Friday, September 17, 2010
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Through me myself and I ... and a few of "you" IIIIl
I liked this work a lot, made by Annakarin Quinto, who has three flickr accounts:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/annakarinquinto/
and her labs at { kali_lab }
and a show case at [kali_pro]
check out her wide range of works !
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
New member: chabbah
TRÄUMER IM HERBST
Jeder Schritt wird schwer und träger
Doch schon am Herbstanfang sogleich
Warst Du nach mir, gleich einem Jäger
Die Blätter eben wie ein Teppich
Herbstträume, wie die watteweichen
Bitte! Oh bitte, Rette mich!
Der Traum der Träumer eines Herbstes
Ich leg mir Sanftmütigkeiten zu
Doch manchmal, so ein wenig schmerzt es
Die Liebeskraft, kennt keine Ruh`
Der weiche Gang im Herbstalltag
Wird von Romantik zart umhüllt
Weiß keiner vorher den Ertrag
Den dieser bunte Freund erfüllt
Die Kälte macht sich weit und breit
Sie lässt die Decken dicker werden
Das sehnsuchtsvolle Herzlein schreit
Es will die schönen Schmerzen erden
Solang man mit Gefühl und Seele
Wandelt durch den lieben Herbst
So glaub ich das ich einfach wähle
Das tiefe Glück- tief in mir Selbst
Das wird keiner nehmen können
So weiß ich ganz genau
Solang dem Herz die Funken springen
Und solang ich mich auch trau`
Welcome to the Club, chabbah !
Found on the street: Mayakovsky's poems in 11 of 13 volumes
Parking my car today near a waste container on Brosse Street, I was wondering about the nicely stacked works of Vladimir Mayakovsky in 11 of 13 volumes next to the Garbage. It must had been a gift from god, as this is my famous author at all since the age of 20 (I didn't like Mayakovsky much at school..;-) Sadly are missing the volumes 5 and 10 from the edition of 1955 Academy of Science, Moscow, so if you find them...
No.
It can’t be.
No!
You too, beloved?
Why? What for?
Darling, look -
I came,
I brought flowers,
but, but... I never took
silver spoons from your drawer!
Ashen-faced,
I staggered down five flights of stairs.
The street eddied round me. Blasts. Blares.
Tires screeched.
It was gusty.
The wind stung my cheeks.
Horn mounted horn lustfully.
Above the capital’s madness
I raised my face,
stern as the faces of ancient icons.
Sorrow-rent,
on your body as on a death-bed, its days
my heart ended.
You did not sully your hands with brute murder.
Instead,
you let drop calmly:
“He’s in bed.
There’s fruit and wine
On the bedstand’s palm.”
Love!
You only existed in my inflamed brain.
Enough!
Stop this foolish comedy
and take notice:
I’m ripping off
my toy armour,
I,
the greatest of all Don Quixotes!
Remember?
Weighed down by the cross,
Christ stopped for a moment,
weary.
Watching him, the mob
yelled, jeering:
“Get movin’, you clod!”
That’s right!
Be spiteful.
Spit upon him who begs for a rest
on his day of days,
harry and curse him.
To the army of zealots, doomed to do good,
man shows no mercy!
That does it!
I swear by my pagan strength -
gimme a girl,
young,
eye-filling,
and I won’t waste my feelings on her.
I'll rape her
and spear her heart with a gibe
willingly.
An eye for an eye!
A thousand times over reap of revenge the crops'
Never stop!
Petrify, stun,
howl into every ear:
“The earth is a convict, hear,
his head half shaved by the sun!”
An eye for an eye!
Kill me,
bury me -
I’ll dig myself out,
the knives of my teeth by stone — no wonder!-
made sharper,
A snarling dog, under
the plank-beds of barracks I’ll crawl,
sneaking out to bite feet that smell
of sweat and of market stalls!
You'll leap from bed in the night’s early hours.
“Moo!” I’ll roar.
Over my neck,
a yoke-savaged sore,
tornados of flies
will rise.
I'm a white bull over the earth towering!
Into an elk I’ll turn,
my horns-branches entangled in wires,
my eyes red with blood.
Above the world,
a beast brought to bay,
I'll stand tirelessly.
Man can’t escape!
Filthy and humble,
a prayer mumbling,
on cold stone he lies.
