) in your noggin talk to each other. Choline is also a very important for pregnant women and breastfeeding women because of the big role it plays in brain development.

POEMS - by Ernest Hemingway


The mills of the gods grind slowly;
But this mill
Chatters in mechanical staccato.
Ugly short infantry of the mind,
Advancing over difficult terrain,
Make this Corona
Their mitrailleuse.


The sea desires deep hulls -
It swells and rolls.
The screw churns a throb
Driving, throbbing, progressing.
The sea rolls with love
Surging, caressing,
Undulating its great loving belly.
The sea is big and old
Throbbing ships scorn it.


Workingmen believed
He busted trusts,
And put his picture in their windows.
“What he’d have done in France!”
They said.
Perhaps he would
He could have died
Though generals rarely die except in bed,
As he did finally.
And all the legends that he started in his life
Live on and prosper,
Unhampered now by his existence.


Some came in chains
Unrepentent but tired.
Too tired but to stumble.
Thinking and hating were finished
Thinking and fighting were finished
Retreating and hoping were finished.
Cures thus a long campaign,
Making death easy.


Soldiers never do die well;
Crosses mark the places
Wooden crosses where they fell,
Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch
All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
Choking through the whole attack.


Soldiers never do die well;
Crosses mark the places
Wooden crosses where they fell,
Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch
All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
Choking through the whole attack.


Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre whore
Warm and soft and sleepy whore,
Cozy, warm and lovely whore;
Damned cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, dirty hides
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died.


There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows
No successful suicides.
A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.
(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)
A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.
(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)
They find a model dead
alone in bed and very dead.
(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)
Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds
and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.
Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.


A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biassed twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy’s letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday’s Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.


For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils’ tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.

Ernest Hemingway 1899 – 1961



 1 pound ground lean (7% fat) beef 
1 large egg 
1/2 cup minced onion 
1/4 cup fine dried bread crumbs 
1 tablespoon Worcestershire 
1 or 2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced 
About 1/2 teaspoon salt
About 1/4 teaspoon pepper 
4 hamburger buns (4 in. wide), split 
About 1/4 cup mayonnaise 
About 1/4 cup ketchup 
4 iceberg lettuce leaves, rinsed and crisped 
1 firm-ripe tomato, cored and thinly sliced 
4 thin slices red onion 



In a bowl, mix ground beef, egg, onion, bread 
crumbs, Worcestershire, garlic, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 
and 1/4 teaspoon pepper until well blended. 
Divide mixture into four equal portions 
and shape each into a patty about 4 inches wide.


Lay burgers on an oiled barbecue grill over a solid bed
 of hot coals or high heat on a gas grill (you can hold
 your hand at grill level only 2 to 3 seconds); close lid 
on gas grill. Cook burgers, turning once, until
 browned on both sides and no longer pink inside 
(cut to test), 7 to 8 minutes total. Remove from grill.


Lay buns, cut side down, on grill and cook until lightly
 toasted, 30 seconds to 1 minute.


Spread mayonnaise and ketchup on bun bottoms. 
Add lettuce, tomato, burger, onion, and salt and 
pepper to taste. Set bun tops in place.

TAILOR - by Eleanor Farjeon


by Eleanor Farjeon

I saw a little tailor sitting stitch, stitch, stitching
Cross-legged on the floor of his kitch, kitch, kitchen.
His thumbs and his fingers were so nim, nim, nimble
With his wax and his scissors and his thim, thim, thimble.

His silk and his cotton he was thread, thread, threading
For a gown and a coat for a wed, wed, wedding,
His needle flew as swift as a swal, swal, swallow,
And his spools and his reels had to fol, fol, follow.

He hummed as he worked a merry dit, dit, ditty:
‘The bride is as plump as she's pret, pret, pretty,
I wouldn't have her taller or short, short, shorter,
She can laugh like the falling of wat, wat, water.

‘She can put a cherry-pie togeth, geth, gether,
She can dance as light as a feath, feath, feather,
She can sing as sweet as a fid, fid, fiddle,
And she's only twenty inches round the mid, mid, middle.’

