Bloomsday, not Joyceday

Thus spake Leopold:
If it were to honour Joyce
it would be Joyceday.

Bloomsday

Laughing Lhursday*

George Carlin

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
Nah.
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Pure Reason

Critique of pure reason?
Well, haven't tried Speyburn, yet.
I shall see ... hmm ... taste,

Saturday Night Music

Hélène Grimaud

Laughing Lhursday*

George Carlin

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
Nah.
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Happy birthday, Mr Pamuk

Orhan Pamuk (* 7 June 1952)

Feeding us

Boring photograph?
It does bear a promise, though.
One year's potatoes.

Quietude

...

Hurra, wir leben noch

Milva

Wie stark ist der Mensch? Wie stark?
Wie viel Ängste wie viel Druck kann er ertragen?
Ist er überhaupt so stark wie er oft glaubt?
Wer kann das sagen?

Hurra!!! Wir leben noch!
Was mussten wir nicht alles überstehn?
Und leben noch!
Was ließen wir nicht über uns ergehen?
Der blaue Fleck auf unsrer Seele geht schon wieder weg
Wir leben noch
HURRA!!! Wir leben noch!
Nach jeder Ebbe kommt doch eine Flut
Wir leben noch
Gibt uns denn dies Gefühl nicht neuen Mut und Zuversicht
So selbstverständlich ist das nicht
Wir leben noch


Wie stark ist der Mensch? Wie stark?
In der Not hilft weder Zorn noch Lamentieren
Wer aus lauter Wut verzagt und nichts mehr tut
Der wird verlieren

Hurra!!! Wir leben noch!
Was mussten wir nicht alles überstehn?
Und leben noch!
Was ließen wir nicht über uns ergehen?
An einerlei der Kelch ging noch einmal an uns vorbei
Wir leben noch


HURRA!!! Wir leben noch!
Nach jeder Ebbe kommt doch eine Flut
Wir leben noch
Gibt uns denn dies Gefühl nicht neuen Mut und Zuversicht
So selbstverständlich ist das nicht
Wir leben noch

Hurra!!! Wir leben noch nach all dem Dunkel
Sehen wir wieder Licht
Wir leben noch
Der Satz bekam ein anderes Gewicht
So schlimm es ist
Es wird als dass man nie vergisst
Wir leben noch
Wir leben

Saturday Night Music

Arthur Rubinstein

Centuries-old Vision

A Vision of a Queen of Fairyland

My soul to ravish came to me last night, :
And never lady at my side did stand
To my undoing so unearthly bright.

Last night she came, a bright and lovely ghost,
And rose before me, while I seemed to sleep,
And of that slumber where my soul was lost
My tongue shall tell while I my memory keep. 

Fair was as her face, her cheeks outblushed the rose;
There might you see the floods of crimson rise,
And dark unfaltering brows above disclose
The hyacinthine petals of her eyes. 

Her pretty mouth more sweet than honeycomb
Would with red lips the budding rose excel,
And each soft whisper that from thence did come
Would charm the sick and make the dying well. 

Between her lips like fallen rain of pearl
On scarlet cushions twain her teeth reposed;
How bright they shone, how sweetly spoke the girl;
Each languid word new loveliness disclosed.

Between her arms that taper to the hand

Are set twin glories, beautiful to see.
Two snowy mountains in her bosom stand,
Mid golden thickets of embroidery.

Gold-bordered slippers on her gentle feet

Do guard her steps wherever she may move;
You'd swear that maid so radiantly sweet
Had them a present from the God of Love.

Her purple mantle fringed with satin round,
Her golden shift with scarlet borders gay,
Her gilded bodice o'er her bosom bound
Did all her fairy loveliness display ...

'I came to seek you: come away with me!'
Thus spake the lady, and her voice was low,
And in my ear she murmured secretly,
As softest notes from sweetest organs flow.

'I will not go.' I answered like a fool,
For love had brought me to distraction,
And as I spake that vision beautiful
Had vanished in the darkness and was gone.

And now my soul and body part in pain.
The queen with blushing check and brown-lashed eyes
Leaves me to pine and cometh not again,
Tho' she was kind and beautiful and wise ...

The mound of Midhir with its rampart fair,
The fort of Sanbh, Abhartach's magic hill,
No lady in their castles can compare
With this sweet maid for whom I languish still.

Not in Emania of the apple-trees,
Nor halls of Aonghus of the golden sword,
The fairy dwells that hath such charms as these,
So soft a beauty or so kind a word.

But she is gone, and I would follow fast'
To lands unknown, who languish in despair.
Would it were possible to find at last
That country and to dwell for ever there!

A little hour I loved her rosy cheek –
The ebb must follow ever on the flow –
The vision fled, the joy of love grew weak,
My spirit sank and I was left to woe.

Tadhg Dall O'Huiginn (d. 1591).

Laughing Lhursday*

George Carlin

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
Nah.
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Joy of Spring

. . .