Der Schnee von gestern ...

Der Schnee vom 23.1.2007 ist schon fast wieder vergessen. War's das für den diesjährigen Winter? Oder steht uns wieder, wie letztes Jahr, eine lange Kälte bevor?

Der Ausdruck "Schnee von gestern" stammt ursprünglich aus dem Französischen, und zwar aus François Villons Gedicht Ballade des dames du temps jadis, das im Internet u.a. in einer Übertragung von Eric Börner zu lesen ist:

Ballade von den Frauen vergangener Zeiten

Eher Unkraut

Beim Morgenspaziergang die Gedanken schweifen lassen, mich daran erinnert, auch den Blick schweifen zu lassen, punktweis abgeplatzten Putz am Haus gegenüber wahrgenommen, dann die besondere Fleckung des Bürgersteigs aus Trockenem, vom Regen noch Nassem, von Geflicktem, Hebungen und Eindellungen.

If that ain't poetic.

Blumfelds Weisheit Nr. 3

Es macht wenig Sinn, Würmern Füllfederhalter verkaufen zu wollen.

- L. Blumfeld

Immer wieder für eine Überraschung gut, unser Herr Blumfeld, Braunfeld, Brownfeld, und sei es auch nur durch die Wandlungsfähigkeit seiner Namen. Jetzt hat er gar noch den Vornamen gewechselt.

Braunfelds Weisheit Nr. 2

Einer der treuesten - vielleicht der einzige - Leser dieses Blogs meldet sich mit einer Art Sonett zurück. Auf Deutsch zu meiner großen Überraschung. Wie er auch plötzlich seinen Namen anders schreibt (siehe früherer Post unter "Brownfeld"). Bisher ist es mir nicht gelungen, ihm Details über sich selbst zu entlocken. Derartige Fragen in meinen Mails übergeht er kommentarlos.

Streng links und zehnsilbig angeordnet

Ach wie war einst die Lyrik wohlgeord-
net! Kündete von innerstem Gefühl
des Verfassers und Reime fielen vor-
hersagbar wie Regen in den Tropen.

Und seither? Viel hat sich in den Köpfen
getan, alte Rezeptoren sterben
aus, Junge zwischen Echtem, Gefälschtem
und Imitat sind nachgerückt, es wird

gemeint, geklüngelt, ausgeschlossen wie
zuvor. Nur anders. Man eifert nach, man
glaubt sich abgesetzt, erobert neue
Themen, Generationsgefühle:

Hilft alles nix, es ist der gleiche Käs
in etwas abgewandeltem Gehäs.

- Arthur Braunfeld

Wo bin ich in deinem Leben?

Zwei Gedichte der pakistanischen Autorin Parveen Shakir (1952-1994), die auf Urdu schrieb, in deutscher Übersetzung von Johannes Beilharz:

ein Moment Urlaub, anonym,
zwischen dem Zerbrechen eines Traums
von Liebe und dem Beginn eines anderen

http://www.beilharz.com/poetas/shakir/

Where am I in your life?

Two poems by Pakistani poet Parveen Shakir (1952-1994), who wrote in Urdu, in English translation by Alamgir Hashmi:

a moment's leave, anonymous,
between the breaking of one dream
of love and another's beginning

http://www.beilharz.com/poetas/shakir/

Brownfeld's wisdom no. 1

He considered himself to be virtuous for not doing any of the evil things he could think of.

- Arthur Brownfeld

Another Indian News Item

In what is one of the most horrible serial crimes ever, a man and his servant have abducted and killed more than 30 children in Noida, a suburb of New Delhi.

Blog from Kolkata

Not very far from here in the state of West Bengal there's warfare going on - villagers are tearing up roads to prevent the police from coming in. There was an exchange of fire two nights in a row. Supporters of the CPM (the Marxist Communist Party) and inhabitants of Nandigram and other villages were going at each other with rifles and home-made bombs.

What it's about - the government's intent to create an SEZ (special economic zone) on village land.

Wo blauhäutige Götter Jungfrauen zum Tanz verführen

Dies ist eine Ode,
die in spätester Nachtstunde
gesungen werden sollte,

wenn sich die Regenwolken
über schindelgedeckten Dächern
zusammengezogen haben

und blauhäutige Götter
mit Zauberflöten
die Jungfrauen zum Tanz verführen.

(Tishani Doshi, Deutsch von Johannes Beilharz)

Das ganze Gedicht ist Bestandteil der Anthologie Inspirierte Gedichte.

Emery Felix tells me I have a history

Thanks, Em!

Here's what he wrote:

Your history shows that your last order is ready for refilling.

That kind of history kind of surprised me ... but perhaps I shouldn't be surprised in this age of identity theft. I've probably got more histories than I will ever know apart from the various ones I know of or have actively created.

Generally speaking, though, I'm still surprised - even after years of receiving unsolicited mail, as this junk is called politically correctly - that anybody would get in touch with me, tell me a blatant lie right off the bat and then expect me to hurry to their store and leave money there even though they do their damndest to make sure that nobody can find out who they're doing business with.

Does spam make any sense?

I don't think anybody in his right mind thinks it does.

And yet there seem to be enough brazen shysters out there that believe they can make a buck by sending out millions of unwanted advertisements to millions of people who definitely do not want each and every one of those millions of unwanted advertisements.

This appears to be as great a conflict of interest as there has ever been.

Spammers, do you realize that you are collecting crushing wrath and millions of bad karma points every time you send out one of those spam mails? This has got to be bad for your health. I'd worry about it if I were you.

Cerebral agony

ALL AGONY IS CEREBRAL.

Huh?!? Where'd that come from? From:

Ora Odoura is photographer and specialises in outdoor and creative photography. Her storytelling shoe fiction was selected for Argo Spier’s 'Heaps of Cream' sequence because of both the contrast and complement it forms to the sequence . Her's is a story of peaceful meditation. 'Heaps of Cream' is cerebral agony.

To be seen at ArgoBoat.

Cosmic idyll disturbed

What happens when God picks up his little lab by its corners?

Belarussian poet Viktar Licvinau has the answer in A laboratory.

Poetry mail from Madelyn Conner

Madelyn Conner (scosmic@mbmusa.net) is an online drug peddler. Like many of her brothers and sisters with their lofty names - every bit as sonorous as those of the authors of trashy novels - she resorts to fragments that might qualify as "modern literature" to beat spam filters:

of girl. I should have liked to know her. Good night, young him not - drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It He bites. There was one boy - a certain J. Steerforth - who cut good deal though I was much less brave than Traddles, and nothing

Good-bye, Younghimnot! What sad fate to befall one.

No doubt we shall hear about that (un)certain J. Steerforth and Traddles and what became of him (her?) in future spam.

And who is the elusive "I" of the poem?

Poetry & abstraction

Some rudimentary muzangs on poetry, art and music.

Correct me if I'm wrong (in other words, comments invited). I've noticed that poetry magazines and e-zines that include art seem to prefer realistic or semi-realistic over abstract art. This seems to go hand in hand with the kind of poetry they tend to publish, which could also be termed to be more or less realistic. The kind that appears to be proud to be the opposite of Robert Bly's "leaping poetry" idea. At worst, I'd call it "clod-stuck poetry."

It is exemplified very well by the stuff Ted Kooser, ex-U.S. Poet Laureate, digs up for his weekly e-mails.

You can subscribe to it under http://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/