The happy little tailor went on stitch, stitch, stitching
The black and the white in his kitch, kitch, kitchen.
He will wear the black one, she will wear the white one,
And the knot the parson ties will be a tight, tight, tight one.

Tuesday, November 12, 2019


Date of Birth 1978, Karachi Pakistan

“To me, my works are about the synthesis of my personal feelings. The paintings I make are a celebration of hopeful and cheerful aspects of human life.

By implementing a careful stroke and weaving the delicate interplay of light and shadow into the artistic vignettes, I believe, I try to seek the way to show what inspires me.” - S. A. Noory

S.A.Noory is a self-taught artist. Initially inspired and learnt by my grand father, who studied miniature paintings in India. He went to art schools but the style he paints, is entirely his which discounts the formal and traditional study of painting. Certainly, what he likes to paint is just a natural outflow of what he likes to see. It can be a Sufi “Saint” who is lost in love of Almighty,… It can be children and a Rajasthani females with Their unique dresses and ornaments etc. His works are miniature paintings.He plays with paints and brush to create accurate and finest details in miniatures.Noory captures the delicacy of line, rhythm of colour combinations with transparency, perfect use of light and shadow and smooth curves in shapes of still life to follow perfect facial expressions and the ambiance.

Monday, November 11, 2019

TRAPPED BY A COBRA - from ''Bengal Dacoits and Tigers'' - by Maharanee Sunity Devee

Not many years ago a young married lady was journeying alone.

It is not customary in India for young women, even if married, to go out by themselves. The purdah system unfits them for independence. Even when going for a short distance by palanquin or just for a carriage drive, a chaperon is necessary.

Yet occasions arise when it is imperative that they should journey, but no suitable escort can be found or spared for the purpose. They are then obliged to go with servants. It may seem strange that young ladies should be permitted to travel alone with servants. But readers who know India will not be surprised, for Indians treat their servants after the patriarchal system, especially those who have served the family for generations. Even hired attendants, like the driver in this story, are thoroughly trusted when known to the family.

The young lady was on her way to visit her father and mother. Indian parents-in-law cannot visit at the parental home of their daughter-in-law. Therefore bow-ma journeyed alone with her little son, a child of about five years of age.

The distance was not a long one, only from Calcutta to Durgapore, a village a few miles away from the city. So a hackney-carriage was hired with a driver who had often before been employed by her father-in-law, and everyone felt assured bow-ma would reach her destination safely.

Her mother-in-law saw her into the carriage. Her little boy was lifted up beside her, and, with many injunctions to drive carefully and with speed ringing in his ears, the driver whipped up his horses and they were off.

Bow-ma knew the road well. Often had she journeyed to and fro in the early years of her married life, and even after the birth of her little son her visits to her parents had been frequent.

The carriage was close and her heavy silken saree hot to wear, so she opened the venetians and lazily watched the familiar landmarks as they passed. She had started early so that the journey should be accomplished in day-light, and still they did not reach home. She noted the various trees and hedges and was puzzled. Surely, the road seemed different. The sun, a ball of golden fire, sank to rest in a bed of many-tinted clouds, and still they had not arrived. Bow-ma felt strangely anxious.

The carriage suddenly swerved. To her dismay she saw they had turned into a rough and untravelled road with paddy-fields on either side. The place seemed lonely. It was now rapidly growing dark, for in India after sun-set Night does not long delay her coming. A presentiment of evil clutched bow-ma’s heart. She whispered to her little boy to ask the driver where they were and when they should arrive. In India it is not permitted a woman to address any man save her husband, father, and brothers.

The child obeyed but the driver made no reply. “Ask again,” whispered the mother, “he has not heard you.”

The boy asked, “When shall we arrive?” again and again, but not a word answered the driver.

Bow-ma, now thoroughly alarmed, beat the shutters of the carriage and commanded her son to shout loudly. The boy screamed at the top of his voice, “Why don’t you reply? What road is this?”

The driver now answered disrespectfully: “You will soon know where you are going,” and laughed.

His rude gruff tone and evasive answer confirmed bow-ma’s worst fears. The awful word dacoits stood out in her mind in letters of fire. Horror and dread filled her soul. Drawing her child towards her, she hushed his eager questioning and waited in silent anguish for the coming danger.

