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Note: a "clause" is a group of words that go together logically. Most clauses are named by the type of word that begins them.

The words "Because" and "for" are very closely related, if not synonyms. They can be interchanged quite frequently for effect. However, "because" and "for" are NOT the same type of word. "Because" is a Subordinating conjunction whereas "for" is a coordinating conjunction. There is a big difference, especially in punctuation. Technically speaking, when "because" begins a subordinating clause at the end of a sentence, there should be no comma before it.

The word "because" changes the meaning of the end clause, making it "lower" than the main clause(hence the word "subordinating"). The SC cannot stand on it's own and therefore does not need a comma.

If this is difficult for you to grasp, try thinking of it this way: having a comma connecting a clause at the end of a sentence anchors that clause at the end. For instance, if you were to say, "I wanted to go to the store, for I was out of milk," you can't put the "for" clause anywhere else in the sentence. However, you can stick your "because" clause anywhere you wanted(as you can with any subordinating clause).

So, to place a comma before the because at the end of a sentence would stifle your opportunities with this set of words to make it more interesting. All three of the above ways are grammatically correct.

Now, you will, of course, see this rule abandoned in any book, mostly for effectual purposes. However, when you're writing a query and need to nitpick every little grammar rule possible, make sure you don't let this one slip you up.

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"Those who would sacrifice liberty for safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."

--Benjamin Franklin

Sukanto Bhattacharya—A Burning Ember in Verse

By: Bhaswati Ghosh

Dear eternal life, no more of this poetry

Bring on hard, rugged prose now,

Let the lyrical strain of poetry be wiped off

Strike the crude hammer of prose.

There’s no need for poetry’s soft touch

Verse, I shall let you rest today

In the reign of hunger, the world is prose-ridden

The full moon, a burnt loaf of bread.

(Dear Eternity, Sukanto Bhattacharya, translation: Bhaswati Ghosh)

Unlikely words from the pen of a poet, those. The sentiment, not too unlikely though for an angst-filled young poet, restless with pain at the horrors afflicting the world around him. That, in a sense, sums up Sukanto Bhattacharya, a firebrand Bengali poet of the 20^th century. A poet who lived for just 21 years, but continues to ignite fiery hearts and minds to this day.

Born in 1926, Sukanto grew up in undivided India that was still under British rule. The Indian struggle for freedom caught his attention early on, as did the principles of Marx and Lenin. As a teenager, he was deeply anguished to see poor people struggling for survival, even as the affluent sections of the society turned a blind eye. Empathetic to the daily plight of the poor, Sukanto naturally related to the principles of socialism and dreamt of a revolution that would give the poor a life of dignity and well being.

Sukanto took to the pen at age 15, when he started experimenting with both verse and prose. His impassioned poems, written in the simple, unadorned language of the common man, soon caught the fancy of leftist activists of the time. From age 17 to 21, a period when he witnessed the Second World War, it’s impact on British-ruled India, a man-made famine in Bengal (in 1943), and religious riots, Sukanto’s pen scrawled with a vengeance and most of his 155 poems were written during this period. His poems often used insignificant everyday objects and characters to work as symbols of the friction between the rich and the poor and the resulting societal inequalities.

This remarkably talented poet did not just give a voice to the man on the street, sweating it out amid a harsh and unjust environment; he also brought in a new dimension in the realm of Bengali poetry with its fierce stance and indomitable energy. In the times to follow, a lot of poets started imitating his style, only to fail. For, Sukanto was in a league of his own, daring to break free of the conventions of Bengali poetry prevalent at the time. It is the misfortune of Bengali literary enthusiasts that Sukanto died so young, so full of promise. At 21, he was snatched away by tuberculosis.

Long after he was dead and India gained independence, he remained alive. In the struggles of people fighting for justice and peace, in the hearts of young dreamers, and of course, on walls as protest graffiti. In the 1950s, the Bengali populace of Pakistan launched a movement for a separate country, based on language and cultural differences (later famous as the Language Movement of Bangladesh), which eventually led to the creation of the country now known as Bangladesh. The movement, largely spearheaded by student activists, found effective ammunition in Sukanto’s poetry calling for justice and liberty.

A poet who saw no more than twenty-one springs continues to shine as the summer sun through centuries.

Two poems of Sukanto, translated by Bhaswati Ghosh:

Match Stick

I am a little match stick

So insignificant, perhaps not even visible

But remember this

My mouth is restless with gunpowder--

My heart throbs with the desire to rise in flames;

I am a match stick.

Remember, the chaos that erupted the other day?

Fire raged in a corner of the room—

Because I was thrown with disdain, without being blown off

I have burnt a million homes,

Razed countless palaces to dust

I alone—a minor match stick.

We can devastate innumerable cities and localities

Will you still ignore us?

Don’t you remember? Just the other day—

All of us blazed together in the matchbox;

You were stunned—

We heard the shrieks of your terrorized faces.

You have felt our tremendous might

Time and again;

Yet, you fail to realize

We won’t remain in bondage inside your pockets,

We shall move out, we shall spread out

In cities, villages, neighborhoods—from one end of the horizon to the other.

