Nacht

Oh letz –
jetzt ist alles aus

Die Lichter sind aus
es ist das Weltenende

Du sagst zünd eine Kerze an
und wag dich aus dem Bett

Wir haben keine Streichhölzer
sag ich

in dieser Nacht
Oh letz

die scheint
wie das Weltenende

– Johannes Beilharz (© 2012)

Ein unscheinbarer Versuch, etwas zum Thema Nacht zu schreiben, das noch nicht geschrieben wurde, und das die richtige Waage hält zwischen unpathetisch und dem natürlichen Pathos des Titels. Etwas beeinflussen lassen habe ich mich dabei vom Stile Vicente Huidobros.

Erklärung zu "Oh letz" - ist abgeleitet von dem aus der Mode gekommenen Ausspruch "Jetzt ist alles letz".

Alles was der heutige Mensch so braucht auf einen Blick

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

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

– Guido Westerwelle

Jacques Prévert: Roboterliebe

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

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

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.

In my backyard

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

Frei nach Theodor Storm

Das Harfenmädchen ist heut nicht gut drauf.
Lustlos klimpert es auf den Saiten.
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

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

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

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

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.

Translated from the Hittite

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

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!

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

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.

Easter

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

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

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

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.”