Garten literarischer Wirrungen / Garden of Literary Confusion

Alles was der heutige Mensch so braucht auf einen Blick

2012-01-31T05:56:00.000-08:00

Ist man stolzes und zahlendes Mitglied der T-Online-Gemeinde und nutzt die Webmail-Funktion, wird man vor allem nach der Abmeldung mit allem versorgt, was der Mensch heutzutage so braucht: mit den wesentlichen weltbewegenden Nachrichten (zum Beispiel den neuesten Meldungen zu Dschungel-TV und Yogurette, der fiesen Kalorienbombe) und natürlich mit viel, viel Werbung.

Denn sonst wüsste man ja nicht, wo man seine Millionen oder hart verdienten Euros in den Sand setzen soll.

So schön kann Webmail sein:

Und nicht vergessen: An neue Fenster denken!

Das ist mein Plan.

Kann beim angekündigten sibirischen Wetter kaum schaden.

Pleitegeier und Bundesadler

2012-01-09T05:16:00.000-08:00

Zu den Kleinen kommt der Pleitegeier, zu den Großen kommt der Bundesadler.

– Guido Westerwelle

Jacques Prévert: Roboterliebe

2012-01-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

Roboterliebe

    Ein Mann schreibt auf der Schreibmaschine einen Liebesbrief und die Maschine antwortet dem Mann an Stelle der Empfängerin und ihrer Hand
    Sie ist dermaßen perfekt diese Maschine diese Maschine zum Waschen von Schecks und Liebesbriefen
    Und der Mann, bequem in seiner Wohnmaschine sitzend, liest mit der Lesemaschine die Antwort der Schreibmaschine
    Und in seiner Träumemaschine kauft er mit seiner Rechenmaschine eine Liebesmaschine
    Und in seiner Traumverwirklichungsmaschine liebt er die Schreibmaschine die Liebesmaschine
    Und die Maschine betrügt ihn mit einem Maschin*
    Einem Maschin zum Totlachen

– Jacques Prévert

Ins Deutsche gebracht von Johannes Beilharz.

Das französische Original, L'Amour à la Robote, ist in dem Band La Pluie et le Beau Temps (1955) enthalten.

*Frz. machin (Dings, Dingsbums), mit dem Wort machine in der Schreibung fast identisch, könnte auch als männliche Entsprechung der weiblichen Maschine interpretiert werden. Es schien mir nach Rücksprache mit französischen Freunden richtig, hier im Deutschen eine männlichen Entsprechung zu erfinden, den Maschin, da dies einer der möglichen Bedeutungen dieser Wortspielerei am Französischen wohl am ehesten entspricht.

Yuppie am Handy, Mittwochmorgen, ca. 9 Uhr

2011-12-21T00:59:00.000-08:00

Der Mann im Gang
geht auf und ab.
Eine Kostenstelle
hält ihn auf Trab.
Ohne meine neugierigen Ohren
wäre er ganz sicher
vollkommen verloren.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Die Wahrheit und nichts als die Wahrheit, beruhend auf messerscharfer poetischer Beobachtung.

Ode to the owner of an inkpot

2011-12-19T09:40:00.000-08:00

Thank you, my love,
I forgive you not –
you gave me ink
in that old pot.
But on a cold day like this
it won’t make me hot.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

A demonstratively silly ditty upon instigation by One Single Impression.

Friedrich Nietzsche: Der Herbst

2011-12-04T12:09:00.000-08:00

Dies ist der Herbst: der – bricht Dir noch das Herz!
Fliege fort! Fliege fort! –
Die Sonne schleicht zum Berg
und steigt und steigt
und ruht bei jedem Schritt.

Was ward die Welt so welk!
Auf müd gespannten Fäden spielt
der Wind sein Lied.
Die Hoffnung floh –
er klagt ihr nach.

Dies ist der Herbst: der – bricht Dir noch das Herz!
Fliege fort! Fliege fort! –
O Frucht des Baums,
du zitterst, fällst?
Welch ein Geheimnis lehrte dich die Nacht,
dass eisger Schauder deine Wange,
die Purpurwange deckt? –

Du schweigst, antwortest nicht?
Wer redet noch? – –
Dies ist der Herbst: der – bricht Dir noch das Herz!
Fliege fort! Fliege fort! –
“Ich bin nicht schön”
– so spricht die Sternenblume –
“doch Menschen lieb ich
und Menschen tröst ich –
sie sollen jetzt noch Blumen sehn,
nach mir sich bücken,
ach! und mich brechen –
in ihren Augen glänzet dann
Erinnrung auf,
Erinnerung an Schöneres als ich: –
ich sehs, ich sehs – und sterbe so!” –

Dies ist der Herbst: der – bricht Dir noch das Herz!
Fliege fort! Fliege fort! –

Dies ist der Herbst: der – bricht Dir noch das Herz!
Fliege fort! Fliege fort! –

– Friedrich Nietzsche

Entnommen der Anthologie Die Ernte aus acht Jahrhunderten deutscher Lyrik, gesammelt von Will Vesper, Langewiesche-Brandt, Ebenhausen bei München 1906. Dieses Gedicht entstammt Nietzsches Buch Gedichte und Sprüche.

An autumn poem by Max Dauthendey

2011-11-20T08:48:00.000-08:00

The ravens scream their wounded cry;
of night and need they prophecy.
Frost has surrounded every door;
hunger’s dog barks out there for more.
We hold each other ever more tightly;
for sake of kissing we’ve spoken only lightly.
The larks have sung themselves to death,
and clouds have shooed summer with their breath.
Your head, cradled here in my arm,
no longer knows this earth ... without alarm.

– Max Dauthendey (1867-1918)

Translated from German by Johannes Beilharz.
English translation © by Johannes Beilharz 2011.
The German original of 1905 is here.

Herbstliches von Max Dauthendey

2011-11-19T01:53:00.000-08:00

Die Raben schreien wie verwundet
und prophezeien Nacht und Not.
Der Frost hat jede Tür umstellt
und der Hungerhund bellt.
Wir halten uns immer enger umschlungen,
im Küssen fanden wir noch kein Wort,
die Lerchen haben sich tot gesungen
und Wolken wälzten den Sommer fort.
Doch Dein Haupt, das in meinem Arm sich wiegt,
weiß nicht mehr, wo die Erde liegt.

– Max Dauthendey (1867-1918)

Entnommen der Anthologie Die Ernte aus acht Jahrhunderten deutscher Lyrik, gesammelt von Will Vesper, Langewiesche-Brandt, Ebenhausen bei München 1906. Dieses Gedicht entstammt dem Band Die ewige Hochzeit von 1905, war also zur Zeit der Herausgabe der Anthologie erst seit einem Jahr veröffentlicht.

Biografisches

In my backyard

2011-10-22T08:20:00.000-07:00

In my backyard
I found a tart.

Says Jay, “Pray tell,
you might as well,

what will you do with it?”
“Whip cream, you nit,

put it on top
and eat the slop.”

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written for Sunday Scribblings and My Backyard, this should easily compete with the silliest of Mother Goose.

Das Lied des Harfenmädchens

2011-10-14T02:38:00.000-07:00

Frei nach Theodor Storm

Das Harfenmädchen ist heut nicht gut drauf.
Lustlos klimpert es auf den Seiten.
Noch ist ihm keiner in die Netze gegangen (gestern waren es drei,
und jetzt liegen sie alle tot auf Grund).
Und überhaupt: wieso immer auf Männerfang gehen
und dann doch keinen bekommen?
Und dann so eine unsinnige Flosse!
Manchmal hätte man viel lieber einen unbeschuppten Unterleib und zwei Beine.
Dann ein bisschen Shoppen in Rüdesheim oder Koblenz,
ein bisschen Schlendern, ein bisschen Unterhaltung.
Es ist schon ein schweres Schicksal so als Harfenmädchen.
Jeden Tag dasselbe Lied...

– Iself (© 2011)

Die Ersten, die Letzten und die Hunde

2011-10-13T08:56:00.000-07:00

Ein bekanntes Sprichwort sagt:

Die Letzten beißen die Hunde.

Allerdings gibt es auch folgende Weisheit aus der Bibel:

Die Ersten werden die Letzten sein.*

Kombiniert man die beiden, ist völlig klar, dass keiner den Hunden entkommt – weder die Letzten noch die Ersten.

Allerdings kann dank deutscher Grammatik das erste Sprichwort auch so verstanden werden, dass die Hunde von den Letzten gebissen werden.

Das sind dann die sprichwörtlichen armen Hunde.

*Nur teilweise und ungenau zitiert. Kompletter Lutherscher Wortlaut: "Aber viele, die da sind die Ersten, werden die Letzten, und die Letzten werden die Ersten sein." (Matthäus 19)

Verified drygs

2011-09-19T11:29:00.000-07:00

With a possibly Norwegian touch, spam is getting more clever than ever.

Read this message that has burst past my spam killer, and you too will be ready to order verified drygs that very instant:

Verified drygs wixll help yoqu get powerful wirth your Slawatycze
Explore whole list at http://ripiamb.belhamorz.net/

Isn't this the best news ever for your slawatycze?

You bet your wixll!

Überall und nirgendwo

2011-09-11T04:10:00.000-07:00

Sie ist wie Gott –
man sieht ihn nicht,
aber er ist immer da.

– Tanjetschka

Zur Erläuterung: Das sagte unsere russische Praktikantin, als sie vielleicht zum fünften Mal hintereinander ins Büro kam und die gesuchte Kollegin wieder nicht vorfand.

Medical portrait

2011-06-09T01:20:00.000-07:00

Now there's doctor L. the anthroposoph, (in)sincere and mature,
who'll ask what you are willing to suffer for cure.
And if you say 'not much'
he'll presribe allopathic stuff with a proven sledge hammer touch.
Whereas, if you're willing to endure,
he'll give you aurum or cuprum for good enure.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written upon inspiration by 'endure' from One Single Impression.

Gianmaria Testa & Paolo Fresu in Ludwigsburg

2011-06-04T02:57:00.000-07:00

Gestern Abend besuchte ich ein wunderbares Konzert von Gianmaria Testa und Paolo Fresu im Ordenssaal von Schloss Ludwigsburg.