What I’ll do is paint
on the royal gates,
over God’s own
the face of Razin.
Dry up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him!
Don’t waste your rays, sun! Glare!
Let thousands of my disciples be born
to trumpet anathemas on the squares!
And when at last there comes,
stepping onto the peaks of the ages,
chillingly,
the last of their days,
in the black souls of anarchists and killers
I, a gory vision, will blaze!
It’s dawning,
The sky’s mouth stretches out more and more,
it drinks up the night
sip by sip, thirstily.
The windows send off a glow.
Through the panes heat pours.
The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city.
O sacred vengeance!
Lead me again
above the dust without
and up the steps of my poetic lines.
This heart of mine,
full to the brim,
in a confession
I will pour out.
Men of the future!
Who are you?
I must know. Please!
Here am I,
all bruises and aches,
pain-scorched...
To you of my great soul I bequeath
the orchard.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
out of touch by sandy farazjou
don’t you dare forget,
forget the image behind my eyes
I touch,
touching gently the paper,
the paper you wrote your name on
I touch,
touching softly the hat,
the hat I was wearing
I try,
try to touch you through all but you,
untouchable as you are – now.
now it’s your handwriting, my hat,
your handwriting, my hat, your handwriting,
my hat, handwriting, hat,
handwriting, hat, handwriting
I touch you, through all, but you
Monday, November 17, 2008
New Member: Sandy C. Farazjou
Her blog is at http://writtenbehindmyeyes.blogspot.com/
and here we give you a tasting:
Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see you
daydreaming of you while
stretching in my bed,
slowly waking up...
the thought of skin, available and warm,
eyes wanting me, being able to taste every
piece and part, no boundaries, no rules.
I could make you cry if you wanted to, if I needed to.
but a daydream is what it is, and the rough sun
blinding me as I roll out of bed alone, leaves
me aching, longing back to the sweet moments
of dark slumber, replacing my solitude with you.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Görden,1945
Die Tür sprang auf –
Über die hingemähten Schläfer in den weißen Betten
Glitt SEINE Geste -
segnend zuerst, dann brüderlich.
Nur wenige Wachende ahnten den Ruf
Der taggeborenes Grauen hinab in seine Grenzen zwang.
Nur einer war bereit:
Vollendet, harrte er des niegelebten Fühlens
Das Ende und Bedingung allen Lebens wird.
Görden, 7.1.45
Hans Schnick
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
In diesen hellen Nächten
In diesen hellen Nächten bist Du mir nah,
Stehst Du begütigend bei meinen Fiebern.
Wie oft, wie oft ich Dich so sah,
lächelnd, hinter den leis geschlossenen Lidern.
Wenn dann die Sehnsucht geigt,
Wiedererwachtes Verlangen schreit
Biege ich die Stunden zum Ring
Der fest umspannt
Was nicht ertrank –
Was immer wieder in mein Wissen dringt - -
In einer dieser hellen Nächte werd’ ich mich erheben
Die alten Kleider werden von mir fallen
Wie dünngelebte Fesseln, die einst banden
Und werde Deinem Lächeln nach ins Wesenlose gehen.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Schlobin 1943 (Weißrussland)
Aus all der Drohung über stummen Wipfeln
Ist dieses Schweben uns geworden
Und hüllt in seinen Schleier ein
Die Toten auf den Feldern.
Legt sich, ein letztes Siegel, noch
In ihren Mund.
Herr,
lasse mich vergehn
in tränenlose Schwere
Vergib mein Irren auf den falschen Wegen
Und lehre mich der Demut letzten Grund
28.12.1944 Hans-Jürgen Schnick
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Ihr Stimmen der Nacht
Hans-Jürgen Schnick
This poem wrote his mother Olga Schnick, geb. Frielinghaus (my Grand-grandmother) after the news of Hans' death 13.09.1948
Not und Qual,
Wenn Du ausgetrunken
Den Pokal,
Den ein stiller Bruder
Dir gebracht.
Stumm taucht er die Ruder
In der Nacht.
Sternengoldbetropfte
Dunkle Flut
Schmerzenslos schon klopfte
Bald Dein Blut.
Tiefe blaue Welle
Wiegt das Boot
Über Traumes Schwelle
Nah am Tod.
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