Not by Dafydd ap Gwilym :)

Good Night

GOOD NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severes those it should unite;
Let us remain together still
Then it will be a good night

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight
Be it not said, thought, understood,
That it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

Percy B. Shelley

Just so

Voilà, in case anybody's interested in what German newspapers focused on in their feuilletons, this week.

I'll focus on my dreams.

The Peace of the Night

Summits of pleasure

"It was nice to see you", said the deaf to the blind.

"The pleasure's all mine. You were a wonderful listener."

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

No joke here

Seems every blogger, regardless if woman or man is posting jokes today.

To make a difference, here's reality news.
This morning, near the graveyard I stumbled into a young man, or rather he hastened into me. Last time we met - it must have been late February, or so - he had just finished his studies for the teaching profession and got taught there's no need for him as a teacher.

The more delighted I was to see him smiling and in the best mood.

After both we had murmured our 'Sorry', he recognised me.

"Ah, Sean."

"An espresso at Vincenzo's?' I asked.

"Would be great, but I'm in a hurry."

"I see. What's her name?"

"Sorry, but ..." And off he speeded. All I could understand from what he shouted over his shoulder: "... 'll ... you ... ail."


Five minutes ago I received an email:

Sean,
sorry about this mornings' hurry. There was a very important press conferance at the chemistry. They are going to have an 'Open Door Day'. With bouncing castle for the kids and many more attractive sensations.

Imagine, Sean. End of March I'd not hardly know how to spell shornalyst, and only three months later I happen to be one. I could huck the whole world. Shornalism is the most wonderfull profashion in the world.

But now I have to stop. I am in hurry. In ten minutes I have to email the article (220 lines) to the lady owner, for authorisation.


In hurry,
Yours ...

Well, what can I say. I am so happy for the young chap. It's not easy to find a job in these times.

Every baby will be delighted

Every German citizen should have the right to vote in national elections, even those under the age of 18, says a group of parliamentarians. They've proposed a law that would allow parents to vote for their children.

In case anyone does feel the wish to continue, voilà, here you are.

As I am determined to spend this day far from the madding crowd I shall not comment on mad crowds' proposals.

There is but one tiny word attracting my attention.

Did your eyes detect it, too?

Right. Every.

And what does every mean? ... Correct: Every.

So, what's the following? ... Rubbish?

Well, I'd not go as far.
Let's agree to that the whole article consequently lacks of sense.

How could any accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?

Frankly, I don't know, as to my knowledge only the brightest brains would nowadays get offered the chance of trying to become a journalist and, after a 6*-education only the crème de la crème of these brightest brains would ...

Hm ...

hm ...

why would I suddenly think of the White House?

Mission truthfully accomplished

Isn't it strange that sometimes we would feel embarrassed for people we do not even know? Only this afternoon it happened to me again.
Having un espresso doppio at Vicenco's I was forced to hear a dialogue between two strange looking men who may praise the fact they were another weight category than me.
What they said, was so disgusting that - truth be told - I'd never ever speak about, had there not been a voice speaking to me the other moment: Sean, write it down. Word by word. Share it with the blogosphere!

Well, so be it. This is what I heard:

It is well known that children and drunkards always are telling the truth, isn't it?

No soul that would not know this.

That is why it is hard to understand why the White House would apologize for telling the truth about Silvio Berlusconi, distributed in a press-kit at the so-called G8-summit.

Egads! They apologied for telling the truth?

Aye. Basically they said: Sorry, dear Silvio, for insulting you by telling the truth.

Who said so?

Spokesman Toni Fratto.

Ha ha, Toni Fratto?

Not all descendants from Italian immigrants would work for the US-Mafia.

Well, when you can get a job in the firm of the bigger rival organisation. Anyway, back to the apology. Seems like all alcoholics they did regret the morning after. Why would the White House employ a bunch of alcoholics?

Presidential order? After all, like will to like.

Wait. George Walker Bush does not drink a drop since he had an audience with his god. It's insulting to call him an alcoholic.