Das Zusammenspiel der beiden hat Geschichte. Hier ein Youtube-Video von 2009 mit einem Lied, das die beiden auch in Ludwigsburg spielten:

9 a.m., Universe

2011-04-30T00:35:00.000-07:00

It’s a crowded place and lots of stuff’s been happening
– Badger T. Bones

Australia kills 17 sex row riots
Bolivian microphones start up for couple
Colombia landmines title race court over arrest
Damage freed lawyer in well-wishers crowd pledge
Egyptian fuel drives bride in ferry
First glimpse of the Aston Martin tragedy
Germany charged herbal medicine regulations truce
Hot wedding auction treatment
India balcony kisses pick wedding
Jakarta streets still alive
Kult evening dress raid leader guilty
London loves Kate and William
Mexico cartel boss arrests
Nuevo Leon restaurant says welcome
Obama shocked by Chinese human rights
Rafah border clash to permanently seal to open European tornado fighters
Sai Baba cadets extradited
Tripoli witness dying for first kiss as husband and rebels wife
Uganda breaks al-Qaeda suspects
Vile crowd edge up Thai-Cambodia palace
Warsaw show time foundations
Xavier my French red headed OC is ftw
Yukon Territory, Canada error reported
Zealand's Sarah Palin is back

A cocktail from various Internet sources including BBC and Twitter tweets. Confounded, mixed, stylized, rearranged, censored, enhanced, expanded, invented in typical press fashion for day 30 of NaPoWriMo.

Today's task would have been “to write a poem based on a headline – it doesn’t have to be big news – it can be any news at all, from the girl in your town who won a contest for growing a potato that looks like Queen Victoria to the tabloid offering definitive proof that aliens are designing celebrity Oscar gowns.”

Didn't go for the cutesy news stuff so much as for more or less normal random picks from the news chaos in this universe.

Translated from the Hittite

2011-04-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

A baby girl was born to Hulsa and Amani
The third year after the barley dearth
A baby girl was born to Hulsa and Amani
And she was preferred by the birds

Amani was so proud of her baby girl
But Hulsa wanted a boy and begrudged her food
Amani gave the baby girl to a sage
And she was still preferred by the birds

A baby boy was born to Hulsa and Amani
The fifth year after the barley dearth
The birds circled above and the liver
Told of things ominous in the future

Hattalippi the sage took good care
Of the girl and taught her many things
How to read the birds’ flight
How to make balms and vanishing creme

The boy fell ill in his eleventh year
The girl knew it from the birds’ flight
The sage sent her off to her family
And she cured her brother with a balm

But then the Assyrians came one year
And no-one in the village was spared
Except the girl and her brother
Because they’d applied her vanishing creme

And the girl and her brother lived alone
In the village for many many years
And they were known all over Hatti lands
For their balms and vanishing creme

Reconstituted and translated from an anonymous Hittite fragment and rendered by L. Blumfeld in condensed form in modern English.

Posted for NaPoWriMo day 29. Today’s task would have been “an act of homophonic translation. In other words, ‘translate’ a poem from a language you don’t know into English, based on how the words look or sound.” This post is different, of course, in that it is not a homophonic but a more or less accurate (i.e. semantically based) translation. However, Hittite is definitely a language I don’t know.

– Iself

The words I don’t like poem

2011-04-27T23:16:00.000-07:00

Why can’t I think of
any? It’s not that
they’re all the same
to me. But ever
since yesterday, when
I started thinking
the matter over,
I haven’t come up
with a single one.
Ok, so I don’t tend
to use four-letter
words that often
in poetic mode. (Real
life is different. I do
resort to expletives
regularly where
warranted. And those
warranted situations,
as you know, occur
all too often in
real life.) But now
I’m down here
in what has become
a much longer
poem than I’d
intended, and still
have not thought
of a single word
I hate. Let’s say
I’m like the
benevolent creator –
they’re all my
children – I must
love them all
democratically,
whether they be
English, German,
Turkish, Malayalam,
Chinese or Urdu.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 28. The task, you guessed it, was “to try writing poems using our least favorite words.”

Oh Jack! Oh Colleen!

2011-04-26T23:01:00.000-07:00

Rhenew yr mazn poewr quickly,
theyz wrogte, &
Leet us to improvze u ultimate poewr & hardinegs.

Finagl bonzuses is uh fine bragain
toh buyy outstanding pharzm
at uh thje glowest pirce.

No zmore prescripzhion ise needved
tojh mke shozging fovr amazn poewr withe gus.

(Rearranged and beautified by Iself from original spam)

Posted for day 27 of NaPoWriMo. U quessed it – thje tusk was to yuse spwam & turnh hit inta pwoeteri.

May the amazn poewr be withe all of gus.

I’m white

2011-04-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

I’m bulky
and white
and up in a tree

I’m half-open,
but should
normally
be closed

I’m not as cool
as I used to be

I normally
need juice
to keep my
motor running,
but up here
there’s none

I’ve been
reduced
to failure

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 26. The task was to do a “riddle poem – one in which you write from the point of view of an object or person (or about an object and person), and the poem itself forms a giant riddle.” Well, giant it’s not exactly, but a riddle it is. Let’s see if anyone can guess what I’m impersonating here.

As the end of NaPoWriMo is drawing nearer, I’m getting close to feeling poetically exhausted. It’s not that easy to produce poetry on demand. And the demands (the prompts) are often different from what I would normally write on my own. For example, I would not normally write riddles. I might write cryptic or eclectic or enigmatic stuff, but not riddles. Oh well, it’s really my very own decision to take on a prompt or do something else. And some of the prompts have been a lot of fun, and it’s actually been good to venture out and do something I would normally not do.

One thing’s for sure, though: April is definitely not the cruellest month (happy to contradict you, T.S., as always). In fact, it’s one of the cooellest months. Period and amen.

In myself

2011-04-24T15:47:00.000-07:00

As usual, I enter the apartment at night. Everything is sepia, as in old sepia photographs, with that old-fashioned, dusty feel. Things are dusty and old-fashioned in the apartment, from the whiskey glass with the dry residue at the bottom to the face-down paperback mystery next to it, the floor lamp with its thin bronze stalk and faded cylindrical shade, the small framed photos on the wall. Who is that? Looks a bit like Hedy Lamarr. And the man with her, smirk on face, hat at rakish angle and cigarette elegantly held in gloved hand? Is that me in a different incarnation?

I find that there’s nothing to do here, nothing that can be done in the short time I have for this apartment. Cleaning it up would take days, so let’s not even get started. I could go on reading the mystery. It’s The Root of his Evil by James M. Cain, and I’m on page sixty apparently. Or is it open to that page only because the spine is broken there? I have no recollection of what the book is about, none whatsoever.

Now’s the time something would happen in a book by Cain or Chandler or Hammett. A car would drive up outside, the phone would ring, or I would discover a set of toes underneath a floor-length curtain, something blunt would hit the back of my head and I’d pass out.

Nothing of the sort. I will remember the visit when I wake up. I will remember having gone back there repeatedly. I will remember that I’ll have to return there. I will remember the apartment with some feeling of guilt, as something I neglect, something I tend to forget, even though I shouldn’t. Only to remember and have to go back, with nothing ever changing in this dusty brown apartment.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 25. The task was to “write an autobiographical poem.” I would call the above an autobiographical prose poem. Autobiographical because it is about a recurrent dream I used to have. A poem because it's more poetic than prose usually is.
I haven't returned to that apartment in a long time. I’ve turned it into reality – I’ve rented a space in a place downtown, nominally to work there, but I’m hardly ever there.

James M. Cain, The Root of his Evil, first published in 1951.

Easter

2011-04-24T03:25:00.000-07:00

No poem today
on Easter.

At least not so far.
I'm staying with my seester.

– Felix Morgenstern

Posted for NaPoWriMo day 24. The task would have been to "write a bouts-rimes. The bouts-rimes is a sort of poetic parlor game: you write a poem using the rhyming end words from another poem. They’re usually done with sonnets in English. So today I challenge you to write a bouts-rimes sonnet, using the end words from either K. Silem Mohammad’s poem You White White Teatime Teen, which was itself constructed anagrammatically from Shakespeare’s Sonnet VI, or from Robert Frost’s The Silken Tent. So your end words are either:
rage, doom, age, tomb, sighs, breast, thighs, west, mad, blues, plaid, shoes, fail, mail
or
tent, breeze, relent, ease, pole, heavenward, soul, cord, bound, thought, round, taught, air, aware."
This did not inspire me at all. I read both poems quickly, but neither did anything for me.
As the above silly ditty says, I was at my sister's place in the country for Easter, and I only had time to go online briefly in the morning.

PS: The following transpired after all...

Sonnet written in an hour of poetic darkness

As after midnight I rage,
I feel only doom,
and my age
appears close to the tomb.

Thick sighs
alight from my breast,
not thighs,
you idiot off there in the west.

Call me mad,
give me the blues,
wear preppy plaid,
step on my shoes –

whatever you do, you'll definitely fail
to get any more of my mail.

Not having the atomic pie but selling it

2011-04-22T16:13:00.000-07:00

Nuclear power plants are oh so bad
is what German politicians suddenly said
after the Fukushima event in Japan.
But are they bad enough to ban
German exports of such plants
to people in other lands?

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written as the requested short, satirical poem for NaPoWriMo day 23. Some of the rhymes limp, but what’s a little poetic stumble compared to the big tumble of some nuclear power plants?

What he needed from me I have no idea

2011-04-21T15:45:00.000-07:00

The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
in the glaring white gap

Hot black dunes in the air—we slept
the chill of closed eyelids,
not April and the magnolias

The trick is to make it personal:
let silence drill its hole,
sleepily indifferent

– Johannes Beilharz

Collated for NaPoWriMo day 22. The task was to participate in the cento contest organized by Danielle Pafunda (who has been posting her NaPoems over at the Bloof Books website). What’s a cento? It’s a poem composed entirely of lines from other poems.
The above poem is composed entirely of lines tweeted today by Danielle through the twitter feed of the Academy of American Poets.
The authors of the lines I chose are, in the sequence of the appearance of the lines: Anne Carson Nox, Catie Rosemurgy, Medbh McGuckian, Henri Cole, Marina Tsvetaeva, James Schuyler, Khaled Mattawa, Daniel Johnson, William Carlos Williams

A shining

2011-04-20T22:25:00.000-07:00

Today you will concentrate on your inner life
(rather than celebrating your outer life),

and you will be celebrating the beauty
that lies in the small, cosmic kernel of life

that is inside you. You will once again
feel the power and flow of inner life

into the world surrounding you, as you
go to work on your inner and outer life.

