Good Hours

It's that time of the year again, there is something in the air, something white and cold, and something rather strange; this time it's actually a snowy white Christmas, and the time when everything, eventually, slows down. These last few months have been for me rather strange and life overturning, but in the end this fasted paced struggle, though there where a often the feeling of nothing at all would move, entered the Peterson Night Train and came to an end. And I decided that it was now time for a break.

All my shopping has come to an end, the tree is lit and the peace has reached even me. I left my solitude in the south and took the Christmas night train to my parents and the busy life of shopping spirit in the city. There is a special feeling one gets from just strolling around in a hectic last minute celebration of this wonderful time of get-toghethers in shopping malls. Though, I also see coffee shops packed with people having a very good time, which is nice since good coffee should be appreciated.

This Christmas is for me a rather nice one, since I for the first time can afford giving those who have been there for me something in return.

As mentioned, peace has reached me at last, and on this Christmasy evening, I am having a splendid time. I have poured myself a most wonderful winter stout, I am listening to old jazz records and taking life with utmost ease.

I wish all my friends a very merry Christmas.

Good Hours

I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.

I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street

Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

R. Frost

Blow, Blow thou Winter Wind

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

W. Shakespeare

To Tom Waits

Have a glass or ten of whisky in honour of Tom Waits' 60th birthday. The man with the voice of days gone bye, which was once described by Daniel Durchholz "like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car." His songs take me back to some of my best memories of dark and smoky pubs, sittin alone at the bar drinking dark beer and smoking hand-rolled ciggarettes and just being on your own. He also reminds me of long evening when my writing was suffering from not being written and I had to force words unto the page with the help from a bottle of Scotch and ol' Tom, thanks for that. I raise my whisky filled glass and say "Happy Birthday Tom".


"We are all mad here"

You can hang me in a bottle like a cat
Let the crows pick me clean but for my hat
Where the wailing of a baby
Meets the footsteps of the dead
We're all mad here

As the devil sticks his flag into the mud
Mrs Carol has run off with Reverend Judd
Hell is such a lonely place
And your big expensive face will never last

And you'll die with the rose still on your lips
And in time the heart-shaped bone that was your hips
And the worms, they will climb the rugged ladder of your spine
We're all mad here

And my eyeballs roll this terrible terrain
And we're all inside a decomposing train
And your eyes will die like fish
And the shore of your face will turn to bone.

"Lullaby"

Sun is red; moon is cracked
Daddy's never coming back
Nothing's ever yours to keep
Close your eyes, go to sleep
If I die before you wake
Don't you cry, don't you weep

Nothing's ever as it seems
Climb the ladder to you dreams
If I die before you wake
Don't you cry, don't you weep
Nothing's ever yours to keep
Close your eyes; go to sleep.

New Era and Winter Wonderland

Finally, I am all settled inn! These last few months have been very strange and hectic, but I managed to back up all my books and my entire life into a set of boxes. After much stress and heavy lifting we was on our way, I got help from my friends to pack and drive the lot south. Though, when I arrived, my supervisor was in Rome and nobody knew of my arrival, so no office, no keys, I was a non-entity. Last week, late last week, all was on its place and my new life could begin.

This is my new neighbourhood:

Since this is very much like a new beginning to my studies I thought it appropriate to quote W. Whitman's "Beginning My Studies":

BEGINNING my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,

The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,

The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,

I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,

But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.

Last week, winter came, and the landskape transformed into pure beauty. So when was heading to work I took some lovely pictures of my daily walk through the forrest:

Christmas is on the doorstep and a song that for me is truly Christmasy is "Walking in the Air" from the childrens' book "The Snowman" by Howard Blake:

Walking in the air, floating the sky...
Floating in the air...

We're walking in the air
We're floating in the moonlit sky
The people far below are sleeping as we fly

We're holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly so high above with you

Far across the world
The villages go by like dreams
The rivers and the hills
The forest and the streams

Children gaze open mouthed
Taken by surprise
Nobody down below believes their eyes

We're surfing in the air
We're swimming in the frozen sky
We're drifting over icy
mountains floating by

Suddenly swooping low on an ocean deep
Arousing of a mighty monster from its sleep

We're walking in the air
We're dancing in the midnight sky
And everyone who sees us greets us as we fly.