Who would doubt that Mr. Bush jr. stopped boozing his brain out of his head after the mission was accomplished. However, it's no insult to call him an alcoholic. Once an alcoholic, forever an alcoholic. Ask your doctor. Your doctor will also be able to tell you that alcoholics use to meet the strangest people in delirium tremens.

In this moment I got up and went home. Can't tell you, dear readers, how embarrassed I felt.

Surely pure coincidence

Why would a director of a German institute for Turkish studies, Faruk Şen and
Britain's first Muslim Minister, Shahid Malik, within a couple of weeks basically say "The Turks are the new Jews of Germany' respectively "The muslims are the Jews of Britain"?

Pure coincidence?

Iran: Mullahs banned from mosques*

Tehran - Iranian clerics have been banned from appearing in prayer rooms and mosques because they are said to promote a culture of fear and intolerance, according to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance.

The measure was announced on Monday and reported by Iran's official news agency Irna.

Ali Reza Karimi, director of the ministry's press and disinformation department, said the ban included the use of Iranian clerics with overseas Farsi language satellite networks.

He urged to respect the ruling to safeguard what he calls national dignity.

Ah, sorry, this is the news of another day.

But now:

Tehran, 7 July (AKI) - Iranian artists and athletes have been banned from appearing in commercials because they are said to promote a culture of consumerism, according to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance.
Continued here.

* Sorry. Just noticed that the check-correct-title- surveillance failed. The responsible person was immediately sentenced to ten seconds of severest swear-boarding.

I by Dafydd ap Gwilym

What a weekend. 39 hours ago I intended to write some light-hearted posts, but then, in the deepest den of my heart suddenly the snakes Irony and Sarcasm woke up - or rather were awaken - and since they were darting, trying to lure my fingers to squirt their venom via keyboard into the blogosphere. And no one and nothing able to becalm these creatures.

My quest to withstand the tempters seemed almost lost, when while I was watching her an Irish seagull whispered* to me: Dafydd ap Gwilym.

And immediately both snakes cuddled close, coiled up, fell smilingly asleep, and I knew: It's over - for this time.

Fair seagull on the tide, of a colour indeed
with the snow or the white moon,
your beauty is clear as a piece of the sun,
or a glove of shining crystal salt!
Lightly over the spreading fertile ocean
swiftly the bird flies fishing.
Sea-lily, together we will go,
hand in hand beyond the horizon:
for you are my only letter to her,
pure white and lying like a nun
in the trough of the waves of the sea.
Go where you see the shape of camp and castle,
where the fame of woman is: there will
your fame, my messenger, be spread. 
Look seagull and see,
a maid of light in shining castle,
give her this summons in my words ...
let her choose me!
Go to her now! Let it be she!
With this bold welcome be cunning
with the gentle creature.
Be my fine messenger and tell her
unless I can have her I shall die:
I am her lover and sad is my condition.
O men! Was there ever such a loving!
Did Merlin feel desire hotter,
Taliesin love a lovelier girl?
Mixed yellow grain falling on copper,
excellence on excellence! O seagull
if you see the loveliest human cheek
in christendom .... I tell you
unless I have some kindly word from her,
this girl will be the ending of me!

* :) Yes, dear readers, there do exist whispering seagulls. All you need is silence. :) Well, and a little fantasy. In case you don't believe me, just ask your children ... 

I might be out tonight

Ladies and gentlemen,
Bayanlar, Baylar,
Signoras e Signori,
Señoras y Señores,
Mesdames et Messieurs, :)
Friends,

just to make sure none of you is going to get worried.
In case there's no (other) post tonight, I'll be sitting in Mr. Morrell's virtual dwelling, enjoying a talk about arts, and thus getting my horizon widened.

Whoever feels fancy to join us, is most welcome.

All others who think they have better things to do, I do wish a pleasant start into the weekend :)

Achtung!

There's an essay to be found at God-Free-Morals.
Read it, and dare you not to have your say.





May I ask for your kind attention, please.

