.

.

Freitag, 30. November 2012


In the middle


In the middle
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail is a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.

(Barbara Crooker)



Donnerstag, 29. November 2012

Zwischenzeilen


Ich möchte weder in Altem herumwühlen, 
noch Neues heraufbeschwören. 
Ich möchte dich auf meinem neuen Weg wiedersehen, 
dich wieder neu sehen, dich sehen, wie schön du bist. 
Ich möchte neu erfahren, wer du für mich bist, 
auf meinem weiten Feld, das ich nun betreten werde, 
frei von Barrikaden und Tretminen, 
frei sein, für mich sein, allein sein und lieben, was ich begehre. 
Ich möchte mich dir vertraut machen und dich mir, 
mit dir, in deiner Gegenwart sein, in meiner Gegenwart 
nicht gegenwärtig machen, was vergangen ist, 
die Gegenwart genießen, ohne an die Zukunft zu denken. 
Im Hier und Jetzt und leben, da sein, für mich und für dich, 
daß du da bist, für dich und für mich, wenn du willst, 
was ich mir wünsche. 
Ohne zu verlangen, mein Verlangen nach dir ausleben zu dürfen 
und dich zu finden, wenn ich mich sehne. 

(Connor Fairuza Angilotti)

Mittwoch, 28. November 2012


Unterwegs

Heute bin ich
unterwegs
auf Wolken
male mit dem Fuss
den Himmel blau.

Meine Hand
streichelt ein Grau
bis es weiss wird.

Die Kleider
schenke ich dem Abend,
weil ihm die Farbe Schwarz
so gut gefällt.

Leise flüstere ich mit Venus.
Sie lädt mich ein,
heute Nacht
mit ihr gemeinsam
die Sonne zu umkreisen

(Christiane Schwarze)

The winter of listening



No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning
red in the palms while
the night wind carries
everything away outside.

All this petty worry
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense
round every living thing.

What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.

What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire,

what disturbs
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.

What we hate
in ourselves
is what we cannot know
in ourselves but
what is true to the pattern
does not need
to be explained.

Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.

Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.

All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.

All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.

All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.

And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.

So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own. 

(David Whyte)

Dienstag, 27. November 2012

Gedichte lesen

Wer
von einem Gedicht
seine Rettung erwartet
der sollte lieber
lernen
Gedichte zu lesen 

Wer
von einem Gedicht
keine Rettung erwartet
der sollte lieber
lernen
Gedichte zu lesen

(Erich Fried)



Because we spill not only milk 
Knocking it over with an elbow
When we reach to wipe a small face
But also spill seed on soil we thought was fertile but isn't,
And also spill whole lives, and only later see in fading light
How much is gone and we hadn't intended it 
Because we tear not only cloth
Thinking to find a true edge and instead making only a hole
But also tear friendships when we grow
And whole mountainsides because we are so many
And we want to live right where black oaks lived,
Once very quietly and still 
Because we forget not only what we are doing in the kitchen
And have to go back to the room we were in before,
Remember why it was we left
But also forget entire lexicons of joy 
And how we lost ourselves for hours 
Yet all that time were clearly found and held
And also forget the hungry not at our table 
Because we weep not only at jade plants caught in freeze
And precious papers left in rain
But also at legs that no longer walk
Or never did, although from the outside they look like most others
And also weep at words said once as though
They might be rearranged but which
Once loose, refuse to return and we are helpless 
Because we are imperfect and love so
Deeply we will never have enough days,
We need the gift of starting over, beginning 
Again: just this constant good, this
Saving hope.

(Nancy Shaffer)

Montag, 26. November 2012

Spiele das Spiel.


Gefährde die Arbeit noch mehr.
Sei nicht die Hauptperson.
Such die Gegenüberstellung.
Aber sei absichtslos.
Vermeide die Hintergedanken.
Verschweige nichts.
Sei weich und stark.
Sei schlau, lass Dich ein und verachte den Sieg.
Beobachte nicht, prüfe nicht,
sondern sei geistesgegenwärtig bereit für die Zeichen.
Sei erschütterbar.
Zeig Deine Augen,
wink die anderen ins Tiefe,
sorge für den Raum und
betrachte einen jeden in seinem Bild.
Entscheide nur begeistert.
Scheitere ruhig.
Vor allem hab Zeit und nimm Umwege.
Las Dich ablenken.
Mach sozusagen Urlaub.
Überhör keinen Baum und kein Wasser.
Kehr ein, wo Du Lust hast und gönn Dir die Sonne.
Vergiss die Angehörigen, bestärke die Unbekannten,
bück Dich nach Nebensachen,
weich aus in die Menschenleere,
pfeif auf das Schicksalsdrama,
missachte das Unglück,
zerlach den Konflikt.
Beweg Dich in Deinen Eigenfarben,
bis Du im Recht bist und
das Rauschen der Blätter süß wird.
Geh über die Dörfer.
Ich komme Dir nach.

(Peter Handke)

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it's true I'm here, and I'm just as strange as you.” 
(Frida Kahlo)

Sonntag, 25. November 2012


Herbstaugen


Presse dich eng
an den Boden.

