Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Nick Drake - Place to be
i am much older than Nick Drake was, i want a place to be
and i want to give a place to be
RICHARD & MIMI FARINA ~ A Swallow Song ~
i want peace..soon i will sleep and dream..
tonight i looked into my own old thoughts and poems and posts,
i feel as a foreigner there, a distant relationship
such as a second grade cousin maybe
coming for a visit from so many miles away:
i see i changed.
this is good.
tonight i looked into my own old thoughts and poems and posts,
i feel as a foreigner there, a distant relationship
such as a second grade cousin maybe
coming for a visit from so many miles away:
i see i changed.
this is good.
translation: part of an old post
i quote myself, in translation:
In the Dark King's country the runner beans had no chance to grow and climb.
Young and slim trees, there were none, not one beanpole had remained,
and people had to cook and eat all next year's seed.
In front of the palace field for field for field was filled with beanpoles carrying heads ,
impaled heads, heads, heads, heads, sometimes with hair, sometimes bleached,
some shrivelled and dry, some fresh, yellow, brown, black and white heads.
Sometimes, from far away foreigners thought that the King
must have found a way to grow lettuce heads on poles.
But the stench of decay reeked far across the land,
and the King had bad and horrifying dreams at night,
which caused him to start wars during the days , to devastate his country
and to kill and impale his subjects one by one.
In short, he wanted to destroy all what and who was perishable
as he feared dying himself.
He could not bear to feel and see his own mortality.
And then it happened that one morning a foreign traveller met the King
erring around the poles in the fields, the clothes torn and his mind lost.
At night the King had seen his own head on top of one of these poles,
and now he looked and searched and looked and searched,
and as far as we know he is still doing the same...
Im Land des dunklen Königs wuchsen keine Kletterbohnen. Es gab keine jungen schlanken Bäume mehr, keine Bohnenstange war übrig geblieben, und die Saat musste gekocht und verbraucht werden. Vor dem Palast war Feld um Feld um Feld bis zum Rande voll mit Bohnenstangen, auf denen Köpfe steckten, Köpfe, Köpfe, Köpfe, mal mit Haaren, mal schon gebleicht, vertrocknete, frische, gelbe, braune, schwarze und weiße Köpfe. Von weit her glaubten Fremde manchmal, der König habe einen Weg gefunden, Salatköpfe auf Stangen wachsen zu lassen. Der Gestank nach Verwesung reichte weit über das Land, und der König hatte böse Träume in seinem Schlaf, die ihn tagsüber dazu trieben, immer mehr Kriege zu führen, das Land zu verwüsten und seine Untertanen zu töten und aufzuspießen. Kurzum, er wollte alles zerstören, was vergänglich war, da er das Sterben fürchtete und seine eigene Vergänglichkeit nicht ertragen konnte. Es geschah eines Morgens, dass ein fremder Reisender den König sah, wie er mit zerrissenem Gewand und völlig ohne Verstand zwischen den Stangen in seinen Feldern herum irrte. Der König hatte nachts seinen Kopf auf einer der Stangen gesehen, und nun suchte er und suchte und suchte.
http://manonafence-zwischenwelten.blogspot.de/2007/02/kurzsichtig-am-rand-der-erde-im-februar.html
In the Dark King's country the runner beans had no chance to grow and climb.
Young and slim trees, there were none, not one beanpole had remained,
and people had to cook and eat all next year's seed.
In front of the palace field for field for field was filled with beanpoles carrying heads ,
impaled heads, heads, heads, heads, sometimes with hair, sometimes bleached,
some shrivelled and dry, some fresh, yellow, brown, black and white heads.
Sometimes, from far away foreigners thought that the King
must have found a way to grow lettuce heads on poles.
But the stench of decay reeked far across the land,
and the King had bad and horrifying dreams at night,
which caused him to start wars during the days , to devastate his country
and to kill and impale his subjects one by one.
In short, he wanted to destroy all what and who was perishable
as he feared dying himself.
He could not bear to feel and see his own mortality.
And then it happened that one morning a foreign traveller met the King
erring around the poles in the fields, the clothes torn and his mind lost.
At night the King had seen his own head on top of one of these poles,
and now he looked and searched and looked and searched,
and as far as we know he is still doing the same...
Im Land des dunklen Königs wuchsen keine Kletterbohnen. Es gab keine jungen schlanken Bäume mehr, keine Bohnenstange war übrig geblieben, und die Saat musste gekocht und verbraucht werden. Vor dem Palast war Feld um Feld um Feld bis zum Rande voll mit Bohnenstangen, auf denen Köpfe steckten, Köpfe, Köpfe, Köpfe, mal mit Haaren, mal schon gebleicht, vertrocknete, frische, gelbe, braune, schwarze und weiße Köpfe. Von weit her glaubten Fremde manchmal, der König habe einen Weg gefunden, Salatköpfe auf Stangen wachsen zu lassen. Der Gestank nach Verwesung reichte weit über das Land, und der König hatte böse Träume in seinem Schlaf, die ihn tagsüber dazu trieben, immer mehr Kriege zu führen, das Land zu verwüsten und seine Untertanen zu töten und aufzuspießen. Kurzum, er wollte alles zerstören, was vergänglich war, da er das Sterben fürchtete und seine eigene Vergänglichkeit nicht ertragen konnte. Es geschah eines Morgens, dass ein fremder Reisender den König sah, wie er mit zerrissenem Gewand und völlig ohne Verstand zwischen den Stangen in seinen Feldern herum irrte. Der König hatte nachts seinen Kopf auf einer der Stangen gesehen, und nun suchte er und suchte und suchte.
http://manonafence-zwischenwelten.blogspot.de/2007/02/kurzsichtig-am-rand-der-erde-im-februar.html
Ton der Weite: ein altes Gedicht
Ton der Weite
Wie klingt die Ferne?
