Hymn to the Night II

Must the morning always return? Will the despotism of the earthly never cease? Unholy activity consumes the angel-visit of the Night. Will the time never come when Love's hidden sacrifice shall burn eternally? To the Light a season was set; but everlasting and boundless is the dominion of the Night. - Endless is the duration of sleep. Holy Sleep - gladden not too seldom in this earthly day-labour, the devoted servant of the Night. Fools alone mistake thee, knowing nought of sleep but the shadow which, in the twilight of the real Night, thou pitifully castest over us. They feel thee not in the golden flood of the grapes - in the magic oil of the almond tree - and the brown juice of the poppy. They know not that it is thou who hauntest the bosom of the tender maiden, and makest a heaven of her lap - never suspect it is thou, opening the doors to Heaven, that steppest to meet them out of ancient stories, bearing the key to the dwellings of the blessed, silent messenger of secrets infinite.

Novalis (1772 - 1801)

Hymn to the Night I

Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light - with its colors, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood - the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform beast inhales it - but more than all, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. - Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the world.

Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world - sunk in a deep grave - waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. - The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?


What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of sadness? Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, dark Night? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. Darkly and inexpressibly are we moved - joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and worshipful, inclines toward me, and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the youthful loveliness of the Mother. How poor and childish a thing seems to me now the Light - how joyous and welcome the departure of the day - because the Night turns away from thee thy servants, you now strew in the gulfs of space those flashing globes, to proclaim thy omnipotence - thy return - in seasons of thy absence. More heavenly than those glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the Night hath opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts - needing no aid from the light, they penetrate the depths of a loving soul - that fills a loftier region with bliss ineffable. Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful love - she sends thee to me - thou tenderly beloved - the gracious sun of the Night, - now am I awake - for now am I thine and mine - thou hast made me know the Night - made of me a man - consume with spirit-fire my body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and then our bridal night endure forever.

Novalis (1772 - 1801)

Impression du printemps II

Voilà - and some flowers from Seanhenge.

Lilies

Rose

Bleeding Hearts

Don't-know-flower :)

Pansy

Stonecrops, primrose

Cornflower

Tulip

Aquilegia

Bet you know ... :)

Impression du printemps I

It lasted only 17 days in April; but for you - and me - I saved a bit of the white brightness into May.

Cherry

Apple

Dansom

Strawberries (still blooming)

Saw a window

Harmoniously I loved, my embrace a wanton song under the tangled banks of the wood where my girl slept. How good it was seeing her beauty through the leaves, framed in the shape of love by the oaks as in a mighty aerial window!

I asked a kiss from her through the narrow oak window, and she refused me, did me wrong, my gentle jewel; did not want me. The window, which old and worn faces the bright rays of the sun, obstructed me . . . may I never age like that same window ! A strange vitality mounted huge within me, like that enormous love which once drove Melwas to seize your daughter Cogyfran Gawr, coming from Caerlleon, fearing nothing in his passion. But I, it was scarcely likely I should take my love through a window, seeing I had never seized her in Melwas' manner, and favours are not got by the colour of the pining check . . . O let me be with my lovely jewel face to face at midnight!

Without hope of her, without the light of a star, with no hope of taking her between the joists of the window, my anger rises, rages at the white walls Standing on every side like a boundary stone between me and her. Our noses cannot touch, nor can our lips come together through the lattice, but kiss the Wood . . . O false perplexing torment, trying embraces through a narrow window!


No one has been tormented, set sleep-less between the night and a lattice window as I am sleeplessly tormented: may the devil break this windowed dungeon, and take a crowbar to its pillars! Sharp anger spins through me, shut weeping salt tears outside, weeping at these strong, obstructing, hindering window-frames, which kill my song and keep me from her.

But my hand took up a saw, and soon cut away what kept me sleepless and kept me from the place where my love was.

Forth I Wander, Forth I Must

Shamelessy I do pinch a poem, today posted by Michael Gilleland, the master of Laudator Temporis Actis - the only blogger who I did not ask whether he'd mind to become one of my Seldom borings, as somehow I did not find a way to contact and ask him 'my question of courtesy'. :)

I hope Mr. Gilleland, whose blog to visit I do wholeheartedly commend, will quit my shamelessness with a lenient smile, in case he becomes aware of it.

And here is the very poem of A.E Housman, More Poems, IX:

When green buds hang in the elm like dust
And sprinkle the lime like rain,
Forth I wander, forth I must,
And drink of life again.
Forth I must by hedgerow bowers
To look at the leaves uncurled,
And stand in the fields where cuckoo-flowers
Are lying about the world.

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)

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