Die Erde
riecht noch nach Sommer,
und der Körper
riecht noch nach Liebe.

Aber das Gras
ist schon gelb über dir.
Der Wind ist kalt
und voll Distelsamen.

Und der Traum, der dir nachstellt,
schattenfüssig,
dein Traum
hat Herbstaugen.

(Hilde Domin)


What's left


I used to wait for the flowers,
my pleasure reposed on them.
Now I like plants before they get to the blossom.
Leafy ones – foxgloves, comfrey, delphiniums –
fleshy tiers of strong leaves pushing up
into air grown daily lighter and more sheened
with bright dust like the eyeshadow
that tall young woman in the bookshop wears,
its shimmer and crumble on her white lids.

The washing sways on the line, the sparrows pull
at the heaps of drying weeds that I’ve left around.
Perhaps this is middle age.  Untidy, unfinished,
knowing there’ll never be time now to finish,
liking the plants – their strong lives –
not caring about flowers, sitting in weeds
to write things down, look at things,
watching the sway of shirts on the line,
the cloth filtering light.

I know more or less
how to live through my life now.
But I want to know how to live what’s left
with my eyes open and my hands open;
I want to stand at the door in the rain
listening, sniffing, gaping.
Fearful and joyous,
like an idiot before God.

(Kerrie Hardie )

Samstag, 24. November 2012


                                       
 tame birds 
sing of freedom
wild birds fly

November





Erinnerung



Und du wartest, erwartest das Eine,
das dein Leben unendlich vermehrt;
das Mächtige, Ungemeine,
das Erwachen der Steine,
Tiefen, dir zugekehrt.


Es dämmern im Bücherständer
die Bände in Gold und Braun;
und du denkst an durchfahrene Länder,
an Bilder, an die Gewänder
wiederverlorener Fraun.


Und da weisst du auf einmal: das war es.
Du erhebst dich, und vor dir steht
eines vergangenen Jahres
Angst und Gestalt und Gebet.

(R.M. Rilke)





Correction


The burdens of the world
on my back
lighten the world
not a whit while
removing them greatly
decreases my specific
gravity

(A. R. Ammons)

Freitag, 23. November 2012

Donnerstag, 22. November 2012



Frau Welt


Ich bin
zur Welt
gekommen
und bin nun
endlich so weit 

laut
zu fragen
wie ich
dazukomme
zu ihr zu kommen 

Sie kommt
und sagt leise:
Du kommst nicht
du bist schon
im Gehen

(Erich Fried)

Mittwoch, 21. November 2012


Now I become myself


Now I become myself. It's taken 
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

    (May Sarton)

Dienstag, 20. November 2012

es geschehen dinge, die sind wie fragen. 
sekunden vergehen oder jahre, und das leben antwortet.

(alessandro baricco)

Home....


Falkenflug










Und meine Falten künden mir vom Leben,
mein Lachen, festgesetzt um meine Augen.
Und Spuren mancher bittren Stunde
umgeben meinen Mund.
So ist es und ich änder`s nicht.
So will ich leben, ganz wie mich das Leben wollte,
aus einem mir tief ungewussten Grunde.
Und so will ich das Wissen weitergeben,
so zeig ich mich und muss mich nicht verstecken,
vielfältig zeigt sich mein Gesicht.

(Ingrid Olbricht)

Montag, 19. November 2012

Alles was ich hab



I like the way you survive
just keep blowing 
at that pretty blue flame 
that's burning you alive

Self Portrait


It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.

I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

(David Whyte)









Sonntag, 18. November 2012

Phenomenal woman


Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size 
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips, 
The stride of my step, 
The curl of my lips. 
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman, 
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please, 
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees. 
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees. 
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes, 
And the flash of my teeth, 
The swing in my waist, 
And the joy in my feet. 
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered 
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them, 
They say they still can't see. 
I say,
It's in the arch of my back, 
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed. 
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud. 
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels, 
The bend of my hair, 
The palm of my hand, 
The need for my care. 
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

(Maya Angelou)


Samstag, 17. November 2012

last november











Nicht für die Welt
Nicht für Gott
Nicht für das Paradies
und nicht für die Menschheit
Nur eine Handvoll Träumer
Keine Illusionisten
Keine Fantasten
sondern einfache Menschen
die plötzlich hier und jetzt
und heute sagen
sich auf die Strasse stellen
und schlicht behaupten:
Mit mir nicht, meine Herren

(Konstantin Wecker)

Freitag, 16. November 2012

Donnerstag, 15. November 2012

Gedichte

Was aber finden wir vor,
verurteilt und fremd,
und wonach suchen wir,
trauernd,
in unseren Hoffnungsgedichten,
den empfindsamen Spielen,
Ablichtungen.

So mauern wir Bunker,
zu überleben,
und schreiben uns
frierend
über den Winter.

Gedichte
wie Leuchtfeuer an Land,
wie Botschaften einer anderen Kultur,
Pflugschar,
brechend den Boden,
Gedichte wie Furchen,
in denen Saat aufgeht.

(Wolfgang Bittner)

Mittwoch, 14. November 2012

Your catfish friend


If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

(Richard Brautigan)