The carriage bumped and rattled over the uneven road. Presently it stopped. It was now almost dark. The door was jerked open and a harsh voice commanded: “Get out of the carriage.” Bow-ma recognised the driver’s voice and, realising the futility of objecting, without a word she stepped down and helped her little son to alight.

“Follow me” was the next rough order. Again she silently obeyed. The man left the road and led her a little distance away under the shadow of some trees. “Take off your jewels. Give them to me.” A faint sigh of relief escaped her. Perhaps the jewels were all he wanted. Quickly she unclasped her handsome necklet and gave it him. He grasped it greedily with one hand and extended the other for more. One by one she stripped her wrists and arms of their lovely bracelets and bangles and handed them to him. “More” he growled. She pulled the rings from her fingers and added to them her ear and nose rings. “Your waist chain” he snapped. She unclasped and dropped its golden weight into those greedy hands. “Take off your anklets, I want all” he sneered. She knelt on the ground to unclasp them. Then, rising, handed them to him, wondering what more would follow.

Meanwhile the child wept bitterly, and angrily forbade the driver to take his mother’s jewels, calling him robber and thief. “Yes, dacoit I am,” the scoundrel replied to the boy’s revilings, “and if you will not be quiet, I will teach you how to.” Bow-ma gently strove to console and silence her son. “Fret not! Your father will give me more and better jewels.”

“Take off your saree” was the next outrageous command. The boy’s indignation flamed afresh. His mother took an unguarded step forward and asked: “Are not my jewels enough that you want the saree off my back?”

“Aye, your saree and all you have. Silence your child or I will kill him.” Terrible was the harsh voice in its determination. Bow-ma’s heart stood still. Entreaty would be of no avail. She unwound the richly-embroidered silken folds from about her and cast the gold and green saree at his feet: “Take it.”

“You have stripped my mother,” screamed the boy. The ruffian caught the saree with a fearful oath and turning on him said: “Now I can deal with you. I will fetch a brick from yonder kiln and pound the breath out of you,” With these words he strode forward, tying the jewels in the saree as he went. Now her sorely-tried nerves gave way, and, distracted with grief, bow-ma caught her child in her arms, and their mingled cries rent the air. But the thief did not return.

About midnight a village policeman going his rounds heard their cries. At first he paid no heed to them: jackals swarmed and disturbed the night. Again the anguished voices quivered in the air. There was something human in the sound. He stopped to listen. The cries rose again. He walked forward in their direction. Clearer, as he advanced, shrilled the distressed voices, and he recognised they were those of a woman and a child. He quickened his steps and hastened to the spot. The light from his lantern revealed bow-ma and her son, clinging to each other and weeping piteously.

“Who are you? What ails you?” he asked. The distraught mother, unconscious of the flight of time, thinking him the heartless dacoit returned to kill her boy, fell at his feet in an agony of supplication: “Spare my son. Take my life instead.”

“I am a chowkidar (watchman). What is up?” But so dulled were her ears with fear and grief that he was twice obliged to repeat his words. When the joyful intelligence reached her brain she burst into tears. “O! save my son.” Then the consciousness that the danger was past reminded her of her own plight, and she sobbed: “Give me something to wear.”

The policeman had noticed her semi-nude state. Dropping, his pugree at her feet he turned away. She shook out its many folds and draped it about her body. Then she related what had befallen her and pointed towards the direction the thief had taken.

The policeman walked cautiously forward, his lantern raised in one hand and his lathi tightly grasped in the other. A few yards ahead he came to an old brick kiln. Here, prone among the broken bricks, lay the robber in greater straits than his victims. A huge cobra was tightly coiled round his right arm, while on the left hung the saree and the jewels. The rays of the lantern disturbed the snake. With an angry hiss it uncoiled itself and disappeared. The dacoit, more dead than alive from simple fear of the snake’s fatal sting, yielded himself a prisoner, and it was subsequently discovered that the whole gang, of whom he was a member, were licensed hackney drivers.

Calcutta - 1916