Coffee time with Satyajit Ray

Spring is in the air

Satyajit Ray (2 May 1921 – 23 April 1992)

Striking resemblance

According to my absolutely credible source*, the great-grandmother* of her informant* these days feels 'more and more reminded of an Austrian-born loudmouth whenever she has the displeasure of listening to the both moronic and perverse convicted sex offender, whose election to the White House reveals a great deal about character and intelligence quotient of both his admirers and brown-nosing sycophants'.

To which I replied: Your informant's great-grandmother compares the future ex-US president and first and only FIFA Peace Prize Winner to Adolf Hitler? 

To which my absolutely reliable source replied: ‘Moreover, amongst others she does also call him a megalomaniac war-criminal who shits on any law, the international inclusive.'

* No names are given, as Omnium is committed to protecting its informants.

I have seen the future

. . .

Spring's entering Seanhenge

It's blooming in Seanhenge

and it's buzzing, 

and tonight I heard the cranes singing.

Beers & Books (447) – Rulfo: Der Llano in Flammen

El Llano en llamas / The Plain in Flames

Juan Rulfo (16 May 1918 – 7 January 1986)

Laughing Lhursday*

Jürgen Tomicek, one of the most renowned German cartoonists of our time, 
often leaves viewers of his work with laughter stuck in their throats. 

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

Personal note

Tens of thousands of data thieves have finally succeeded: 
I've had enough! 
Until further notice, from now on, Omnium will only be accessible to friends to whom I sent an invitation last night.
The peace of the night.
* *
Desenes de milers de lladres de dades finalment ho han aconseguit: 
ja n'he tingut prou!
Fins a nou avís, a partir d'ara, Omnium només serà accessible per als amics als quals vaig enviar una invitació ahir a la nit.
La pau de la nit.

Beers & Books (446) – Charlotte Mew: Poems

Well, and this was the surprise on top.

Charlotte Mew (15 November 1869 – 24 March 1928)

Saturday Night Music

 

Seiji Ozawa (1 September 1935 – 6 February 2024)

Martha Argerich *5 June 1941 

Beers & Books (445) – J. Johnson: Now in November

Now in November

Josephine Johnson (20 Juni 1910 – 27 February 1990)

On the road

3:30 p.m. On the way to shopping. 
Snow drifts. No sign of the cycle path.

5:30 p.m. Heading home.
Shopping was a good idea.
For tomorrow snow, rain and black ice are expected.
Schools across the country will therefore be closed.

Beers & Books (444) – Rushdie: The Eleventh Hour

The Eleventh Hour
*
In the South I enjoyed best.

Salman Rushdie *19 June 1947

Friday is Skyday

16:25

Another Robert Burns Night

Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796)

Tam O' Shanter (Original and Traducción al español)

Beers & Books (443) – William Heinesen: Noatun

Noatun = We

William Heinesen (15 January 1900 – 12 March 1991)

Beers & Books (442) – Nedrejord: Acht Jahreszeiten

Sameproblemet / The Sámi Problem

Kathrine Nedrejord *16 September 1987

Seanhenge transformed into Snowhenge

Whether viewed from below ...

or from above:

Seanhenge has been transformed ...

into a Snowhenge.

However, there's no reason to complain. 

With blue skies and bright sunshine, 

even in freezing cold a walk is a pleasure.

Beers & Books (441) – Ásta Sigurðardóttir

Sunnudagskvöld til mánudagsmorguns

Ásta Sigurðardóttir (1 April 1930 – 21 December 1971) 

Friday is Skyday

...

On the Road

Winter idyll.

However, heavy snowfall and storms are forecast.

Therefore, today so much was bought
that Seanhenge could easily be snowed in for a while. ;-)

Beers & Books (440) – Tom Kristensen: Havoc

Hærværk (1930) / Havoc

 
Tom Kristensen (4 August 1893 – 2 June 1974)

Monochrome Monday

Almost supermoon ...

First snow

Supermoonlightshadow ...

First snow not to immediately melt away.

A guard cat has already patrolled.

Then there was suddenly this lady.

Die Poesie – La Poesia

[Lletres i fils ~ Desembre 2025] 

                                 Die Poesie

Mal äugt sie durchs Fenster meiner Seele,
mal öffnet sie die Tür zu meinem Verstand,
mal trifft sie mein Herz wie ein brennender Pfeil,
und dann geht sie davon, verlischt wie ein Funke.

Sie weckt mich in der Nacht,
sie lächelt mir zu im Traum,
sie winkt mir am Morgen,
und dann stiebt sie davon, wie ein argloses Kind.

Sie lauert mir auf im Keller,
im Garten raunt sie mir zu aus dem Schatten,
doch trete ich näher, 
fliegt sie davon ... ein Eichelhäher?

Sie blinzelt mir zu auf dem Markt,
doch sobald ich eine Hand ausstrecke,
um sie zu begrüßen, stiehlt sie sich davon,
taucht unter im Gedränge wie ein Dieb.

So ist die Poesie:
Sie kommt
oder
sie kommt nicht ...

Wie es ihr gerade gefällt.

***

La poesia *

De vegades m'espia per la finestra de la meva ànima,
de vegades obre la porta de la meva ment,
de vegades em colpeja el cor com una fletxa ardent,
i després se'n va, esvaint-se com una espurna.

Em desperta a la nit,   
em somriu en els meus somnis,
em saluda amb la mà al matí
i després se'n va com una nena innocent.

M'espera al soterrani,
al jardí em xiuxiueja des de les ombres,
però quan m'hi apropo
s'enlaira... un gaig?

Em fa l'ullet al mercat,
però tan bon punt li allargo la mà
per saludar-la, s'escapa sigil·losament,
i desapareix entre la multitud com un lladre.

Això és la poesia:
Ella ve
o
no ve...    

Tal com li plagui.

* 
Amb molta ajuda d'un parlant nadiu.
With lots of a native speaker's help. 

Gràcies, Paula! ;-)

* * *

Poesy

Sometimes she* peeks through the window of my soul,
sometimes she opens the door to my mind,
sometimes she strikes my heart like a burning arrow,
and then she walks away, fading like a spark.

She wakes me up at night,
she smiles at me in my dreams,
she waves to me in the morning,
and then she scurries away, like an innocent child.

She lies in wait for me in the cellar,
in the garden she whispers to me from the shadows,
but when I step closer,
she flies away... a jay?

She winks at me at the market,
but as soon as I reach out my hand
to greet her, she steals away,
diving into the crowd like a thief.

That's how poesy is:
She comes
or
she doesn't come...

Just as it pleases her. 

* 
– It, Sean, IT! 

– Nah, friends. Poesy for me is a She. ;-)