Lousy poetry

Had I been mowing
this haiku would not exist
nor would the daisies.

Wanderer's Night Song

Wanderers Nachtlied

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh',
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.
Die Vöglein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Goethe

Wanderer's Nightsong

Over all peaks
Reigns calm,
In all treetops
Senseth thou
Barely a breath.
The birdies keep silent in the wood.
Simply wait, soon
Resteth thou, too.

translated by McSeanagall :)

Fullmoonant

As - like not seldom these days/weeks, months/years/decades - words did not come easy me (at least not words ... bla bla bla ...

To cut it short:

Yesterday I had a photo...

... but no words.

Today I have no photo but can offer
- with thanks to the esteemed Jams O'Donnell Esq. -
a fullmoonant poem by The Topaz of Poetry.

Hesitating to click the link?
Trust McSeanagall's words (which, by the way, apply to each poem of William Topaz McGonagall):

Poetry at its peak,
each word of praise
would be too weak.

McSeanagall's outing

Remembering that once in the past millennium when discovering all counties of Ireland [causing anyone's reflexes here?], during the first three weeks - probably due to my face being tanned by the Welsh sun - I got asked whether I were French or Italian; that after four weeks, though, people seemingly thought 'Well, neither he's English, Irish nor American, but perhaps Australian?; remembering that after three months I got asked which part of Ireland I was coming from, and that on the very last day when - just to say goodbye - entering a tea-house in Laragh where several times I had enjoyed tea & scones & good talks, the landlord just turned round and said 'Another two weeks, and you're a fucking Paddy, yourself', I think it's time to reveal ...

... once for ever ...

with an April 1st smile

that - in fact - I am a Scot.

Otherness is no sin

Memento mori*

* and sometimes it would sound like Carpe diem - which is about quite the same.

Strawberry Finn

Berry sitting on a stone,
pondering his otherness
comes to following decision:
I am here, I have a mission.

Dreaming of enormous fame,
Strawless Berry will set out,
find the origin of his name.

But - alas - Seanhenge is mazy,
and soon Berry is quite sure:
"Golly gosh, I am so crazy!"

Next moment, it's getting hazy,

Berry's heart is beating wild.
And the reason? A sweet Daisy.

Desillusion, fading power:

Sad and lonely on his quest
Berry's taking a next rest
on a soft and friendly flower.

Continuing his quest
to find the mystic Straw
Berry takes another rest.

And here magic strikes:

Sitting lazy in the tyre,
enjoying warmth of distant fire:
Strawless Berry and his Daisy.

And the moral of the story:
nothing can cut love in twain.
'cause thus spake Daisy:
"Names are in vain,
otherness is no sin,
my sweet ... Strawberry Finn."

humbly dedicated to the Topaz of Poetry
by Mc Seanagall

The Impossible Fact (Variation 02)

This morning while in fact busy with proofreading his 1669-pages-work "Pre-assyrian philately in a Nutshell" my closest friend Tetrapilotomos out of the blue declaimed following poem.
Listening I had a déjà vu.

Not only did it sound to me like a variation on a poem by Christian Morgenstern, but this time also as but a tiny variation on a poem by a certain McSeanagall.

Anyway, here it is:

The Impossible Fact

BiffO, used to rule and live in clover,
walking in the wrong direction
at a busy intersection
is run over.

"How," he says, his mood restoring
but without his wrath ignoring,
"can an accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?

"Did RTE's administration
fail in free speech's deprivation?
Did police ignore the need
for reducing bloggers' speed?

"Isn't there a prohibition,
barring internet transmission
of a mighty to a wight?
Were the nasty bloggers right?"

Tightly swathed in dampened tissues
he explores the legal issues,
and his lackeys soon make clear:
Free speech not permitted here!

Thus BiffO comes to the conclusion:
His mishap was an illusion,
for, he reasons pointedly,
that which must not, can not be.

© McSeanagall

Omnium re Cowengate / Picturegate:

The Taoiseach's New Clothes

The Taoiseach's New Clothes II

Brian, Borges & Bioy

Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?

Physiognomy of fine gentlemen

POETF Day*

Oh, how do I admire
that James McIntyre.
And may I require,
I beg you, please!
the entire cheese -
to caress it with
my tender teeth.

[Mc Seanagall]

* Piss off early, tomorrow's Friday

Wanderers Night Song

Today's evening thought, posted by the famous Khan Semaj Mahgih spontaneously reminded me of Wandrers Nachtlied / Wanderers Night Song by Goethe.

Über allen Gipfeln

Ist Ruh',
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.
Die Vöglein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Over all peaks
Reigns calm,
In all treetops
Senseth thou
Barely a breath.
The birdies keep silent in the wood.
Simply wait, soon
Resteth thou, too.

translated by McSeanagall :)

Just a short note

Ladies, gentlemen, friends.

Friday morning I got up, felt ill,
after hours went down to mother-in-law
and asked for a pill.

Afterwards I visited little brother death,
i.e. I slept all day, all night,
fortunately woke up again,
feeling slightly allright.

McSeanagall

This short note just to let you know it seems not impossible that I'll be back soon. :)

May health be on you.

The Impossible Fact

Tonight my closest friend out of the blue declaimed following poem.

To me it sounds like a variation of a poem by Christian Morgenstern,

But Tetrapilotomos claims it is by "a certain" McSeanagall.


The Impossible Fact

Usmanoff, rich, an aimful rover,
walking in the wrong direction
at a busy intersection
is run over.

"How," he says, his mood restoring
but without his wrath ignoring,
"can an accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?

"Did the world's administration
fail in free speech's deprivation?
Did police ignore the need
for reducing bloggers' speed?

"Isn't there a prohibition,
barring internet transmission
of a mighty to a wight?
Were the nasty bloggers right?"

Tightly swathed in dampened tissues
he explores the legal issues,
and his shillings soon make clear:
Free speech not permitted here!

And he comes to the conclusion:
His mishap was an illusion,
for, he reasons pointedly,
that which must not, can not be.
[McSeanagall]


The (English version of) the Original (?)

The Impossible Fact

Palmstroem, old, an aimless rover,
walking in the wrong direction
at a busy intersection
is run over.

"How," he says, his life restoring
and with pluck his death ignoring,
"can an accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?

"Did the state administration
fail in motor transportation?
Did police ignore the need
for reducing driving speed?

"Isn't there a prohibition,
barring motorized transmission
of the living to the dead?
Was the driver right who sped ... ?"

Tightly swathed in dampened tissues
he explores the legal issues,
and it soon is clear as air:
Cars were not permitted there!

And he comes to the conclusion:
His mishap was an illusion,
for, he reasons pointedly,
that which must not, can not be.