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Assassin’s Creed 3 Art

The Art of Assassin’s Creed 3

Assassin’s Creed 3 the video game is the story of one man reliving the lives of his ancestors. Assassin’s Creed 3 is the only video game you can play through history assuming the identity your ancestors. The game is set between the years 1753 and 1783 and focuses on Connor Kenway, who fought during the American Revolution. Connor the ancestor and the main character in Assassin’s Creed 3 explore places going back in time to the American Revolution.
By playing the game you can tell right away a tremendous effort went into the making of the Assassin’s Creed. And as always with all three Assassin’s Creed games the art work is impressive. When “game” and “art” come together video games becomes a truly beautiful experience. If you are not able to play the game but want to see the art work look at the book by Andy McVittie (a limited edition art book with signed prints for Assassin’s Creed 3) shows the finely honed and evocative historical images blended into the video game. Immerse yourself in these images and feel the past come to life.

Sirens Poem

Sirens Poem

 Sirens Poem

I grow old I grow old

I shall wear my trousers rolled*

Wear them rolled

walk upon the beach and that mermaid you hear

is your wife

calling across the ocean




why did you leave me

did I embarrass you in front of

your friends as you

spoke of the Greek gods?


These are the sirens we all hear my

friend but you

knew why they called and


there never were sirens,

only life

only guilt

and life itself




come sailor unleash yourself from the boat

do not fear the wind, the waves



come to us


can you not see us,

our long thin arms waving in the wind,

our hair blowing behind us

come to us



by david michael jackson


*Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, T. S. Eliot

Copernicium poem by Janet Kuypers


Janet Kuypers

from the “ Periodic Table of Poetry” series (#112, Cn)

It was my love of you
and what you believed in
that made me try to get you.

With your Renaissance ways,
you taught me that I’m not
the center of the Universe,

but I’ve learned since then
to go beyond the sun, because
there is too much out there

to see.

As a scientist, I know you
changed our views of the world.
So science must create you, again.

I know that mathematics
can explain the Universe,
but you were more than a

mathematician, you were
a physician, a translator,
an economist, an astronomer,

an artist.

I know you were a founder
in your time, and the half-life
of what we create may be small…

but I would have to throw
any metal I could into any
isotope I could, like zinc to lead,

just to see if you would
come out for us again. Let us
find you, let us experiment

with you.

Let us accelerate these processes,
cause just the right reactions
to synthesize you and your genius.

I don’t care how we get you,
whether what we do is cold or hot,
when we fuse to create you,

and through all of our work
you may only come to us
after the decay of others

around you.

We’ve learned that only now,
now that we have you, we can
try to work with any part of you,

no matter how unstable
you say you now are. I don’t care.
You’re the last member

transitioning in this series — so now
I can only reflect on your relativity
to planets, like Mercury, as well as

your nobility.

I miss what you’ve done
for how we think in this world.
I miss clear scientific minds.

I only hope that what we’ve done
in your honor does you justice.
Even though we’ve only created you,

I want you to remember
that it is because we wanted
to learn, too, and we wanted you

to guide the way.






I’m flung back to 92 Rapple,

sheer curtains to the floor.

Silk spread, snow smooth,

palest ivory, wall to wall.

Bridal, exotic. How many

years was it, wondering, a

virgin still, a husband who

brought me tea in bed but

not what I longed for. In

the photograph, gauze

camouflages, lures. Soft

drams, no angles. And even

before the first lover came,

bottle of wine, Chateau y

Kempe hidden in the

closet, probably stolen from

some friend’s house in

Carmel. Months of letters,

photographs of him, one

of Dylan Thomas so I had

no idea what to expect

Fantasy was one thing. But to

have him: ex con, alcoholic,

stagger across the country

with a torn suitcase and

broken shoes. I had no idea

where to keep him and met

him at a motel up the street,

terrified there was something

wrong with me, that that

was why I was still a virgin.

By evening, I checked the

mirror, disappointed I didn’t

see a change in my face.

Nothing about the motel

room stays in memory. Or

when he started living in the

trees, sneaking in the back

door when my husband pulled

out in the Healy. That room,

so pure, so like a bridal chamber,

tho still pristine, the only color

not white in the room beside

the tiger cat,  was his, my first

lover, and my body. After

love we’d read poetry all day.

Was it wine coolers or

scotch? He wanted drugs but

we had only nut meg. Like

silk draped over the railing

in the photo of this house,

my body fell over his. How

little I remember his smell,

how I felt with him inside me.

He was too big, he couldn’t

stay. He lit a match under my

window each night and I turned

the light on and off like a fire

fly signaling for a mate.

It was always a good story but

but it was getting so cold in

the woods he couldn’t stay.

The only place he can has been

for so many years

in poems






almost night still. Insomnia

is more with me than any

lover. I could be on some

lovely lake in a tent of

sleeplessness. Nothing like

a child’s cove of dreams:

blue stars and shining

things hanging. No, we’re

in separate dented boats.

Who knows how they
could hold us. Only the

cat’s breath touches

mine. I haven’t felt what

I want to feel, what I

shouldn’t. If I cold just

reach out to touch you.

If I just did