Variations on a theme

Applying compost to the field; ploughing, milling; planting the first potatoes and kohlrabi; setting onions, sowing carrots, red radish, peas and basil, parsley, parsley root, savory and, of course, new natural arts :) ...


... this should be enough to keep oneself busy for a quarter of an hour, would you agree?

Quite. And isn't it wonderful?

Ah, I like doing things which are done in no time and thus don't keep me from doing things I do really like and want to do ... such as writing.

Ah, I like doing something really worthwhile which is, too, keeping me from doing fruitless things ... such as writing.

And as applying compost to the field, ploughing, milling, planting the first potatoes and kohlrabi, setting onions, sowing carrots, red radish, peas and basil, parsley, parsley root, savory and, of course, new natural arts :) ... is by far not able to keep me long enough from what I'd really like and want to do, I am passionately collecting filtred coffee that ...

.... together with eggshells, pulverised in a mortar ...

... I do peu à peu add while shifting ...

... one of the composters so that there will be excellent compost when next April it will be time again for applying compost to the field, ploughing, milling, planting the first potatoes and kohlrabi, setting onions, sowing carrots, red radish, peas and basil, parsley, parsley root, savory and, of course, new natural arts :) ...

And still, I can't get enough of things that are able to keep me from what deep in my heart I'd really desire to do ... such as writing.

Which is why I painted an 'ancient' manure tanker that once I found in the former chicken-garden, blue and put it on the meadow. Decorated with a nice flower(-pot) it will enjoy my eyes when during the coming months I shall be allowed to do many many things that keep me from fruitless things ... such as writing.



Mind you! Those things are to be done. And: It's wonderful to have a garden.

The most wonderful thing is that while applying compost to the field, ploughing, milling, planting the first potatoes and kohlrabi, setting onions, sowing carrots, red radish, peas and basil, parsley, parsley root, savory and, of course, new natural arts :) one has lots of time to ponder about many many many things ... such as (not) writing.

The peace of the night.

Nightly problems

Pondering about this and that, about an hour ago when watching the stars, out of the blue I heard myself softly whistling a melody. On and on. Must have once been a catchy song. Who sung it?
Five minutes ago I remembered.
So, having at least one problem solved, I may put my head on the pillow.
The peace of the night.






Merci, Miriam Makeba

Rather be it Shakespeare

On Shakespeare's 445th birthday and
the 393nd 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 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.

CIII

Just a thought

Irony where is your sting?

[when those who are meant
just don't understand]

:)

Publishers, go on sleeping

He got tortured in the prisons of the Shah; he got tortured in the prisons of the pious Ayatollahs. He's one of the greatest living Iranian authors.

Read what wikepedia has to tell about Mahmud Doulatabadi.

After all, some of his best works have been translated into German.

And where are, f.e. the English publishers/ translators?

Sleeping?

Ah, yes. The biography f.e. of a lady-star who proudly claims she's never read a book promises to sell better, hm?

It's possible

Some Irish are looking backwards these days.

I do allow myself to focus on nothing but a tiny monumental advice / gesture.

From the frontier of writing

The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face

towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration-

a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.

Eagle patrol, Co. Tyrone, July 1985

So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

Seamus Heaney (* 13. April 1939)

Related:

In praise of ...

The spirit that always says Yes

Last week I tried to convince the spirit that would always negate to once do the weeding for me, filling the trailer with the branches and carry the whole lot up the hill to the Easter Fire, then bring the compost from the pile to the field and do the ploughing, but ... he shook his head; which are but some of the reasons why I would have been extremely busy with not blogging for a couple of days.

Oh well, and I fell in love.

Ah, what a beauty! A Royal Highness. A real Queen who graciously accepted my humble offer and moved in one of the luxury hotels I had built for her a week earlier - a hole in the ground, filled with pebbles and glass-wool and covered with an everted flowerpot -: a humble (sic) bee.

The other morning the Lady spake to me: "And what's about the nectarious life you promised me and my people, Sir Sean?"
"Give me a minute, darling", I said. And, blushing, I raised my arms and demanded: "Now, be it spring!"

And since there's a humming and buzzing, a droning and whirring in and around Seanhenge, and a blaze of colours that would fill anyone who has ears to hear, eyes to see and a nose to smell, with joy and happiness.

Would you agree?

Spring in Seanhenge

Cherry

Forsythia and wild red currant

Morello cherry

Magnolia

Happy 103rd, Sam

Words [Trying to sing, softly]:

Age is when to man
Huddled o'er the ingle
Shivering for the hag
To put the pen in the bed
And bring the toddy
She comes in the ashes
Who loved could not be won
Or won not loved
Or some other trouble
Comes in the ashes
Like in that cold light
The faces in the ashes
That old starlight
On the earth again.

[Long pause.]

From Words and Music
Written in English and completed towards the end of 1961.
First broadcast on the BBC Third Programme on November 13th, 1962
Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 - 22. December 1989)



Related:
Waiting for Sam

Pitch 'n' Putt with Joyce 'n' Beckett

Her voice his eyes

On the other side I had seen a little girl,
her right hand holding a man's left,
leading him towards the night,
her voice being his eyes.
The sun is red, she said, and soon
she will dive into the glistening sea.

Having eyes only for the man at her side
she had not taken notice of me,
and still I felt like an intruder.
Suddenly I sensed myself walking away,
and only the sun could see
my eyes burning with sorrow and joy.

Could you see through walls,
there's a girl holding a man's hand
her voice being his eyes.
© Sean Jeating

To ————

ONE word is often profaned!
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heaven rejects not:
The desire of the moth for the star
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion for something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

To Harriet*****

WHOSE is the love that, gleaming through the world,
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?

Harriet! on thine :—thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the Inspiration of my song;
Thine are these early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.

Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
And know, though time may change and years may roll,
Each flow'ret gathered in my heart
It consecrates to thine.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Sa jeunesse