We burn again and again, in utter neglect—

Of course you know that!

But what you don’t know is

At what moment we will rage again—

All of us—for one last time!

KITE

Walking on the street I suddenly saw:

a dead kite on the pavement!

I was astounded to see its pathetic, horrible face.

The one who had once looked down upon the world from enormous heights

a free zone for its pillage;

Whose hawkish gaze only possessed

the bandit’s tendency to snatch—

I saw it, lying mutely on the pavement.

The kite used to live atop a pillar,

Making its presence felt with its screech;

It would flap its wings across the blue horizon—

Surpassing many others: in solo flight:

High above the earth, very high.

Many are safe today;

The scurrying mice and the anxious wayfarers carrying food,

They are safe, now that it is dead.

Today, nobody will snatch their belongings

Just like the scraps of leftover it would refuse to eat

the kite now lies on the pavement,

Its body—cold, dry, twisted.

Those carrying food for survival

clutched to their chests--

Walked fearlessly today;

Cruelly mocking

A sky-discarded, arrogant kite.

100 Years Of Beckett

On April 13 of this year (2006) we throughout the world (though particularly here in Ireland) will be celebrating the centenery of the birth of Samuel Beckett, an Irish playwright, poet, and novelist whose work has been critically acclaimed for its minimalistic and cryptic style. In 1969 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which - in new forms for the novel and drama - in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation", and his works shall be celebrated through various readings, art television programs, films, and books throughout the world this week and those that follow.

The Using Of The Dove by Dean F. Wilson

'Tis no comfort to know that they would bend my ear
And, with it, my mind through the fallacies of fear,
But 'tis best to Know than lay in depths asleep,
To know the faces of the Shepherd and the Sheep
At least frees us from the penalty of their sphere
And opens us to the Wisdom of the Deep.

One will pummel pleasantries into my head
'Til every cell lay dying or fully dead,
But to take my hand and lead me on my way
(Ah, the hunter holding hands with its prey)
'Til I could not remember what they said,
For truly they said nothing there that day.

The other speaks of how they all conspire,
Yet unrevealing that they are too a liar –
Propagating with the veil of something white,
Yet, using all the tricks, their words are trite.
O how they claim to fight for something higher,
But with the others nurse us into the night.

And the dead would surely be ashamed
As they lay within the ground, duly framed
In horror of the whispers from the living up above,
Screaming silently: "Where is love? Where is love?"
And both sides did nothing of what they claimed,
As we fools ignored the Using of the Dove.

"Inviting The Muse" – Dean F. Wilson (Yechidah)

"My Muse just isn't with me today!" We've all said it (in some manner or form), and we've all voiced our frustration when our Muse just gets up one morning (always a little earlier than us, of course), packs their bags, and heads off into the sunset. Perhaps they're only off on a holiday, but whatever their reasons may be, they left no word (indeed for us writers, having no word is often the very reason for our frustration), and they may have even left some dirty dishes or the toilet seat up. How dare they abandon us like this, leaving us with our sparkling blank paper and 0k Word documents. How dare they depart just five pages before the finishing chapter, or five words before the last verse of a poem we thought was going somewhere. Indeed, how dare they go somewhere and not take us along with notebook or laptop at the ready.

And here we are, looking at a huge wall of emptiness, of pointless and dull ideas and weak lines made up of weak words made up of weak thoughts. We miss our Spark, our inspiration – indeed, we find it difficult to even sit down and write at all, and when we do we start with nothing, and this nothing quickly becomes something we want to send to the Recycle Bin.

So - what do we do? Well, we can sit and wait for our sunburnt Muses to come back from their holidays (fresh with interesting cultural tales), or, for the much less patient of us (like myself), we can invite our Muses to join us when we need or want them. Yes! No need to write once every cycle of the moon – you can bring inspiration into your life – you do not have to wait for it to find you.

But how do we find it? Well firstly we need to sit down and force ourselves to write – true, this is nowhere near as enjoyable as when we get a new idea on the bus and rush home to write it all up, but it really does beat writing nothing, and writing is great practice, no matter how bad. Plus, wouldn't you rather write the crap stuff in your "off time", leaving you with just the good stuff when you do get back into your cycle?

There is, however, another thing you can do. When you invite your Muse to join you, literally do just that – send out an invitation. Don't just sit there whining about being left behind with no inspiration – ask to be inspired!

Name your Muse. Be it Average Joe or Unique Eugene, personifying them is an excellent way to bring them into your life. Write a story about them (indeed, ask them what their holiday was like), and for those of you who really want to have fun, give them multiple personalities (mine certainly has a few!). And when there are empty pages, fill them with something – anything! Look around you; wires, mouse, pens, pick a word and follow it as it scurries off somewhere. You may be surprised where it leads.

So next time you see that wall of emptiness, bulldoze it down, and send a surge of reclaimed inspiration at the dam in your creational landscape. Sometimes your Muse really can't help if you don't ask!