– Iself (© 2011)

Ghazal written for NaPoWriMo day 21.
Maybe a bit heavy on the inner/outer life stuff and in general, and pale with abstraction, but so be it.
Brought about partially by my daily horoscope, which said, “The day ahead should be a pleasant one, Iself. For the next few days your inner life will interest you more than usual. You may not necessarily become a psychoanalyst, but you will be tempted to seek insight into some of life's more profound motivations. In fact, you become a fervent truth-seeker in all areas of your life. It could be an especially valuable opportunity to learn why you feel so shy and inhibited in public. Perhaps this way you can overcome it.”

Celebrity spotlight & other exiles

2011-04-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

For you

“Everything that happens is for the best,”
you said on the way from work last week,
and when I read “I thought of you
with the passion of exile”* this morning
while taking the day's initial piss this
was therefore probably also for the best,
as well as reading my horoscope,
which was asking me if I'd thought
of living in another country, preferably
one where the action is in my field,
instead of going dry in the desert.
Add to that the advertisement for
Catherine Zeta Jones' treatise on a
disorder that is “characterized by
high and low moods” and the
recognition that I also must have
this, except that I used to think
it was fairly normal, it all falls
into place, don't it. Sometimes
I have an inkling that I need to take
life in my own hands instead of
standing by and letting it happen.
But what could I do, about you,
for example, other than exile myself?
“Everything that happens is for
the worst,” it could also be said,
because you can't really tell
the best from the worst, can you,
once it’s happened.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 20 along the lines of “Today’s challenge is to write a poem inspired by something you’ve overheard.”
*I've slightly misquoted this. In The Return of the Soldier by Rebecca West, a novel from 1918 which I've been reading for the last two weeks, it actually says “I thought of him with the passion of exile.”
And the title, where did that come from? From this:

Rouge

2011-04-18T22:18:00.000-07:00

She was a metaphor of rouge. Not only did she eat lots
of beets – “iron, you know” – but also felt like this
warm, creamy, beety mass: rouge. Rouge bra, rouge
stockings, rouge pubic hair, rouge curlers, rouge heart,
rouge lungs growing and deflating, rouge earlobes,
rouge soles – “pet me” – rouge milk, rouge Camaro, rouge
grass, rouge dogs, no rouge spiders, rouge smoky kiss
from rouge lips ...

– Johannes Beilharz (© 1981)

Posted for NaPoWriMo day 19. The task was “Pick a color – something you like, something important to you. Red, yellow, whatever. Now, write a poem that uses the color in every or nearly ever line: a hypnotic invocation of the color.” This made me immediately think of the above poem from way back when.

Made known to Writer's Island as usual. Three big cheers to Writer's Island for hosting NaPoWriMo.

Profile of my best friend

2011-04-17T22:21:00.000-07:00

He goes out,
drinks with his buddies,
but never gets wasted.

He falls in love regularly
with complicated women
who somehow like him
but never enough.

He works because
he needs the money.
Work gives him structure.

Occasionally he even works well
because he takes pride in what he does.

He expects this to go on and on
until death do him part.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 18. The idea was to do a portrait of someone, which I did.

A dream

2011-04-16T23:06:00.000-07:00

For P.

A bad dream arisen
from distortion,
not quite the truth,
having been left
with incorrect
impressions not
corrected on
purpose. It took
on surprising
proportions as a
ferocious
animal assaulting
me, like Tipu
Sultan’s tiger
the English soldier.
Such fierceness
my feelings must
have. Perhaps
not for you.
About you –
about you and me,
about being goaded
and lied to.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo, day 17. Actually, today's task would have been to reduce a passage from Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life, but I could not get into it, try as I might. (I tried 4 versions, calling them Curtain calls / Exercises in elimination and conversion.) But I still had the remnants of a dream to chew on, and they went into the poem above. Last night I found out, more or less by chance, that someone I care about has been dishonest with me, telling me things about herself that are not true, the greatest puzzle being the reason for this dishonesty.

Tippoos's Tiger – a life-size 18th century automaton on display at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

Haikuode

2011-04-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

to the liquid which
pounces down on us, drenching
to the very bone.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo on day 16. Today, the task was to "celebrate that yin yang quality – the eternal twinning of opposites by doing one of the following: write a poem in the form of a complaint about something that is good or you like, or in the form of a hymn to something that is bad or that you dislike. A rant about blue skies, an encomium to rainy days. A curt dismissal of strawberries or beach vacations; a paean to Brussels sprouts, or waiting rooms."
Well, each of these ideas could have set off my creative forces, but rain was first – so there!
Not to worry, though; I'll probably rant about strawberries on the beach very soon.

Laura and Petrarch

2011-04-14T22:33:00.000-07:00

A dissonant character sonnet

Deprive him of thrive,
the rugged barbarian,
let her be more alive,
the tender vegetarian.

Let him moan
frustration from shore to shore,
let her groan
with a need for more.

Let him become a little listless,
isolated on a remote isle,
let her develop some bristles
to make him walk the extra mile.

Let those deeds all be done
and soon they’ll be one.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

For day 15 of NaPoWriMo, the task was to write a sonnet. Well, here is mine, with claptrap rhyme and full of helpful suggestions for an ancient couple.

Since I was asked: The rhyme scheme used here follows the Shakespearean or English sonnet, while the meter does not.

Five minutes for no-one

2011-04-13T22:20:00.000-07:00

It's grey out there,
and that nicely
coincides with the grey
zone inside me.
It's been a lot like that
after waking up,
it takes me time
to again slip into the world
after the absence of sleep,
the tie to another world,
which seems to have
become rather dull
as I mostly don't dream
any more. I used to
write for someone,
but even that has stopped.
I might drive to work
with her in half an hour,
but not even that
has been decided.
We are that spontaneous.
So let this be a
spontaneous day –
hey, I've got enough
hair on my head
to pull myself
out of the grey.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for day 14 of NaPoWriMo in about 5 minutes, as suggested.

Big, square and

2011-04-13T00:06:00.000-07:00

Big,
square,
black and
floppy. Stuck
in a big toaster-
like thing that made grinding noises.

– Iself

Written for NaPoWriMo day 13 on the subject of nostalgia. Can there be nostalgia for 8-inch floppy disks? I suppose there can be, as this fibonacci proclaims.

Blues in D

2011-04-12T00:11:00.000-07:00

Woke up
this morning,
had to clean
the place
before leaving
for work
so the cleaning
lady would have
a clean slate
to work from,
raced through
the joint
to remove
scattered
items of clothing
and make
piles of scattered
papers neater,
started the PC
to find that
someone
wants me
to translate
a 30-line poem
into Spanish,
and how much
would that cost,
well it's a good
question,
the question of
being poetic
in Spanish,
I felt like giving
in sight unseen
and for a price
you can't refuse,
hoping the poem
would have a lot of
blood-red corazones
in it.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 12. The task was to write a 40-line poem in a single sentence, possibly something sounding a bit Victorian. Well, this one ended up sounding more Berrigansian than Victorian, but so be it. The title came last, and out of nowhere. But wait – isn't it the title of somebody's* song?

*It is indeed ... "Blues in D" by Kate and Anna McGarrigle, performed here by Nick Cave and Jenni Muldauer:

The picture of little J.B. in a prospect of machinery

2011-04-10T22:43:00.000-07:00

An orange disk shines a beam on a shred of past –
exposing the new sawmill being set up after 1960's fire,
exposing the boss’ little boy.

Is he a nuisance in the way of the workers there?
He’s around 4 or 5,
he watches and interacts,
not always fully comprehending,
not always being able to separate joke and reality.

One day he stands with his back to the gap surrounding the big saw,
a bit too close, takes one step back,
and whoosh goes down his first big flight
onto a springy bed of sawdust,
with the grown men scrambling down there
to see if he’s alive, if he’s all right.

He is all right, he’s still alive, he holds the memory
and now switches off the beam.

– Iself (© 2011)

A straight, artless mirror image of John Ashbery’s The picture of little J.A. in a prospect of flowers for NaPoWriMo day 11.

Holly, it’s folly

2011-04-09T23:50:00.001-07:00

Oh what another winner hath landed Holly!
The best thing about him is that he’s jolly.
He ogles young women voraciously
and slurps his coffee rapaciously.
His looks betray that he’s five times your age,
dear Holly, and it takes no sage
to figure out
that he buys his clothes at McDowd.
Those thick, froggy-eyed specs
imply there won't be much sex.
In short, my angel, between you and me,
you are, as usual, barking up the wrong tree.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written for day 10 of NaPoWriMo.
Today, the idea was to “try to write a poem backwards. I don’t mean letter by letter, or word by word, but line by line. Start by writing out an old saying that takes the form of a declarative statement. Like “Birds of a feather flock together,” or “A miss is as good as a mile.” That will be the last line of your poem. The next line you write will be the second-to-last, and so on, until you reach the “beginning.” To help you keep your focus, let’s say that the poem has to be an address to someone or something that can’t answer back – a person who is absent, or an animal or inanimate object.”
I followed the rules ... well, more or less. I did indeed choose the final saying first. As to the rest, I kept writing new lines and rearranging them to such an extent that I no longer remember what initially was first, second, third, etc.
The address is definitely to someone who is absent – apart from the name, nothing is said about Holly, even though it's clear that she seems to have a serious case of bad judgement.

Malcolm writes

2011-04-08T23:03:00.000-07:00

to avoid seeing Marjorie in person as her condition might be contagious:

“Yesterday you wrote in your letter
that you are sick and not feeling better.

I hope this reply with pickle and lime
will give you a much better time.

In the event that this does not work,
I advise you to go see that jerk

down the street who calls himself healer.
He’ll give you a paper for the dealer

of sweet mint-flavored pills
that for sure will cure all your ills.”

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written for NaPoWriMo day 9 in response to this: “... today you are encouraged to write a nursery rhyme. 4 to 6 lines, 3-5 accented syllables per line (don’t worry about making them iambs or dactyls or what…as long as your lines are short), and of course, a rhyme or two.”

As if you'd won the lottery

2011-04-08T00:30:00.000-07:00

Don't stand there with that shit-eating grin on your face,
my dear, as if you'd just won the red noise prize.

Let me tell you that a fruit's a fruit and a tart's a tart,
and that Annabelle – well, suffice it to say

that I knew her in school, and all to well.
If you know what I mean.

So don't you feed me that 'J'en sais rien' line.
I seen the two of you parked in my car,

and it was rocking.

– Iself (© 2011)

Written for day 8 of NaPoWriMo.