Cats and Owls in the Night

How can I describe the feeling of movement? How to make clever remarks about rather dull boxes filled with books? Well, I heard an owl just a few days ago which made made me stop and contemplate the night and the morning after night. I sat down on a bench and listend through a Dire Straits record. When I neared the end the had started to crawl up the mountains surrounding Bergen. It was at this time I realized that the owls and cats had left the night, I was nearing my waking hours. Entering my flat at this time, in silence, only the slow whisteling of the morning sun and the dull sound of my flatmates snoring reminded me that I am not alone, and I am rather thankful for that. But, when I was sitting in my room, well actually sitting in my room listening to some goodnight jazz, I glanced out of the window of my bedroom and said hello to an early morning cat who greeted my late night with an early morning greeting.

1

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

2

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

Lord Tennyson

A traveller is contemplating his journey

I am again about to embark on a journey to an unknown place and for a measure of time I do not know. The pursuit of happines and knowledge will take me to places I do no yet know and people I have yet to meet. For the last couple of days my time has been spent on sitting in the library coffee bar chatting with friends about the books we are currently reading and the films we are about to read, I have been drinking beer while discussing international politics, television programs and pizza recipes all jumbled together forming a good time well spent.

These few days I have been sitting in my comfy chair drinking tea thinking of knowledge yet to gain and new friends to drink coffee and discuss life, universe and something else not yet known to me with.

I can with confidence say that I am truly looking forward to undertake a new adventure.

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,	5
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
—If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:	10
With Thought and Love companions of our way—
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,—
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

W. Wordsworth

New Era

A couple of days ago I got an email that told me that I am to become a research fellow at a university on the other side of the country. This filled me with joy and excitement, but also with some sadness. I am excited to start on a new road, a road filled with opportunities and challenges as well as an enormous amount of joy to be allowed to wander freely in my pace and direction. The last couple of days have been somewhat strange, not really knowing what to do. I have tried to find out what is happening and what is going to happen. I have found out that I'll deal with that a bit later.

What have struck me with sadness are the people I leave behind me when I leave. People I love and care a lot about. On this I have no more words.


...and the road becomes my bride
I have stripped of all but pride
so in her I do confide
and she keeps me satisfied
gives me all I need

...and with dust in throat I crave
only knowledge will I save
to the game you stay a slave
rover wanderer
nomad vagabond
call me what you will

but I'll take my time anywhere
free to speak my mind anywhere
and I'll redefine anywhere
anywhere I may roam
where I lay my head is home
Metallica

How many roads you’ve traveled
How many dreams you’ve chased
Across sand and sky and gravel
Looking for one safe place

Will you make a smoother landing
When you break your fall from grace
Into the arms of understanding
Looking for one safe place

Life is trial by fire
And love’s the sweetest taste
And I pray it lifts us higher
To one safe place
Marc Cohn

Once and no more: so said my life,
When in my arms inchained
She unto mine her lips did move,
And so my heart she gained.
Thus done, she saith, "Away I must
For fear of being missed ;
Your heart's made over but in trust :"
And so again she kissed.
John Cotgrave

Nocturne Blues

It's night, the rain is hitting hard against my window, not been feeling well for a couple of days. Tonight I'am drinking red wine and listening to blues and Charlie Haden. I must confess that there are nights when a blues is the best kind of music. Remebering the old bar, half crowded with dusty figures of a forgotten time, cold beer, a timeless world forgotten by all but those who happened to be there when it all was washed away by fleeting time. I can still smell the sweet whiskey and the mellow pipe tobacco they used to smoke, though it is slowly fading away into shadow of the past, with half-forgotten childhood dreams and summer evenings. How do you make time slow down?

Nocturne
Now through night's caressing grip
Earth and all her ocans slip,
Capes of China slide away
From her fingers into day
And th'Americas incline
Coasts towards her shadow line.

Now the ragged vagrants creep
Into crooked holes to sleep:
Just and unjust, worst and best,
Change their places as they rest:
Awkward lovers like in fields
Where disdainful beauty yields:

While the splendid and the proud
Naked stand before the crowd
And the losing gambler gains
And the beggar entertains:
May sleep's healing power extend
Through these hours to our friend.
Unpursued by hostile force,
Traction engine, bull or horse
Or revolting succubus;
Calmly till the morning break
Let him lie, then gently wake.

