Words With Letters Litmus

Words With Letters Litmus – NYT acquires popular online word puzzle game WordleWordle, the popular social media puzzle game, has been acquired by The New York Times Company, for an undisclosed price in the “low figure of seven”

Wordle, the popular puzzle game that has taken social media by storm, has been bought by The New York Times Company, for an undisclosed price in the “low seven figures”.

Words With Letters Litmus

Wordle will be free to play for new and existing players for now, and no changes will be made to its gameplay as it moves to The NYT.

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“As The Times seeks to entertain more solvers with daily puzzles — especially during these anxious times — we are delighted to announce the acquisition of Wordle, the wildly popular and stimulating daily word game that has become cultural phenomenon,” The New York Times Company said in a statement late Monday.

“Word, which gives players six chances to guess a five-letter mystery word, will join New York Times Games’ portfolio of original, engaging puzzle games that delight and challenge everyday solvers.”

The browser-based game had just 90 daily players on November 1 last year. It has now crossed 3 lakh daily players, and is growing rapidly through various social media platforms.

Every 24 hours there is a new word of the day, and it’s up to you.

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If you have the right letter in the right spot, it appears green. A correct letter in the wrong place appears yellow. A letter that is not in the word anywhere appears grey. You can enter a total of six words.

“I am extremely pleased to announce that I have reached an agreement with The New York Times for them to take over the running of Wordle in the future,” Wardle posted in a tweet.

“If you’ve followed along with Wordle’s story, you’ll know that NYT games played a big part in its origin and so this step feels very natural to me. When the game moves to a NYT, it will be free. to play for everyone, and I’m working with them to ensure that your winnings and streaks are preserved,” he added. Many years ago, I conducted a two-year series of poetry interviews for the Christian Science Monitor newspaper and their television outlets. I loved chatting to a number of poets whose work I appreciated the most – new talents and monumental figures – and it became, without a doubt,

The best learning experience of my career. During the interview with the great Irish poet John Montague, I was talking about my own life as a poet when John said, almost as an aside: “You know, you shouldn’t say that you n

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I remember feeling a flash of uncertainty: was he challenging my qualifications? Criticize my work? But he continued: “You should say ‘I’m trying to write poetry.’

Is a title that other people give you. And it’s very sweet to hear when people refer to you as

They understand what that job means: to say the things we all want to hear or feel but often fear we can’t put into words – sweetening the atmosphere.”

In 2019 I was appointed to my first term as Poet Laureate of Arlington, Massachusetts, and I greatly appreciated being honored by the place I have made my home for the past thirty-five years. I set myself a rather ambitious agenda, revolving around three themes: education, collaboration, and

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. For decades, I had worked as a Poet in Residence through the Massachusetts Cultural Council and had seen time and time again the dramatic impact that creating art can have on the classroom and the community. My wish was that Arlington schools would really take advantage of this resource. And throughout my writing life, I’ve been involved in cross-disciplinary partnerships, working with visual artists, musicians, dancers and videographers, loving how the cross-pollination of artistic languages ​​opens up new possibilities. I have started to pursue new collaborations with area artists.

Was always foremost in my mind. Every poet I know talks about some version of that feeling – the thrilling, confusing, completely exhausting pleasure that a new poem can give. But for the

Who perhaps only remembered poetry from those English classrooms long ago, poems may have seemed a sort of intellectual litmus test that would, in the end, prove that most of us want. For most individuals

Alas, the first word that comes to mind when there is a spoken voice is not intonation: “Let us go that way, you and me…”.

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So I started devising interesting experiences where people could bump into poetry and poets with some of that essential surprise and pleasure intact. One was called the Red Letter Project, and its name referred to the practice, in Roman times, of marking feast days on their calendars with red initials. Using a little metaphorical leap, this is what I proposed: collect poems from our town’s wonderful literary community; recruiting a group of a dozen volunteers who would hand-deliver 1,000 bright red envelopes to randomly selected homes; then stuff each one with a small packet of poems. On a given day, poetry would arrive unannounced across Arlington. Who could refuse to read a poem that appeared under such close auspices? How could the wonder of the experience not turn the ordinary into a red letter day?

Then Covid hit – and my vision of envelope stuffing parties quickly evaporated. But once the first lockdown went into effect, it only took me a week of isolation – our fears of this deadly virus amplified by the alleged daily presidential briefings – to realize how devastating it was this is going to have an impact on all our lives, even those who escaped the illness. So I hatched the idea of ​​turning the Red Letters into an online project. Using my own mailing list as a starting point, I solicited partners from arts and community organizations across town who committed to emailing or reposting a weekly poetry installment on their websites, opening up tens of thousands of potential readers. . I planned a simple format, and invited Fred Marchant – a highly respected poet whom I thought of as the dean of our literary community – to choose one of his poems to be RLP #1. His piece, “Pinckney Street”, is a simple reminder of how “for three weeks every year/and starting tomorrow/this will be the biggest/beautiful place in the city.” It is a poem that invites readers to recognize and savor the beauty at hand – things that should not be ignored, even in threatening times. And that first Friday at noon, Red Letters appeared in inboxes all over town.

I was pleased that all of the poets I invited had enthusiastically agreed to take part. We all felt so helpless at the time, almost eager to contribute to the welfare of the community in any way – and poets were no exception, even if it was only a three minute oasis of calm and thoughtful reflection that they we can offer it. a week. It’s shocking to think that we may already be forgetting how dark the early days of the pandemic really were. I remember my wife and I going for a walk around our neighborhood, making a point of greeting every masked individual we passed with a nod, a wave, a few friendly words. Some stopped to chat, to offer their opinion on this completely strange situation in which we found ourselves. But others shot past with their eyes calmly on the pavement; some surprised me by anxiously turning into the gutter to avoid distant contact. I remember thinking: this is how terrorism is produced – second infection.

The Red Letters kept coming, and I started receiving notes back from readers, thanking me for this project or offering comments about the day’s feature poem. I made a point of answering every email, believing that these short conversations were an essential part of the project: a reminder that even as we pace in our own houses, our connections with family, friends , culture, and community continue. We will then collect together some of the comments received and forward them with a note to each poet. I was so pleased to see how much they appreciated the comments, a reminder – although we poets build these linguistic contrasts only and mainly in response to our own unique compulsions – we have a secondary awareness of the there could be other eyes in the world, other minds for whom these poems could be useful. It soon required many hours each week to achieve all this, especially as it was essentially a one-man operation – but it felt more than worth it. And after all, how long could a crisis like this really last – a month? Eight weeks, tops.

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Then things changed again. George Floyd’s name became the latest addition to a list of Black citizens who suffered extrajudicial killing by the police. There were protests in the streets across America. The increasingly aggressive rhetoric coming from the halls of government seemed to throw off