Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Friday, February 23, 2024

Beers & Books CCCLXI – Lyrische Hausapotheke

Es gibt nichts Gutes,
außer: Man tut es.


Erich Kästner
(23 February 1899 – 29 July 1974)

Friday, January 26, 2024

Take this Waltz



Leonard Cohen (21 September 1934 – 7 November 2016)
Federico García Lorca (5 Juni 1898 – 19 August 1936)

Thursday, January 25, 2024

Nectarious Night

And I'll dance with you in Vienna
I'll be wearing a river's disguise
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder,
My mouth on the dew of your thighs . . .

Wednesday, December 13, 2023

Heine's Doctrine

Doctrine

Beat the drum and don't be afraid,
And kiss the sutler!
That is the whole science,
That is the deepest meaning of books.

Drum the people out of their sleep,
Drum Reveille with the vigour of youth,
Always march ahead drumming,
That is the whole of science.

That is Hegel's philosophy,
That is the deepest meaning of books!
I have grasped it because I am clever,
And because I am a good drummer. 

Heinrich Heine (13 December 1797 – 17 February 1856)

Sunday, December 10, 2023

Wednesday, November 01, 2023

Adios for a while

Surrounded by books
writing is nothing but joy.
And nights getting long.

Saturday, October 21, 2023

In praise of ...

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbed
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.


The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rotted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.



My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.


The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy neat the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney

Friday, May 05, 2023

Beers & Books CCCXXVIII – Bobby Sands

 Bobby Sands (9 March 1954 – 5 May 1981)

I rolled over again freezing and the snow came in the window on top of my blankets. Tiocfaidh ár lá' (Our day will come), I said to myself, Tiocfaidh ár lá. [Final diary entry]

 

Sunday, April 23, 2023

Rather be it Shakespeare*

On Shakespeare's 459th birthday and
the 407th anniversary of either his death
and the death of Cervantes
just to wish a very special literary evening.

It's also the (International) Day of the book?

Well, yes. But isn't every day a day of the book?

Comparing the results of my recent attempts to write some sonnets myself with what I am rereading these days, I came to the conclusion, in order not to put anyone off the realm of poetry, to post rather one from the Master of Avondale.


Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
       And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
       Your own glass shows you, when you look in it
.

 

* knowing I would be fighting with a deadline, I went back to April 23rd, 2014, copied and pasted, updated the years, and voilà.

 

Monday, April 17, 2023

Harbingers of spring

Busy visitor
Mason bee meets daffodil
Harbingers of spring

Wednesday, March 15, 2023

Beers & Books CCCXX – Small Anthology of Poetry in Spanish

This small anthology of poetry in Spanish
makes me looking forward to July 19th
when the following will be published:
Surveying a poetic continent.
 

Monday, March 06, 2023

Mo(o)nday Poetry

Cuando sale la luna
se pierden las campanas
y aparecen las sendas
impenetrables.*
* From Federico García Lorca's Canciones de luna

Thursday, March 02, 2023

In memoriam Claude

Claude, February 2020
A MAN MUST FACE HIMSELF
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall....
 
Some people say
'Oh! the poor dear things!'
with pity in their hearts,
while chewing bloody steak
and cuddling in fur coats.
 
And I think of **
Jonahsie
magnificently himself: a Man,
hunter by destiny
spearing the seals,
with no guilt in his soul,
no pity in his heart,
but beaming pride
that his day-work was done:
the best for his kin---
and that's all he could do...
 
And I think of
Kakee, his wife,
cleaning, stretching, smoothing, sewing the skins
with a skill
as old as the Woman called Eve,
and bringing me the gift
with beaming pride:
the best for a friend---
and that's all she could give...
 
And I wonder why
we worry about who eats whom
when Life is a cycle?
We all prey, and we grow
feeding on each other.
 
A seal
a breathing tomato
an egg that could be born
a drink of pure water
a flower for a vase
some grass to walk upon
the warmth of the sun, of a smile, of a body
a poem for a soul
and stars to fill a dream.
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall...
 
A Man must face himself
and accept it!
 
Claude Prévost Gamble
 (June 1970)


** And I think of Claude who died today two years ago.
Thanks for all. De tout coeur!


Claude during a storm on Moose River,
whilst working as a nurse
at an Indian hospital;
James Bay, Winter 1955

Monday, February 06, 2023

Mo(o)nday Poetry

Colmena
iVivimos en celdas
de cristal,
en colmena de aire!
Nos besamos a través
de cristal.
iMaravillosa cárcel,
cuya puerta
es la luna!
- - -
Beehive
We live in cells
of crystal
in a beehive of air!
We are kissing each other
through crystal.*
Wonderful prison,
the door of which
is the moon!
* cristal: glass, crystal, water (poetical)

Federico García Lorca (5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936)

Monday, January 16, 2023

Mo(o)nday Poetry

Dice la tarde:
"Tengo sed de sombra!"
Dice la luna: "Yo, sed de luceros."
[...]
Says the afternoon:
"I'm thirsty for shadow!"
Says the moon: "I want stars."

Yo tengo sed de aromas y de risas.
Sed de cantares nuevos
Sin lunas y sin lirios,
Y sin amores muertos.
*
I'm thirsty for scents and for laughter.
Thirsty for new songs
Without moons and without lilies,
And without dead loves.


 

Excerpt of Federico García Lorca's poem Cantos nuevo / New songs

Federico García Lorca (5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936)

Sunday, January 15, 2023

 Nâzım Hikmet had a dream

Yaşamak bir ağaç gibi tek ve hür
ve bir orman gibi kardeşçesine,
bu hasret bizim.

To live like a tree and at liberty
and brotherly like the trees of a forest,
this yearning is ours.


Nâzım Hikmet (15 January 1902 – 3 June 1963)

Friday, December 23, 2022

Tuesday, December 20, 2022

Monday, December 19, 2022