This was written in response to:
"Today’s prompt is a bit of a smorgasbord, and reflects the fact that we are at day seven. It asks you to write a poem with seven different phrases, ideas, or just plain old “things” in it. These are:
1) an example of synasthetic metaphor — one that describes one sensory perception using adjectives more naturally suited to a different sense (e.g., “a red noise,” or a “a bitter touch”)
2) a fruit
3) the name (first or last) of someone you knew in school
4) a rhetorical question
5) a direct address to the poem’s audience — “Reader” or “mom” or “Michelle,” or maybe just “You”)
6) a word in a foreign language
7) a reference to a game of chance (darts or pool or the lottery or etc).
All of these may seem pretty disjointed, and indeed, they’re meant to be. But these kind of little “projects” can work wonders in keeping a poem both lively and concrete, instead of letting it wander off into a forest of abstractions)."

The Matapedia

2011-04-07T00:03:00.000-07:00

What is it?

A road somewhere in Canada?

Shreds from a song

to form an inaccurate picture

"And we raced the Matapedia –

and we were not afraid"

But there is also an unexpected meeting

with room for ample speculation

"He said, 'Oh my God, it's Kate!'

'No, I'm the daughter of Kate.
My name is Martha.

Who are you?
Ma never told me about you.'"

And on they race the Matapedia,

with minutes to spare.

I imagine to board a ferry –

a ferry to somewhere or nowhere.

Written for NaPoWrimo day 7 in response to the following: "Today’s prompt is one of musical ekphrasis. Ekphrastic poetry comments upon or is inspired by another work of art in a different medium. Most people think of it as a poem inspired by a painting or a sculpture. But it could also be music!"

Lest this remain too cryptic...
As pointed out by vivinfrance in her comment, the Matapedia is a river in Québec, Canada. I still think, however, that the song by Kate and Anna McGarrigle on the album of the same name I'm alluding to must refer to a road running along the river, but I could be wrong. I would assume that the Kate and Martha characters mentioned in the song are Kate McGarrigle and her daughter Martha Wainwright.

Here's a link to the song on Youtube:

I could feel

2011-04-05T23:43:00.000-07:00

I could feel
some melodic drowning
coming on today
with horrid greatness.

With horrid greatness
I could feel
some melodic drowning
coming on today.

– Iself

It's all about oxymorons today, this 6th day of NaPoWriMo, and the ones I used were generated by the Serendipitous Oxymoron Maker at the very first try. And I didn't even need to consult the horoscope today ... it was all right there with horrid greatness ... that melodic drowning, or at least some of it. Beware, oh moron, of oxys.

The 2011 Francisco Cabrera Revolution

2011-04-05T01:03:00.000-07:00

We almost missed the revolution.
– Paul Hughes

In a nightmarish café

(garish, gaudy lights,

smoke twirls, drone,

laughter, cackling)

in which I'd long given up

trying to listen to anyone

in particular, somebody

raised a glass and shouted

above the din, "Long live

the revolution!"

All I remember after that

is feeling guilty about not

knowing which revolution

this was about. But I did

not dare ask for fear of

appearing uninformed.

Which I am, about most

revolutions nowadays.

Written for NaPoWriMo day 5.

The challenge today was to take another participant's poem and riff off of it. The one I riffed off of was one by Paul Hughes titled subway talk part ii (to be read here).

Time Waist

2011-04-04T04:06:00.000-07:00

time waist time waist

ime waist time wais

me waist time wai

e waist time wa

waist time

e waist time wa

me waist time wai

ime waist time wais

time waist time waist

– Iself

A concrete poem for NaPoWriMo #4.

Not quite a 1-word poem (along the lines of Aram Saroyan's lighght, see NaPoWriMo blog), but the best I could come up with.

Freewheeling

2011-04-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

For L.

"There are three fields I work in,"
she said, "performance, video
and drawing." (Her father prompted
with proper suggestions to go on.)

"The performances are exhausting;
they all have to do with ropes,
climbing and descent. I'm not sure
whether they are Apollinian or

Dionysian, something else I have
been interested in. In one, I cut
a bowling alley in half, making holes
in the walls left and right at about

half height to hold the rings
for my rope. I went along towards
my audience, it was both strenuous
and exhilarating. Sometimes

I caught myself wanting to laugh:
what were all these people doing,
watching me with serious eyes
as I went along." Her father prompted,

"And one of your videos was..."
"... dancing along an ugly street
in funny yellow pants. I did many
iterations of this, varying my steps,

arm movements and behavior.
A friend of mine did the filming.
Mostly the people seemed per-
plexed, not knowing what to think

of this crazy person doing this,
making way, moving aside. Not
stopping." "Is there any money
in this?" somebody asked.

"In the videos? – I suppose
they could be sold. Or the drawings
I do – that's my third field
of activity." "And how do you

do them?" her father prompted.
"I make myself rules, I restrict
myself. One drawing might be
only boxes, for example, in only

five colors, but with other rules,
to increase complexity." "And
these you would sell, there is
a market for that?" her father said.

"There is a market, and, once
it has found you, it wants you
to repeat yourself. I could become
the colored box lady,

or the rope performer, or
the hip-hop dancer of dreary
streets, both Apollinian and
Dionysian." Thus ended Lou,

to soon perform an acte
morpheusien for a change.

– Iself (© 2011)

A freewheeling act for NaPoWriMo #3, concocted fresh from the lips of Lou herself last night.

Poems and antipoems

2011-04-02T01:01:00.000-07:00

I’m surrounded by books,
many of which I haven’t looked at in years.

Not even been aware of.
They stand there not making a peep,
even the Long Talking Bad Conditions Blues.

How funny to note books owned
for decades with renewed surprise.

In the case of Nicanor Parra
I remember a conversation with Paula and Eduardo
from earlier this year about the great Chilean poets,
during which I quoted from Violeta Parra’s
Cueca de los poetas:

    Pero el más gallo se llama
    Pablo Neruda
    Huifa ay ay.

...

    Corre que ya te agarra
    Nicanor Parra.

But the shelves I’m looking at
also carry more pedestrian stuff,
like the Dictionary of Legal,
Commercial and Political Terms.

Now that one I’ve touched more
often than the antipoems or
condition blues because I need it
for a living. Even though the poor
thing has been mostly superseded
by online sources as many
of its brothers in shelf.

Today I declare the still life
blues day for printed outdated
dictionaries, poems and antipoems
online and shelved.

– Iself (© 2011)

NaPoWriMo 2011 #2

Written upon inspiration by this (at NaPoWriMo):
"Write a poem that incorporates the titles of three books you have in your house."
The books are:
Nicanor Parra, Poems and Antipoems
Ronald Sukenick*, Long Talking Bad Conditions Blues
Dietl/Moss/Lorenz, Dictionary of Legal, Commercial and Political Terms
Singer, song writer, writer and artist Violeta Para (1917-1967) was Nicanor Parra's sister.

*Ron Sukenick (1932-2004) was one of my teachers at the University of Colorado.

Haze

2011-04-01T09:12:00.000-07:00

That purple haze
finally appears to be lifting.
Jimi chords are coming closer,
the distortion is ebbing away.
Soon there will only be one sound left –
that of one clear, springy string.

– Iself (© 2011)

NaPoWriMo 2011 #1

Written based on the suggestion "Use a color as your title."
The color that immediately came to my mind was "hazy" – because I've been in a haze of sorts. And then, of course, it became clearer right away, because of Purple Haze.

Der rote Schubkarren

2011-03-19T05:28:00.000-07:00

so viel hängt ab
von

einem roten Schub-
karren

besprengt mit Regen-
wasser

bei den weißen
Hühnern.

– William Carlos Williams

Ins Deutsche gebracht von Johannes Beilharz (© der Übersetzung 2011).

Original: The red wheelbarrow

Egloge an WCW

The Red Wheelbarrow

2011-03-19T05:26:00.000-07:00

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

– William Carlos Williams

Deutsche Übertragung

Eloge an WCW

2011-03-19T05:24:00.000-07:00

Was von dem roten
Schubkarren und

den weißen Hühnern
abhängt, konnte noch

nicht definitiv geklärt
werden. Was Regen

anrichten kann, das ist
hinreichend bekannt.

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2011)

Bezieht sich auf das häufig zitierte Gedicht von William Carlos Williams, The Red Wheelbarrow (Der rote Schubkarren).

Pijushakanti Sarkar

2011-03-19T04:37:00.000-07:00

Ein veristisches Gedicht*

Hier kommt nichts vor, das es nicht
in unmittelbarer Umgebung gibt.

Die Stimme des Pijushakanti Sarkar
aus Bengalen wird herbeigetragen

auf mp3 und Laptop. Eine elektrische
Lampe aus gebürstetem Edelstahl

mit Mattglasschirm steht unbeleuchtet
dabei. Die Leuchtkraft durch die Fenster

reicht trotz der gesättigten Grauheit
da draußen aus. Die Sonne

ist unsichtbar. Dank Wissenschaft
wissen wir jedoch, dass sie trotzdem

da ist. Stühlerücken unter mir,
Bewegungen, Gänge, Gespräch.

Nichts Unruhiges, die beiden Kinder
kreischen nicht, die Eltern schimpfen

nicht. Da draußen ist auch ein Nieseln,
in das ich in Kürze hinaus muss.

Hier kommt nichts vor, das es nicht
in unmittelbarer Umgebung gibt.

Alles ist eine Frage von Beziehungen,
des in Bezug Setzens. Oder auch nicht.

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2011)

*Veristische Gedichte (gemäß meiner Erfindung) bedienen sich ausschließlich bei dem in nächster Nähe Befindlichen. Sie sind darin Lebensmittelläden ähnlich, in denen nur Produkte aus der unmittelbaren Umgebung angeboten werden. Sie bedienen sich auch ein bisschen bei William Carlos Williams und dessen “No ideas but in things” (oder vielleicht auch bei den Meistern der Reluktanz, deren abgekürztes Diktum “No ideas” oder vielleicht gar “No idea” zu lauten scheint).

Spielende rollende Augen

2011-01-08T07:21:00.000-08:00

Die Augen, jene wie es nun sei,
Sie spielen im Prinzip auch verspielt!
Sie rollen!
Aristophanes, staune und flieh!
Welch göttliches Glück!
Augen!
Spielende Augen für Aristophanes.

