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booksonbletchleypark.co.uk
Books on Bletchley Park - Guide
Second World War Memories. Mike Smith - Debs of Bletchley Park. As a Tour Guide, writer and speaker I am often asked to recommend books on the Intelligence Services and the work undertaken at Bletchley Park, the secret war-time base of the Government Code and Cypher School. Out of the many publications, I hope the following reviews may help you to make your selection. BOOKS ON BLETCHLEY PARK - BOOK REVIEWS. You can now swipe. Using your mouse or your finger if you are using a touch device.
booksonblog.de
Books on Blog
Ab wann ist man (noch) ein Meister der Kampfkunst? Bodybuilding aus soziologischer Sicht. Die deutschen Spracheregeln interessant gemacht. Die Schatten lassen nicht lange auf sich warten. Keine Anthroposophie bei Erich Fromm. Kritisch betrachtet eine gute Sache. Nahkampf oder Selbstverteidigung - wo liegt der Unterschied? Offene Gesprächsrunde mit dem Autor des Buches. Selbstverteidigung über Bücher lernen? Spezifische Gymnastik für Kampfsportler. Was hat Konrad Lorenz an der Uni zu suchen?
booksonblog12.blogspot.com
The Gravedigger's Son Donal Mahoney
Brother Al, in his hood,. Is out in his field. Making love to his bees. From my room I can see him. Move through his hives. The way people should move. The bees give him gold and the gold. Turns orange in the jars. That he sells in a room. Near the door of the abbey. The Honey Room, everyone calls it. Besides Brother Al, only I. Go into that room full of honey. I go in there and bend. And look through the jars. On the shelves and the sills. Till there in the orange I see Sue. In a field of her own. In ma...
booksonblog13.blogspot.com
SOUTH AFRICA TODAY: FROM PROTEST TO PROTEST Joseph Masetle
Freedom Where is Freedom. Freedom where is freedom. Women rowed in hues. Turning and twisting backs. To barren derelict veld. Humming their pain away. To get food for tomorrow. Ploughing beans and maize. 8220;wake up and do it for yourself programme”. Baba Dladla demands to know. He sits on the bank stool. In the seething sun. From ice tine house. Dirty attire and muddy slippers. His head has not seen the comb. Nor his beard shaved. And ballooned belly kids. Skipping old panty house. Our Votes Our Rights.
booksonblog15.blogspot.com
The Docks Sing In Strange TonguesPanos Panagiotopoulos
I don't wish to have my name printed. On paper that ages and withers at a rhythm and pace. Slower than my own. Not known or whispered from mouth to mouth in fame. Not even slightly recognized by a photo, a companion to. Words that have a grasp on truth. Firmer than my own. I want to be the phrase, the anecdotal quote. He reads on the door of a toilet booth,. In the back restroom of a highway bar,. Somewhere, on the way to somewhere else. And as he walks out, relieved, and speaks,. By a name of my own.
booksonblog18.blogspot.com
The Muffled Sounds Subhankar Das
I do not remember it anymore. I do not remember the date anymore. But still April is the cruelest month. And on someday in April. My friend Subhash died of a heart attack. Without treatment suffering at a free hospital. For eight long hours. The twelfth man who has no rights or claims. Who comes and vanishes. Falls on the way to be replaced immediately. Some-fucking-day I will drop dead here and nobody. Will know, Subhash paused, his right hand up in mid air. And his fingers playing on an invisible piano.
booksonblog25.blogspot.com
Manga girls need love!Kyle Hemmings
Haruna, a Girl with the Face of a Forgetful Gem. When she's all sweet talk and ginger hands, the world turns soft and blind. In the night, her demons stand above your bed, swallowing swords, boasting of perfect night vision. Before the rain, your last words were.Do we have a future? Who would be the boss? Should we really turn real? Why or why not? Chichako: Metal dog scorn/Lethargic Juniper/Those walleye moons/Sunday's hysterical blasphemies/Your mother in a pepper shaker/Texas is not a proper egg/ pape...
booksonblog26.blogspot.com
In the year of everything dying john grochalski
In the year of everything dying. The cat is mad. Because i won’t let her lay on me. She paces back and forth. Wailing and wailing, waiting for her comeuppance. The wife is mad. Because i yell about poetry. Threaten booze soaked suicide. And ruin the few hours that we get together. On these hurried weekends. The mailman is still mad. About not getting a christmas tip last year. So the bills and magazines arrive wrinkled. The cockroaches are mad. Because the floor is mopped. Of food and old wine. The child...