Although my esteemed reader latest on reading the title, will easily have detected this is not my style I want to assure:

Only in order to have some piece and quiet I followed ... hm ... an advice - mind you, not obeyed a command) in the comment section to the previous post.

Is 'Finnegans Wake' a Novel?

- Which was said by whem to whom?

- It wham. But whim I can't whumember.

- Fantasy! funtasy on fantasy, amnaes fintasies! And there is nihil nuder under the clothing moon. When Ota, weewahrwificle of Torquells, bumpsed her dumpsydiddle down in her woolsark she mode our heuteyleutey girlery of peerlesses to set up in all bombossities of feudal fiertey, fanned, flounced and frangipenned, while the massstab whereby Ephialtes has exceeded is the measure, simplex mendaciis, by which our Outis cuts his truth. Arkaway now!

- Yerds and nudes say ayes and noes. Vide! Vide!

- Let Eivin bemember for Gates of Gold for their fadeless suns berayed her. Irise, Osirises! By thy mouth given unto thee! For why do you lack a link ...

More according the link later. :)

The passage above you'd find on page 493 when - as I did - randomly opening the Faber edition from 1975, which I typed to give those amongst you who would not read Finnegans Wake once a week a glimpse of what it's about.

Now being a Joyce expert, what's your answer to the question which is heading this post?

Careful, though.
Of course, for those contemporaries delectating themselves with mocking that poor Joyce would have written like Flann O'Brien had he not been completely ding-dong, the answer is easy.
However, is it? What will be the likely criteria to say or even enthusiastically shout 'Yes, it is!' or after a demonstrative yawn to groan in agony: 'No!' ?

Whatever the answer will be, it is a matter of taste. An excellent taste, of course. :)

And either one says 'Yes' or 'No', (s)he will claim to be in possession of the most exquisite taste.

Now, this could create one of those brainteasing and riddling conundrums, the more as ... what did Oscar say? About taste you can't argue; either you have it, or you have it not.

Who is right, then?

End of the beforegoing.

Let me rather create the above mentioned link.

Chris, philosopher and poet at Godfree-Morals has posted a - to my taste :) - remarkable essay. Indeed, it's an essay that I could not have written, not even if I did not happen to be ding-dong.

In the hope to create a vivid exchange of ideas, both a suggestion and a request: The discussion should take place at Chris' site, so that one can read it in one piece.


PS: For those finding this subject as interesting as the breaking news that there has been a cucumber glass detonation in Caracas: Do as if you had never read this post.
After all, it's a matter of taste, isn't it. :)

All others: Enjoy.

XIII by Dafydd ap Gwilym

Sitting - no, not under a birch - under this hazel, listening to the late afternoon's silence I thought it would be nice to welcome July with another poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym.

I have learned to carry on my nimble love boldly in secret, not in public like a boor: but now is the time to celebrate my secret love with fitting words.

The man who languishes and loves in secret loves best of all: when she and I (vain couple!) walked among crowds we talked so pleasantly together but none guessed our answers. For a long while we embraced and played at being outlaws for a joke, but now we must move with strictest secrecy because of evil tales and a foul tongue that destroys us with such stories, putting a slanderous stain on our innocent names with his words. We were proud of our care in keeping our love hidden, and I believed and worshipped under the young leaves where my golden love was. There was sweet opportunity and a pleasant life for us under the leaves of the young birch-trees.

Pleasant it was to keep our secret, hiding and adoring in the wood; to wander on the shore of the sea, or stay within the boundaries of the wood; to plant birch-trees, or weave the plumage of the wood in patterns; to tell my love to the slim girl or stand with her and look out over solitary meadows.

Going to the woods with her lover is a fine way for a girl to pass the day, there to sit silent or suddenly smiling, laugh lip to lip. So we took our pleasure together in the groves of the wood, avoiding all people, sharing our complaints or drinking mead together, or making love or lying still .... keeping our love hidden. That was a perfect time .... more than "perfect" I can say nothing.