– Iself & Poetron

Zur Genesis dieses Gedichts
Wenn einem selbst nichts einfällt, kann man sich an Poetron wenden, und der dichtet! Gefüttert habe ich ihn mit den Wörtern Aristophanes, Auge, spielen, verspielt. Und er hat was daraus gemacht, findet ihr nicht?
Neulich wurde ich zur Teilnahme an einem Workshop aufgefordert, der einem beibringt, Gedichte zu schreiben, die einen umhauen. Auf die Teilnahme musste ich leider verzichten, weil die Veranstaltung in Illinois oder Iowa oder sonstwo im Mittleren Westen stattfindet. Aber lernen würde ich das natürlich schon gern. Man denke nur: Gedichte, die einen umhauen! Sowas hab ich schon lang nicht mehr gelesen.

Die Uhr des Heiligen Panda

2011-01-02T09:36:00.000-08:00

(Etwas aus dem Spanischen zur Erheiterung im neuen Jahr)

Die Uhr des Heiligen Panda

Sie geht nicht!

Arme Uhrmacherin, die du diese Uhr gebaut hast –

Was hast du nur mit dieser Uhr gemacht?

Ich denke an diese Uhr an den verschiedensten Orten

an Uhrorten

die nicht gehen

– Justinián Belisar

aus dem Spanischen übersetzt von Johannes Beilharz (© 2011)

----------

El reloj del Santo Panda

                       ¡no anda!

Pobresita relojera que hiciste este reloj

                    ¿Qué has hecho con este reloj?

                          Sigo pensando en este reloj en lugares muy diversos

              En lugares de reloj

                       no andando

– Justinián Belisar (© 2002)

Anmerkung des Übersetzers
Über Justinián Belisar, den Autor dieses Gedichts, ist mir nichts bekannt, außer dass er aus Argentinien stammt. Er schickte mir 2002 per E-Mail mehrere Gedichte für mein Literaturforum mit der Bitte, sie dort zu veröffentlichen, reagierte danach aber auf keine meiner Mails.
In seinem ersten und einzigen Schreiben sagte er lediglich, dass er sich außerhalb des aktuellen Literaturbetriebs sieht, der ihn ankotzt, und dass er deshalb in seinem Heimatland regelmäßig nicht veröffentlicht wird.

A couch in New York

2010-12-29T07:41:00.000-08:00

Ever feel like watching a lackluster romantic comedy? Well, you never know, once in a while you might. For example, to watch some stars you liked in other films.

This was the reason I recently checked out Un divan à New York (1996, German title Eine Couch in New York, i.e. A Couch in New York) with Juliette Binoche – co-star of Johnny Depp in Chocolat (2000) – and William Hurt, who had impressed me in The Accidental Tourist (1988).

Hurt plays a New York shrink on the brink of a nervous breakdown who decides he needs a change of scenery and trades homes with Binoche, who is an I already forgot what in Paris. Binoche's chaotic place in France's capital is too much of a change of scenery for Hurt (who gets attacked by pigeons, broken pipes and a jealous ex-lover of Binoche's), so he returns home after a few days, only to find that Binoche has taken over treatment of his patients, committing numerous psychology no-nos in her consultations. Strangely though, these broken rules render happy patients, something the good doctor has failed to achieve in all his years as a famous psychotherapist. He becomes a patient on his own couch...

That's how this love story with a complete lack of chemistry begins. But no, wait – it's already begun in Hurt's head while reading Binoche's intimate diary at her place (it looked rather like one of the paperback poetry books from Gallimard). If that ain't another no-no.

How about the acting qualities displayed here? Well, Hurt walks around with a permanently insulted look on his face – could also be a liver problem or constipation –, while Binoche comes off as a likeable airhead. I supppose that's meant to be French esprit.

So, if you're in the right mood for tepid romance and stuff borrowed from perhaps a dozen other movies (American and French), go ahead and watch this one.

Christian Morgenstern / Winternacht

2010-12-24T04:31:00.000-08:00

Ein Wintergedicht zu den Feiertagen und zum Jahresende ...

Winternacht

Flockendichte Winternacht ...
Heimkehr von der Schenke ...
Stilles Einsamwandern macht,
daß ich deiner denke.

Schau dich fern im dunklen Raum
ruhn in bleichen Linnen ...
Leb ich wohl in deinem Traum
ganz geheim tiefinnen? ...

Stilles Einsamwandern macht,
daß ich nach dir leide ...
Eine weiße Flockennacht
flüstert um uns beide ...

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Für die Kenntnis dieses Gedichts danke ich Lyrikmail.

Octavio Paz: In den Gärten der Lodi

2010-11-10T11:20:00.000-08:00

In das einmütige Blau
Entstoben den Kuppeln der Mausoleen
– Schwarz, zusammengedrängt, nachdenklich –
Auf einmal
Vögel

– Octavio Paz

Aus: Ladera este, Mexico City 1969. Übertragung aus dem Spanischen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

Die Lodi-Gärten sind ein Park in Delhi, Indien. Benannt sind sie nach den Lodi, einer paschtunischen Dynastie, die im 16. Jahrhundert einen Großteil Nordindiens beherrschte.

Octavio Paz war von 1962 bis 1968 Botschafter Mexikos in Indien.

Quadro Nuevo: Reise nach Batumi

2010-11-01T10:47:00.000-07:00

Schon mal was von Batumi gehört? Irgendeine Idee, wo das sein könnte?

Seit ich Mittwoch letzter Woche Quadro Nuevo in einem Konzert hier in Stuttgart erlebte, weiß ich, dass es den Ort gibt, dass er im heutigen Georgien liegt und dazu noch historisch belastet ist.

Denn es war irgendwo in der Gegend von Batumi, wohin Jason aus alten griechischen Zeiten auszog, um sich das goldene Vlies zu holen, das von einem bösartigen Drachen gehütet wurde.

Jason, ein kraftstrotzender Jüngling, Abenteuern nicht abgeneigt und vielleicht ein wenig naiv, und einige seiner Kumpels, zusammen die Argonauten genannt, traten eine Mission an, die in heutiger Zeit mit einer Reise zum Mars und ungewissen Aussichten auf eine Rückkehr innerhalb der nächsten siebzig Jahre verglichen werden könnte.

Als Preis winkten ihm ein Thron und eine hübsche Prinzession. Und was tut man nicht alles für einen Thron und eine Prinzessin...

Die “Reise nach Batumi” ist nur eine der Reisen, die auf der neuesten CD von Quadro Nuevo mit dem passenden Titel “Grand Voyage” angetreten werden; unter anderem geht's auch nach Portugal, Antiochia (heute Antakya genannt) und Tunesien.

An jedem der angesteuerten Orte hat sich das Quartett inspirieren lassen, hat dort komponiert und gespielt. Entstanden sind fantastische musikalische Touren, die anzuhören ein Hochgenuss ist.

Diese CD und weitere von Quadro Nuevo sind in Musikgeschäften und im Online-Handel erhältlich, z.B. auch bei Amazon.

– Iself (© 2010)

PS: Neugierig auf Batumi? Wikipedia hat die Antwort.

Eat Art, Stuttgart

2010-11-01T08:42:00.000-07:00

Salz oder Persil? Eines der Exponate der Ausstellung Eat Art im Stuttgarter Kunstmuseum.

Meine Fototour

Salt or laundry detergent? One of the exhibits to be seen at the Eat Art show in Suttgart.

My guided tour with photos

Trip to Batumi

2010-10-30T06:20:00.000-07:00

Ever heard of Batumi? Any idea where it might be?

Neither had I, neither did I.

But ever since attending a Quadro Nuevo concert last Wednesday here in Stuttgart I sort of know where the place is and that it’s truly anciently historical.

Because it was somewhere around Batumi that Jason of old Greek times was sent to obtain the Golden Fleece, guarded by a highly aggressive dragon.

Jason, a strapping youth not adverse to adventure and a bit naive, and some of his buddies, together called the Argonauts, went on a mission that would be, in our day and age, somewhat like latter-day astronauts flying to Mars and not knowing if you were ever going to be back within the next seventy years.

But a throne and a lovely princess were to be his rewards. And what would one not do for a throne and a lovely princess...

The “Trip to Batumi” is only one of the numerous trips the latest CD by Quadro Nuevo – appropriately titled “Grand Voyage” – takes you to – others include Portugal, Antioch (today’s Antakya) and Tunisia.

Guided musical tours by four fantastic musicians from Bavaria that are really worth it!

This CD and others by Quadro Nuevo are available at music stories or online shops, such as Amazon.

– Iself (© 2010)

PS: Curious about Batumi? Wikipedia has the answer.

Vicente Huidobro / Kutter

2010-10-17T03:18:00.001-07:00

Die Erinnerungen
                           sind es müde geworden, mir zu folgen

                   DER WEG WAR SO LANG

Dieser Wind kam von etlichen Schwingen
Und die Tage vergehen heulend am Horizont

Als junger Kutter
Durchkreuzte ich viele Ungewitter
Bei Seemannsliedern

Alle Möwen
                   gaben mir Federn in die Hände

Hinter dem letzten Berg
                                     stiegen die Monate hinab

Ein posthumer Gesang versperrte uns die Ausfahrt

– Vicente Huidobro (aus “Poemas árticos”, erste Veröffentlichung 1918)

Aus dem Spanischen übersetzt von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

Weitere Gedichte von Vicente Huidobro

City puzzle

2010-10-17T01:53:00.000-07:00

Stuttgart, Germany, 21st century

The game appears to be
to create the maximum number
of simultaneous holes in the
ground, marked by white-red
striped accident prevention
contraptions.

These holes
form the puzzle. Now to
connect them and get wise
to the great scheme behind
them all...

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

My small tribute to the construction frenzy rampant in this city. Most likely, the authorities are attempting to prepare us for the mother of all constructions – Stuttgart 21 – bound to turn the city into one coherent construction mess for about ten years.

Yannis Ritsos / Heilung

2010-10-11T13:44:00.000-07:00

Die Nächte gingen sehr dunkel vorbei.
Gewaltige Schreie liefen im Wind.
Am nächsten Tag erinnerten wir uns an gar nichts.
In der Zeit klaffte ein tiefes Loch.

Da, wo der Wolf sich eingenistet hatte,
blieb ein Schlagloch, mit warmem Wolfshaar ausgekleidet.
Jetzt könnte sich dort ein Schaf hinlegen.

– Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990)

Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

[Titel des griechischen Originals: Επουλωση. Aus: Ritsos in Parenthesis, Princeton University Press 1979]

Stille Wasser

2010-10-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

... sind tief –

aber das ist noch lange keine Garantie dafür, dass etwas drin ist.