W.H, Auden

The final curtain

I am dreadfully sorry for not writing in too long a time. This night however I felt like reading yet another upbeat poem by one of my most beloved poets. I am entering the end of a holiday crowded with meddelsome northerners and troublesome days with rain and endless complaints, though all this is nearing the end. It is soon time for the final curtain call and I will be back at my books and to my rather somber thirst for even more books.

Whilst sitting in my bedroom, listenting to Charlie Haden's Nocturne, which I find suitable at this time of night, can't help thinking, with a somewhat melancholy mind that yet another summer has passed and autumn will unavoidably be following soon behind. I do, though, look forward to a few weeks of renewed friendship and merry laughter, the odd klinking of glasses and the oh so familiar songs of youth and spirit, even i


the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
flowers, cheers, tears, a thunderous
accolade.
I have not seen this particular musical
but I know if I had that I wouldn't have
been able to bear it, it would have
sickened me.
trust me on this, the world and its
peoples and its artful entertainment has
done very little for me, only to me.
still, let them enjoy one another, it will
keep them from my door
and for this, my own thunderous
accolade.

C. Bukowski

A hot summer night

It's summer, it's rather hot, it's pretty humid and I am reading French poets whilst sipping to Scotch Whisky... Thought that just a short post would suffice this time. Good Night!


On Summer Nights

On summer nights, before the shining shop windows,
When the sap pulses beneath the tarnished halos
Formed by the grillwork at the feet of fragile elms,
Leaving black gatherings, gay groups or stay-at-homes,
Who lights up cheap cigars and pipes and puff away,
Into this narrow, half-stone stall I wend my way.
While overhead hangs a poster - Iblend, it states -
I imagine that winter also inudates
Tibet in running water, washing the yellow tide,
And that winter wind spares nothing left outside.

A. Rimbaud

Passing through a City

Yesterday was one of those days when I just plug in my iPod and walk around in the city to get some perspective and some peace. I enjoy these fleeting moments of passing through crowds of unfamiliar faces and unknown streets. Whenever I come to a new city, or an old city I've visited time and time again, I always do the same rutine, music and walking. It may not only be crowded streets I pass through, but empty shops or shops packed with people. I like to pass through everyday life situations only to see the moment become something special, a fleeting moment captured. I sat down on a table outside a coffee-shop to take in the buzzing of the place around me, at this particular day, a clear summer day, the city was full of eager turists wanting almost the same as me; to take in as much they could in a single day. They were all cueing at all possible places they could find to cue up at, they wanted to see everything in just a couple of fleeting moments, waiting until later to take it all in, to look at a screen with a picture and say "I do not know excatly when or where this was taken, but it must have been nice." Well, I sat at the table for a few more moments and walked away to listen to some more music, just passing through.


ONCE I pass'd through a populous city, imprinting my brain, for
future use, with its shows, architecture, customs, and
traditions;
Yet now, of all that city, I remember only a woman I casually met
there, who detain'd me for love of me;
Day by day and night by night we were together,--All else has long
been forgotten by me;
I remember, I say, only that woman who passionately clung to me;
Again we wander--we love--we separate again;
Again she holds me by the hand--I must not go!
I see her close beside me, with silent lips, sad and tremulous.

Walt Whitman

Science and Procrastination

A few days ago a friend of mine showed me this television series Fringe, which I immediately fell for. I have been watching the first 10 episodes just in a matter of days. I must confess since my studies into cognitive science is for a mere literary scholar somewhat of a mystery and a curiosity, but also at the same time a bit alarming, I suddenly remebered dear old Edgar Allan's take on science. I would also reccomend for all who have some time to kill, or simply want to procrastinate instead, to read Poe's excellent short story: The Case of Mr. M. Valdemar while on the subject of bizarre science.

Sonnet to Science

SCIENCE, meet daughter of old time thou art,
Who alterest all things with thy piercing eyes!
Why pray'st thou thus upon the poet's heart —
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities!

How shall he love thee, or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering,
To seek for treasure in the jewell'd skies,
Albeit he soar with an undaunted wing.

Hast thou not dragg'd Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood,
To seek for shelter in some happier star,
The gentle Nais from the fountain flood.

The elfin from the greenwood and from me,
The summer's dream beneath the shrubbery.

Daisy

At the present I am sitting in an office helping costumers in need. Though, I would rather have been swimming in a cool lake or some warm and relaxing place. This has been a whole week of sun and summer as rarely seen, and I have been trapped inside with distressed and somewhat angry costumers also wishing to be outside rather than arguing with me. So, I found a poem by William Carlos William, "Daisy", longing for a riverbank with a good book and some refreshments...

