Léo Ferré: Le Bateau ivre

Léo Ferré (14 August 1916 – 14 July 1993)

Friday is Skyday

Well, a Thursday morning
in February 2019.

Laughing Lhursday*

You might think this is a bathroom.
It is not.
It is a mobile home.
What for you might look like a toilet seat
is the driver's seat,
and what for you might look like a red lid
actually is the detachable steering wheel.
Got it, so far?
Fine.

These are Jasper and Jenny,
the owner's youngest children.
In the bottom left corner you see
the diaper changing table.
Almost familiar now?
Fine.

Not to forget
the three dogs, the cat and the duck,
– their current names escaped me –
who accompany us to the Baltic Sea
recently several times a week,
thankfully guarding the potty
standing close to the cooking plate.
But that's a story for another day.
*
Happy World Book Day.

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
Nah.
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Käthe Kollwitz

Käthe Kollwitz (8 July 1865– 22 April 1945)

Light Night

Watch out ...
your solitude
was chosen by yourself
pain comes, pain goes, like nights, my friend
whine not!

Paul Celan's Fugue of Death

Fugue of Death

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the mornings at noon we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He shouts play sweeter death's music death comes as a master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you shall climb to the sky
then you'll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie there

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.


Paul Celan (23 November 1920 – 20 April 1970)

Better late than ...

Irish Breakfast at 4:50 p.m.
in the Abbey Tavern.

Saturday Night Music – Madeleine Peyroux

Madeleine Peyroux *19 April 1974

Friday is Skyday

Imagining a face

I zoomed closer.

Laughing Lhursday* with Joyce and Beckett

Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989)

James Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941)

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
Nah.
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Coffee time

Whilst under the cherry tree
enjoying sun, shadow and coffee

they attracted my attention,
and made me feel good.

Waiting for Sam

People are bloody ignorant apes.

Pah.

Charming spot. - Inspiring prospects. - Let's go.

We can't.

Why not?

We're waiting for Sam.

Ah. You're sure it was here?

What?

That we were to wait.

He said by the grave. Do you see any others?

He must be dead.

No more weeping.

We are always finding something, eh, Sean, to give us the impression we exist?

Yes, yes, we're magicians.

Happy birthday then, Sam! :)

Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989)

Spring sprang

Last summer pruned

there are far less blossoms this year

but more visitors to see.