– Iself

Dringend notwendige Ergänzung eines alten Sprichworts.

Yannis Ritsos / Tischkalender

2010-10-03T04:21:00.000-07:00

Monate und Monate, Wochen, Tage – unlernbares Jahr.
April mit kurzsichtiger Brille auf der Gartenbank.
Juli verbietet dir, allein zu schlafen.
September erinnert sich an verschlossene Häuser –
zwei Papierblumen und ein schwarzer Kamm mit groben Zähnen auf dem Tisch.
Im November hält ein Mann einen Stein auf dem Knie.
Januar, Februar – alle sind im Ausland.
Der Wind macht verzweifelte Gesten
vor der Glastür des geschlossenen Hotels.
Dann erscheint die stille Reinemachfrau frühmorgens
mit einem Schwamm, um die Fenster zu putzen.

– Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990)
Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

[Titel des griechischen Originals: Επιτραπεζιο Ημερολγιο. Aus: Ritsos in Parenthesis, Princeton University Press 1979]

Nachbemerkung des Übersetzers
Wie kam ich dazu, heute dieses Gedicht zu übersetzen? Bei einem Gang durch die Wohnung fiel mir auf, wie verstaubt Ritsos in Parenthesis im Regal war, nahm das Buch mit, staubte es ab, schlug es planlos auf der Seite mit diesem Gedicht auf, las es und beschloss, es zu übersetzen. Es schien mir sehr gut zu dem heutigen goldenen Herbst-Sonntag zu passen.

Clod-stuck poem invigorated

2010-09-06T12:49:00.000-07:00

or: Liturgy in the Sky

Again

Presentation of the role of straw Heron
This lake. For taking steps
Besides, why bother in the water, and
Pull up a blank, but only once.
Later, in the streets for miles, and some
He said that he will be there when the came. How to
Every day that fragile legs
Cool green scum, a good library door
The heat and light? This is the world's stupid.
Their streets every day, the sky,
Crypt in his cave,
Tin from surface distortion, Scattered in the yard.
daisied West
Changes in three colors, dandelion
The road was. Each year, influenza
Thick volume of air and tingling in wild
Hot, thin grass, leaves light
The beginning. Heron's position
The stone on the ground or behind me.
And broken wings, and then open and remove the iron
Blue rhythm, his body during the flight.
I felt the heat, and straw. Hope song
Taste of the wild, I empty
I said: No, but warm in the fields of
And skin. It is not long before
Start normal breathing,
The liturgy is still in the sky.

- Not Iself

Notes
Received another clod-stuck poem from that well-known ex-poet laureate this evening, which trampled its clod-stuck path about something or other very realistic from one trite line ending to the next.

What to do to breathe some sort of life into that still-life?

Well, I decided to pass it through Google Translate in a bunch of iterations - from English to Chinese to Bulgarian to Georgian to Arabic to God knows what and eventually back to English.

The above is the unadulterated result.

It's a wee bit puzzling ... but at least it's puzzling, which could not have been said about the pedestrian original.

Robert Bly might appreciate it - it has some of those leaps and bounds he thought great poetry should have.

Here's the Hindi version ... just for kicks:

फिर

भूसे की भूमिका की प्रस्तुति बगुला

इस झील. कदम उठाने के लिए

इसके अलावा, क्यों, पानी में परेशान है, और

ऊपर खींचो एक खाली है, लेकिन केवल एक बार.

बाद में, मील के लिए सड़कों में, कुछ और

उन्होंने कहा कि वह वहाँ जब आया होगा. कैसे करने के लिए

हर दिन है कि नाजुक पैरों

शांत हरी मैल, एक अच्छा पुस्तकालय दरवाजा

गर्मी और प्रकाश? यह दुनिया की बेवकूफी है.

उनकी हर दिन सड़कों, आकाश,

अपने गुफा में तहखाना,

विरूपण की सतह से टिन, यार्ड में बिखरे हुए.

पश्चिम गुलबहारों से ढंका हुआ

तीन रंगों, पीले फूल का एक पाक्रर का पौधा में परिवर्तन

सड़क था. प्रत्येक वर्ष, इन्फ्लूएंजा

हवा की मोटी मात्रा और जंगली में झुनझुनी

गर्म, पतले घास, पत्तियां प्रकाश

शुरुआत. बगुला है स्थिति

या मेरे पीछे जमीन पर पत्थर.

और टूटे पंख, और फिर खोलने के लिए और लोहे हटायें

ब्लू ताल, उड़ान के दौरान अपने शरीर.

मैं गर्मी महसूस किया, और पुआल. आशा गीत

जंगली का स्वाद, मैं खाली

मैंने कहा: नहीं, लेकिन के क्षेत्र में गर्म

त्वचा और. यह लंबे समय से पहले नहीं है

शुरू सामान्य श्वास,

मरणोत्तर गित आकाश में अब भी है.

Good-bye to Haiku Very Much

2010-07-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

Indelible

Bright flags strung up on
timelines flutter their good-byes
into the present

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

A haiku to say good-bye to Haiku Very Much and its haiku challenges. They will be missed!

Nightingale

2010-05-26T15:29:00.000-07:00

Grey melody.
Earth and sky sing in you
And are Spring.

– Peter Hille (1854-1904)

(Translation of Nachtigall; copyright © of translation from German by Johannes Beilharz 2010)

Nachtigall

2010-05-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

Graue Melodie.
In dir singen Erde und Himmel
Und sind Frühling.

– Peter Hille (1854-1904)

Dieses Gedicht flatterte mir in der gestrigen Lyrikmail ins Postfach.

You do ignite

2010-05-03T08:28:00.000-07:00

You do ignite that
rotten side of me – now please
be gone, old fart – depart!

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2010)

Written around depart, ignite, rotten from 3WW and a slightly failed haiku.

NYC

2010-05-01T05:51:00.000-07:00

redeeming snowy rooftops
upper east side manhattan
looking toward sunrise
12th floor blinking red for planes
and below the neighbor's hillocked roof garden
at night the jewelry of tiny glowing rectangles
infinite humans in that flying brick
the chirping of a small bird
a siren far then near then far
the rush of tires
a horn

– Deirdre LaPenna (© 2010)

This poem was originally posted in response to one of my own (Ditty in celebration of a grey city morning).

Other poems by Deirdre:
First poem
It is not imaginary
Older poems

And give us today our daily mixture

2010-04-28T22:39:00.000-07:00

Elton John says GOP oil leak in trouble for 5 states
Shootings kill census mail blockade of Bullock
Illegal Alabama immigrants say new congress may not tackle
Baby results could be well of sunken drilling rig
Ariz. governor candidate plans to leave over Obama
This is Mexican border city: we speak law
US Navy has encounter with Ryan White
AP source is divorcing James, adopting immigration soon
Iranian jet turned his life around
Banking regulation bill abandons 16 people in English

– Iself 2010

Blended, mixed, inverted, contorted from 10 current headlines for napowrimo #29, front page news

From across the river

2010-04-25T22:36:00.000-07:00

Dark-eyed,
from across the Hooghly she beckons to me

Mysterious night
across the river beckons to me

The old chamber softly lit
beckons to me

A sweetly solemn thought, sun and wind and beat of sea
beckon to me

“I am your woman,” she says
and beckons to me

– Iself (© 2010)

Written for napowrimo #26, get scrappy.

Note
As I was quite sure that I did not have any scribbled or unfinished poem in my wallet or in a notebook, I went to a random poetry generator for inspiration, picking a poem from the “poetry in motion” category. The above romantic/folkloric poem, which is more or less in the form of a ghazal, is the result.

I’m not posting the original generated poem because it has ingredients I did not care for and did not use.

The Hooghly river is a distributary of the Ganges in West Bengal, India, and flows by Kolkata.

The first word to hear

2010-04-24T22:57:00.000-07:00

It’s 7 a.m. on Sunday morning.
It’s the apartment and me.
The first word to hear is yet to come
from somewhere –
most likely through a telephone wire
or wireless or from someone
at a bakery.
But there’s bird song
through the open window,
and those birds
seem to be saying something.

– Iself (© 2010)

For napowrimo #25, first things first.

La salsa

2010-04-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

Alors vint la salsa...
– Gino Ducreuil

I

     The salsa enters on the tiptoes of celery
its bongos are maroon leathery mushrooms
     And the fat singer after margaritas
is pulsating fire: Celia Cruz

II

     The little black angels deform
under the blasting wall of electric strings
     Willie Colón the outlaw in-law
and this is the moment Brunilda Ruiz rises

     from a vogue for an eternally long
second-long long bridge
     The span of her foot is the graves of Puerto Rico
and the glistening rainy streets of Nueva York

     Spanish words by Adrés Eloy Blanco
music by Manual Álvarez Maciste
      for this elating bow the salsa
now playing in some nightclub in París

– Johannes Beilharz (© 1981/2010)

One quarter elemental for napowrimo #17, something elemental.

Note
Some explanation might be in order here to make this less cryptic.

This poem came about some time after the purchase of El Baquiné de Angelitos Negros, a 1977 album by Willie Colón. The cover shows dancer Brunilda Ruiz, and I somehow wove her, salsa and the much older song by Eloy Blanco and Álvarez Maciste into this poem along with salsa queen Celia Cruz, transplanting the whole show to Paris and quoting by a non-existent Frenchman to introduce it.

I wanna be your hero

2010-04-20T14:44:00.000-07:00

You call my attempts
risible, but please
leave me some lowly
pedestal at least

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2010)

Written for napowrimo #20, the hero poem.

A tiny little antidote to Bonnie Tyler:

Crystal clear

2010-04-11T22:47:00.000-07:00

Crystal clear is my love.
– Jackie de Shannon

I approach the dark forest
Its darkness swallows me up
After a while I discern a path
It takes me up a slope to a clearing
In the middle of the clearing there is a pond
I dip my right hand into the pond
The water is cool and clear
It seems to do something to my hand
I take it out and look at the palm
But there is nothing

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

What code could be more secret and elusive than dream? Put on the 'net for napowrimo #12, secret codes.