Hier pfeift der Wind.
Es rauscht, die Möwe schreit,
das Wasser schäumt,
Regenbögen in der Gischt
Was ist das für ein Ton,
dort wo der Himmel flirrt
und silbern ins Meer taucht,
alles flüssig, alles strömt
Alles ist Licht
so weit von hier
und doch genau hier.
Jetzt pfeift der Wind,
die Möwe schreit.
Schmerzen: ein altes Gedicht
Schmerzen
Gezeugt aus Lust.
Geboren aus Schmerz.
Form als Grenze und
Spannung der Haut
zwischen außen und
innen,
zwischen innen und
außen.
Die Oberfläche ein
Spiegel
und sich wandelnd nach
Licht und Dunkel.
Schwarze und silberne
Wellen,
weiß schäumende Gischt
bringen und nehmen
den Atem des Lebens.
Schmerzen sind Knoten
an falscher Stelle,
brechen Rhythmen,
stören den Tanz der
Farben,
Mißtöne,
Sprungschichten,
frische Furchen im
Frühnebel.
Ohne Schmerz keimt
nichts Neues.
Die Wunde schließt
sich,
goldene Bäume wachsen
singend heran,
Träume, grün, und alles
erwacht.
Corcubion, Faro, strong memories ~ feeling good
children..who wanted to open the door...
and still i want to open it...
Faro at 4.48..
Enya - Only Time (Official Music Video)
time?....life...
Who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time
And who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose, only time
Who can say why your heart sighs
As your love flies, only time
And who can say why your heart cries
When your love lies, only time
Who can say when the roads meet
That love might be in your heart
And who can say when the day sleeps
If the night keeps all your heart
Night keeps all your heart
Who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose
- Only time
And who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time
Who knows? Only time
Who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time
And who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose, only time
Who can say why your heart sighs
As your love flies, only time
And who can say why your heart cries
When your love lies, only time
Who can say when the roads meet
That love might be in your heart
And who can say when the day sleeps
If the night keeps all your heart
Night keeps all your heart
Who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose
- Only time
And who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time
Who knows? Only time
Time Left Alone, David Whyte: beautiful...
we give back all that we’ve taken, tired of ourselves
we open ourselves to ourselves at last, sensing the waves
and great abyss of the sea beyond, the ocean stretching on sand
and the long view on the still sea that leads to another life.
And we go out as the fish go out, leaving the taste
of the rivers we know, joining the dark invisible weight
of what we would become, the calm sense of movement
seeing the others forming our shoals, and the scales
on our sides filling the depth with trembling stars.
…
From ‘Time Left Alone’
‘River Flow : New and Selected Poems’
©David Whyte and Many Rivers Press
Touched by the Sea
Photo © David Whyte
Venice Beach, Sept 2015
facebook page David Whyte
i don't need quotes
i don't need quotes.
i can quote myself.
Dr.F. said today: Fc it all.
And i heard what he thought:
i care for myself,
this is something.
He grinned.
It was a tired kind of smile.
I worry,
he may turn into a cynic,
but most times i know him
to walk in serene maliciousness.
this is different.
good bye, Dr.F., good night
and good morning.
sleep.
sleep in the winter of your dreams.
listen to this lullaby.
lose all, win all,
fall down, get up,
stay with me.
don't long for the sea.
be.
lose all, win all.
sleep
in the deep.
sleep.
i can quote myself.
Dr.F. said today: Fc it all.
And i heard what he thought:
i care for myself,
this is something.
He grinned.
It was a tired kind of smile.
I worry,
he may turn into a cynic,
but most times i know him
to walk in serene maliciousness.
this is different.
good bye, Dr.F., good night
and good morning.
sleep.
sleep in the winter of your dreams.
listen to this lullaby.
lose all, win all,
fall down, get up,
stay with me.
don't long for the sea.
be.
lose all, win all.
sleep
in the deep.
sleep.
T.S.Eliot, Four Quartets, quote
'The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.'
T.S.Eliot
i have to meditate on this.
it sounds true one way,
and in more light
it does not feel so true.
it sounds so deep,
a 'shirt of flame',
but then what may
the neighbourhood of love
and torment mean here?
our journey through life
and death, the phoenix
born out of ashes,
essence born in joy and
suffering dancing
in the wind of ? God?
= Love?
I am still quite puzzled.
to wonder..:
then it must be a good poem.
i cannot bring myself to analyze it
into dead things nor to construct
a final meaning. it comes out of a flow..
and i try once again to feel into it...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)