They call him the breeze

2010-04-10T00:42:00.000-07:00

It happened by unthought known –
he knocked up my friend

Said shucks when told
and for amendment from his native country
Há tempos ... there are times

Don’t cry sister cry – get ready
for the times to get better

– Iself (© 2010)

A late entry for napowrimo #1, iTunes on shuffle. The pieces were:

Knocked up – Kings of Leon
Don’t cry sister cry – J.J. Cale
Shucks – Bill Frisell
Unthought known – Pearl Jam
Há tempos – Legião Urbana

From memory I added a modified version of “They call me the breeze” by J.J. Cale for the title and “Ready for the times to get better” by Crystal Gayle for closure.

Ditty

2010-04-09T23:38:00.000-07:00

In celebration of a grey city morning

The sky is grey, the roofs glisten a lifeless red,
just rose from restless sleep in bed

Last night I inhaled tons of smoke
and had too much rum with my coke

Give this city boy some good country rest,
a tour in spring air and today will be blest

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

Havent’s quite shaken off the effects of last night’s outing with friends in a smoker bar as you can read here in this silly celebration for napowrimo #10.

For her

2010-04-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

Had a terrible Easter
weekend staying
away from you. You laid
down the rules. Your
plan is to educate me,
drive all the feeling for you
out of this torn mind.
But I don’t have to put
that shoe on. I can
shuffle on loving you.
Perhaps educate you –
who knows...

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

Something very personal for napowrimo #5.

Ms. Mueller’s Receiving Speech

2010-04-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

“Here’s your room – there’s your view of the Alps.
On good days you can see the Zugspitze.
Did you see it on the way? There’s one place
around Fernpass where you can see it. I see,
you didn’t stop there. Here’s the bathroom,
please use the toilet brush. There’s hot water
in the mornings. Breakfast from 7 to 10
in the cellar or on the terrace on sunny days.
Tomorrow won’t be sunny, going by the forecast.
And tomorrow you plan to be where? Merano?
Well, then, good night.”

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

Lends itself quite well to inside out for napowrimo #4.

Radiant Wall Panels

2010-04-02T04:36:00.000-07:00

Now that Chucky
had finally –
after months of begging
and coercion by
his beloved Tilda –
installed the
radiant wall panels
in their Sears Roebuck
kitchen, temporary happiness
had been established
in the Elmore household

– Iself

Another non-abstract RWP acronym-based poem. This time I took "radiant wall panels." See previous post for more details.

Stuck

2010-04-02T04:25:00.000-07:00

A rear wheel push

got us out

of the slushy mess

– Iself

Written for Read Write Poem's napowrimo #2. The task was to type "RWP" into Acronymattic and then write a poem with one or several of the resulting explanations. "Rear wheel push" appealed to me more than anything else because of its absence of abstraction, which fits in nicely with William Carlos Williams' "No ideas but in things."

Ernst Stadler: Bahnhöfe

2010-04-02T03:59:00.000-07:00

Bahnhöfe

Wenn in den Gewölben abendlich
    die blauen Kugelschalen
Aufdämmern, glänzt ihr Licht in die Nacht hinüber
    gleich dem Feuer von Signalen.
Wie Lichtoasen ruhen in der stählernen Hut
    die geschwungenen Hallen
Und warten. Und dann sind sie
    mit einem Mal von Abenteuer überfallen,
Und alle erzne Kraft
    ist in ihren riesigen Leib verstaut,
Und der wilde Atem der Maschine, die wie ein Tier
    auf der Flucht stille steht und um sich schaut,
Und es ist,
    als ob sich das Schicksal vieler hundert Menschen
    in ihr erzitterndes Bett ergossen hätte,
Und die Luft ist kriegerisch erfüllt
    von den Balladen südlicher Meere
    und grüner Küsten und der großen Städte.
Und dann zieht das Wunder weiter.
    Und schon ist wieder Stille und Licht
    wie ein Sternhimmel aufgegangen,
Aber noch lange halten die aufgeschreckten Wände,
    wie Muscheln Meergetön, die verklingende Musik
    eines wilden Abenteuers gefangen.

– Ernst Stadler (1883-1914)

Fixpoetry

2010-03-30T23:28:00.000-07:00

Ohne Titel

Gouache und Ölkreide, 2010

Ich freue mich, ankündigen zu dürfen, dass ich jetzt bei Fixpoetry mit etlichen neueren Gedichten zu lesen bin - meine Autorenseite ist hier direkt erreichbar.

Herzlichen Dank, Julietta!

Renewed onslaught of replica spam

2010-03-28T05:20:00.000-07:00

There's good news for all those who had begun to miss replica watch spam:

REPLICA SPAM IS ALIVE AND KICKING!

Beyond that, it has added a confidential, personal note.

Here are some examples that came in during the past two weeks:

From Rita at v04010501bb8c0c083aa5@aist.go.jp

Hi,
At last I’ve found the store that sells quality replicas. All replica timepieces I ordered before looked like cheap imitations. I liked this store from the very beginning. I like their service and selection, and finally the watch I’ve received turned out to be nice, heavy and made from stainless steel.
Tom

http://crave8600.spaces.live.com

-----

Again from Rita, but this time at a6201d@ms21.hinet.net

(she calls me "Bill", hinting that we know each other, but let me assure you that that's not so)

Hello, Bill,
You won’t believe your eyes when you see my new watch. You’ll never guess it is a replica. It looks perfect and I love it. I’m sure I will be a great success with girls now, I’ve already caught some interested glances. I’ve ordered it from Prestige Replicas in case you are interested.
Dan

http://simplicial4271.spaces.live.com

-----

And, surprise surprise, from Rita once more, spamming from this address: 20dollys@india.redcatsasia.com

Hello, Julia,
I received my replica watch on Tuesday. I'm so excited! It is heavy, massive and looks so luxurious and beautiful!!! My boss has original Cartier, he thinks mine is real too, as it is impossible to tell the difference. I'm going to order from them some other models of watches too. Hugs, Angelica
uuo

http://august8860.spaces.live.com

Well, this time Rita is apparently Angelica, and the hugs are for me, Julia, even though I ain't no Julia and there ain't none in the household.

-----

The next one is from Maria (thank God for some diversity) at allen576@digitelone.com - even though one could also get the impression that it's from Robert to George!

Dear George, Today my replica watch has arrived and I'm surprised it doesn't look like a cheap imitation. My friend has advised me to buy a replica watch, so I can keep my original Rolex for special occasions and use the replica for daily wear and tear. Nobody will notice the replacement. I recommend you to do the same. Robert

http://supposition7516.spaces.live.com

My concluding thoughts:

1. Is there actually anybody who is interested in buying this shit?
2. Have any of these spammers ever earned a dime from their spam?
3. Who would be stupid enough to click on one of those links?

Oh, but here's a picture of someone who apparently did order:

Federico García Lorca: Der Schrei

2010-03-13T13:49:00.000-08:00

Zum Anlass der letzten Sonntag im Kunstmuseum Stuttgart besuchten Fotoausstellung mit Bildern von Gerda Taro (1910-1937) zum spanischen Bürgerkrieg eine Übertragung eines Gedichtes von García Lorca, der 1936 von den Faschisten ermordet wurde.

Der Schrei

Die Ellipse eines Schreis
läuft von Berg
zu Berg.

¡Ay!

Von den Olivenbäumen
aufsteigend ist sie ein schwarzer Regenbogen
auf der blauen Nacht.

¡Ay!

Wie ein Violabogen
lässt der Schrei
die großen Saiten des Windes schwingen.

¡Ay!

(Die in den Höhlen
halten ihre Lichter hinaus.)

– Federico García Lorca

Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz

El grito

La elipse de un grito,
va de monte
a monte.

Desde los olivos,
será un arco iris negro
sobre la noche azul.

¡Ay!

Como un arco de viola
el grito ha hecho vibrar
largas cuerdas del viento.

¡Ay!

(Las gentes de las cuevas
asoman sus velones.)

¡Ay!

Weitere Gedichte von Federico García Lorca

Momentous event

2010-02-28T04:19:00.000-08:00

Another big dream

gone up

into thin air.

– Iself (© 2010)

Written and posted for Sunday Scribblings and Big Dreams.

I hate to admit it, folks, but that’s the way it went with a lot of my dreams – big and small.

Love disenchanted

2010-02-20T16:50:00.000-08:00

When pigs cease to fly
it’s time to say good-bye.

I’ve had enough of you
and all the times I’d woo

you with four leaves of clover.
See you when hell freezes over.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2010)

Written specifically for Sunday Scribblings and When Pigs Fly / When Hell Freezes Over.

All the Morgenstern poetry (Felix and Christian) posted in this blog

GeoCities became ReoCities

2010-02-09T01:44:00.000-08:00

In October 2009, GeoCities – free host to zillions of web pages – shut down.

Today I discovered that David Feinman ported many, many of those pages to ReoCities, including link fixes, so that cross-links to former GeoCities pages actually work.

A great big cheer to David!

My old site SoHo/bistro/7067 is among the sites that were saved.

However, I'd also prepared for the death of GeoCities by moving the pages to my own domain. And that is, of course, where the pages will be updated and where more will be added.

Click here to go to the new home of SoHo/bistro/7067 – International Forum for Literature and Art

First Poem

2010-02-07T03:49:00.000-08:00

Between the greatest galaxy
and the smallest sigh
the most important sound is
the voice of you or I.

– Deirdre LaPenna (© 2010)

Posted for Sunday Scribblings #201 / Message.

This poetic message is published here by kind permission of the author.

Older poems by Deirdre LaPenna

Relatively unknown 2nd Lt. wants to share Iraq money

2010-02-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

Here's the latest in spam scam from Sparkie Helen White (her nickname is Squeaky Clean, most likely), who, in her own words, is "relatively unknown" to me. Nice wording, even though I would change the adverb to "entirely" for truth's sake. By the way, the BBC News link below is actually legit.

Who knows, perhaps some reader may want to write to see what the promised vivid and coherent next message might be?

Enjoy this sincere offer:

Greetings,

I know you would be surprised to read from someone relatively unknown to you. My name is 2nd LT. SPARKIE HELEN WHITE, a member of the U.S. ARMY USARPAC Medical Team, which was deployed to Iraq at the beginning of the war in Iraq.

I would like to share some highly classified information about my personal experience and role which I played in the pursuit of my career serving
under the U.S 1st Armored which was at the fore-front of the war in Iraq.

Though, I would like to hold back certain information for security reasons for now until you have found the time to visit the BBC website stated below to
enable you have an insight into what I intend sharing with you, believing that it would be of your desired interest one-way or the other.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/2988455.stm

Also, could you get back to me having visited the above website to enable us discuss in a more clarifying manner to the best of your understanding. I must
say that I'm very uncomfortable sending this message to you without knowing truly if you would misconstrue the importance and decide to go public. In this
regards, I will not hold back to say that the essence of this message is strictly for mutual benefit between you and I and nothing more.

I will be vivid and coherent in my next message in this regards, meanwhile, could you send me an email confirming that you have visited the site and that
you have understood my intentions? I will await your thoughts via my personal email.

Thanks,

Best Regards

2nd LT. SPARKIE HELEN WHITE.

Somewhere near Teec Nos Pos

2010-01-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

“Oh my God,” James thought, “what am I doing all by myself in this neo-apocalyptic landscape?”

“But at least there’s a three-legged chair keeping me company, and it’s talking – telling me about the pain of a lost leg.

“The lips are brown and wooden, and the language is strange – a bit like Hopi.

“But hey, who am I to complain?”

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)

Inspired by read write prompt #111, which came with the following photo by Sepulture:

Momentaufnahme

2010-01-06T05:14:00.000-08:00

Es geht mir nicht gut! Ich mache wieder mal eine “unberührbare” Phase durch, in der ich mit der Welt hadere (weil sich mir gerade intensiv die Einsicht aufdrängt, dass die Welt meinem Wunsch nicht nachkommt, mich zu amüsieren und zu befriedigen), und das ist eine gefährliche, unwürdige und undankbare Stimmung. Auf diesem Planeten ist kein Platz für Langeweile. Es gibt zu viel zu tun. Aber was?

– Erika Bedardi (© 2010)

Weitere kurze Prosastücke der Autorin in Ultrakurzgeschichten

Kurzgeschichten im Forum für Literatur Alb-Neckar-Schwarzwald

Hugo Ball: Mein Dämon

2010-01-04T04:48:00.000-08:00

Mein Dämon

Mein Dämon hat keine Brüder und Schwestern.
Mein Dämon ist nicht von heute und gestern.
Als Gott, der Herr, die Welten machte,
Saß mein Dämon dabei im Grase und lachte,
Schnitt sich die Zehennägel entzwei
Und sah an der ganzen Welt vorbei.

Hugo Ball (1886-1927)

Irgendwie ließ mich dieses kleine Gedicht des Dadaisten Hugo Ball an die Hindu-Mythologie denken, in der auch Dämonen vorkommen, die es an Macht durchaus mit den Göttern aufnehmen können...

Englische Übertragung / In English

Lyrik – Gedichte verschiedener Autoren

Neueste Trends in Spam-Betrügereien

2009-11-02T01:02:00.000-08:00

In den letzten Tagen und Wochen erreichten mich ca. 20 Spam-E-Mails, die Varianten der bekannten Nigeria-Betrügerei sind. Sie geben meist vor, aus verschiedenen Ländern Afrikas zu kommen, haben aber deutlich erkennbare russische Wurzeln – einige Buchstaben, darunter auch die deutschen Umlaute und das ß sind durch kyrillische Buchstaben ersetzt. Das Deutsch enthält einige amüsante Stilblüten; vielleicht wurde ja mit Google Translate übersetzt – aus dem Englischen oder auch Russischen. Hier als Beispiel ein Überraschungsbriefchen von "Dr. Luka Simbalu", das mir heute in die Mailbox flatterte:

Lieber Freund,

Ich vermute das diese E-Mail eine Ьberraschung fьr Sie sein wird, aber es ist wahr.Ich bin bei einer routinen Ьberprьfung in meiner Bank (Chartered Bank von Sьd Afrika) wo ich arbeite, auf einem Konto gestoЯen, was nicht in anspruch genommen worden ist, wo derzeit $14.300,000(vierzehnmillionendreihundert US Dollar) gutgeschrieben sind.

Dieses Konto gehцrte Herrn Christian Eich, der ein Kunde in unsere Bank war,der leider verstorben ist.Damit es mir mцglich ist dieses Geld $14.300,000 inanspruch zunehmen,benцtige ich die zusammenarbeit eines Auslдndischen Partner wie Sie, der mir die erforderliche Hilfe geben kann fьr diese Inanspruchnahme.

Bitte Lesen:  http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/859479.stm
Ihr Anteil wдre 30% von der totalen Gange, wдhrend die restlichen 70% ist fьr mich und meine Kollegen.Wenn Sie interessiert sind, kцnnen Sie mir bitte eine E-Mail schicken, damit ich Ihnen mehr Details zukommen lassen kann.
Bitte, Sie mьssen diese Transaktion sehr vertraьlich behandeln weil die Transaktion einer DEAL ist.

Mit freundlichen GrьЯen
Dr. Luka Simbalu
Email:lukasimbalu@aim.com

Ich selbst werde von dieser wahren Überraschung zwar keinen Gebrauch machen, stelle das Angebot aber großzügig allen Lesern zur Verfügung. Vielleicht fühlt sich ja jemand bemüßigt, die Hand nach seinem Anteil an den 14,3 Millionen US-Dollar auf dem leider ach so verwaisten Konto auszustrecken. Außerdem kann es nicht schaden, wenn das E-Mail-Konto des guten Dr. Simbalu ein bisschen zugemüllt wird.

Vom großen Traum

2009-10-23T08:39:00.000-07:00

Herbstgang

Und strahlend unter goldnem Baldachin
um starre Wipfel funkelnd hingebreitet
und Kronen tragend gehn wir hin
und flüsternd gleitet
dein süßer Tritt gedämpft im bunten Laub.
Aus wilden schwanken lachenden Girlanden
rieselt's wie goldner Staub
und webt sich fließend ein in den Gewanden
und heftet wie Juwelen schwer
sich dir ins Haar und jagt vom Licht gehetzt
in grellen Wirbeln vor uns her
und sinkt aufstiebend in das wirre Meer
kräuselnder Blätter die vom Abendduft genetzt
wie goldgewirkte Teppiche sich spannen ...

Nun lischt im fernsten Feld der letzte Laut.
Vom Feuer leis umglüht ragen die Tannen.
Ein feiner dünner Nebel staut
und schlingt sich bäumend um zermürbte Reiser
und irgendwo zerfällt ein irres Rufen.

Und deiner Schleppe Goldsaum knistert leiser
und atmend steigen wir auf steilen Stufen.
Weit wächst das Land von Schatten feucht umballt.

Drohend aus Nebeln reckt sich Baum an Baum.
Und schwarz umfängt uns schon der große Wald.
Und dunkel trägt uns schon der große Traum.

– Ernst Stadler (1883-1914)

Wieder einmal Dank an Lyrikmail für dieses Gedicht.

The cheese ditty

2009-09-27T10:01:00.000-07:00

Please, oh please
let me have a crumb of cheese.

Not in my house,
said the mouse.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2009)

Written for Sunday Scribblings’ Cheese topic.

All the Morgenstern poetry (Felix and Christian) posted in this blog

Du bist mehr als ein Frühling

2009-08-04T23:30:00.000-07:00

Der süße Flieder steht nur einmal im Jahr auf dem Baum,
Deine Brüste blühen mir jahraus, jahrein, du bist mehr als ein Frühling.

Meine Wünsche glänzten wie die Sprossen der Kastanie,
Du zogst sie alle an die Sonne, wir sitzen in einem Laubdach
Und lachen uns zu im satten Schatten.

Wie einen Baum, den der Blitz überfiel, hatte mich die Sehnsucht gezeichnet,
Jetzt wohnen deine Bienen bei mir, und meine Augen fließen über von deinem Honig.

– Max Dauthendey (1867-1918)

Aus: Die ewige Hochzeit. Liebeslieder (1905)

Wieder ein Gedicht, das mir von Lyrikmail in den Briefkasten flatterte. Eine englische Übersetzung ist hier zu lesen.

Dichterlesung / nahezu ein Haiku

2009-07-12T13:15:00.000-07:00

Ein Tisch.
Ein Glas mit Wasser.
Ein Mann, sein Wort.

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2009)

So sieht trotz allen Multimediagehabes immer noch der Prototyp der Dichterlesung aus – mild belächelt, heiß geliebt, was auch immer.

Die Damen Dichterinnen mögen sich bitte nicht ausgeschlossen fühlen. Dem Autor ging es hauptsächlich um den Anklang an den uralten Werbespruch "Ein Mann, ein Wort, Batavia".

Zum Tode von Kamala Das

2009-06-04T11:12:00.000-07:00

Die Maden

Bei Sonnenuntergang, am Flussufer, liebte Krischna
sie ein letztes Mal und ging ...

In jener Nacht fühlte sich Radha in ihres Mannes
Armen so tot, dass er fragte, Was fehlt dir,
Liebste? Stören dich meine Küsse? und sie sagte,
Nein, überhaupt nicht, dachte aber, Was macht
es schon dem Leichnam, wenn die Maden zwicken?

– Kamala Das

Übersetzung ins Deutsche von Johannes Beilharz (© 2009)

Veröffentlicht zum Tode der am 31. Mai 2009 verstorbenen Autorin – einer der bedeutendsten Dichterinnen Indiens.

Das englische Original ist hier zu lesen.

Dichtung und Mathematik

2009-05-22T02:10:00.000-07:00

Mein Mathematikus

In der Tertia war's, in der Mathematikstunde,
Da ward mir aus deinem Professorenmunde
Der erste Hohn für mein Dichten verabreicht.
Ein Jugendeindruck, der bis ans Grab reicht.
Noch heute seh' ich bei jedem Gedichte
Dein mathematisches Professorengesichte
Mir über die Schulter grinsen und lachen:
Kann nicht rechnen und will Gedichte machen.

Gustav Falke (1853-1916)

Das Dichten hat Gustav Falke trotz dieses negativen Inputs (oder vielleicht gerade deshalb) wohl nicht gelassen – das ist die Hauptsache. Die Gaben sind eben unterschiedlich verteilt. Und das Dichten klappt in der Regel auch ohne Mathematik ganz gut.

Auf dieses Gedicht wurde ich aufmerksam gemacht durch Lyrikmail.

Die Möglichkeiten eines Maitags

2009-05-12T01:01:00.000-07:00

Schirm oder no Schirm –
that is the question.

– Johannes Beilharz

(Copyright © 2009)

Notiz des Verfassers
Heute kam in der Lyrikmail ein zweizeiliges Gedicht von Adrian Kasnitz (nachzulesen hier), in dem es um die jasminigen und fliederigen Möglichkeiten des Mais ging. Ihnen stelle ich gegenüber die minutenaktuellen Möglichkeiten des heutigen Maitags.