The dayseye hugging the earth

in August, ha! Spring is

gone down in purple,

weeds stand high in the corn,

the rainbeaten furrow

is clotted with sorrel

and crabgrass, the

branch is black under

the heavy mass of the leaves--

The sun is upon a slender green stem

ribbed lengthwise.

He lies on his back--

it is a woman also--

he regards his former

majesty and

round the yellow center,

split and creviced and done into

minute flowerheads, he sends out

his twenty rays-- a little

and the wind is among them

to grow cool there!

One turns the thing over

in his hand and looks

at it from the rear: brownedged,

green and pointed scales

armor his yellow.

But turn and turn,

the crisp petals remain

brief, translucent, greenfastened,

barely touching at the edges:

blades of limpid seashell.

Along the streets of Prague

Sitting in a Starbucks cafe in the middle of Prague, just by the Charles bridge, the one with all the statues, I am almost a bit baffled by the complete mix of history and culture in this city. As you can see in the picture below, I am standing in front of an old building with its art nouveau front, and in the same building there is a Mango fashion store. It is almost Kafkaesque...


I also found this poet, Louis Armand, an aussie living and teaching here in Prague. Although I have not, as the poem describes, travelled by the Nighttrain, but maybe some day I will.

NIGHTTRAIN

the allegory is ended where the window
across from you—opening
to the left & right
like a hollow stage—phantom
fleeing ... but the day after tomorrow
there is also time
which can be banished
of every one of those senses—the un-
charted space of
enactment foreshortened to memory
the distant pitch of factory sirens'
tedious iteration—brooding
over the strange absence between—
when you find yourself anonymous
as any other passenger (the ticket in your hand
no longer proof of destination) ...

nearer they came: it's impossible to know
the degree of solitude you’ll reach
once fate touches you ... & the wind
pushing behind the glass
almost visible—frightened by its
humanness (a moment later the light outside
has faded against the roof-line)—
was it death that was between us then?

Et lite vår/sommer dikt på norsk

Tenkte at jeg, ettersom jeg, mer eller mindre, kun har skrevet på engelsk på denne bloggen, skulle ha en kort liten post på norsk. Som jeg nevnte i forrige post, så er det nå deilig sommer med parkopphold, iste og is, og en av de beste tidene på året til å bruke mesteparten av den lyse tiden til å lese alt jeg ikke får lest ellers. En forfatter som da ofte dukker opp er Harald Sverdrup, ettersom det kan bli sagt at vi ikke helt ennå er fullt i sommermodus, men heller i en skumringstime mellom vår og sommer, synes jeg at Sverdrups lille dikt "Våren er en videofilm" passer utmerket.


Våren er en videofilm med vold og porno,
spissrotgang og underlivslukt av hegg og berberis,
surt piss fra bakgårder, søt lukt av svanger skogbunn,
regnvåt ensomhet under svarte paraplyer,
glimt av solbyen Nirvana, menns og kvinners nakenhet
åpenbaret i fragmenter, små frydefulle hikst.

Rovfugl svever inn i himmelens blå redsel,
forfølgelsesvanvidd flykter rundt i vinden
og får kongler og en håndfull sand i hodet.
Svarttrosten i asylparken synger fiolett med gule gnister.
Et formørket sinn vil sette punktum for sitt liv,
men blir reddet av en solstråle.

Summer Holiday

The summer has finally arrived, and so has my first real holiday in years. Since the completion of my Latin exam last Thuesday my action of the has definetly been an equally opposite reaction to the days before: utter non action. It has, without doubt, a sated experience. As to summery weather, it has likewise been warm, sunny, a pleasent continous founderous view of delightful and beautiful people, and a wonderous smell of barbeque in the air.

Whilst laying in the park, I came across a poem by D.H. Lawrence, which by all accounts suits these last few days perfectly:


How strange it would be if some women came forward and said:
We are sun-women!
We belong neither to men nor our children nor even ourselves
but to the sun.

And how delicious it is to feel sunshine upon me!
And how delicious to open like a marigold
when a man comes looking down upon one
with sun in his face, so that a woman cannot but open
like a marigold to the sun
and thrill with glittering rays.

Jacob Marley

Well, there are some days that the reading of Latin verbs is not what I most long for. Some days Jacob Marley has left his chains on my doorstep and the memories of yesteryear come to visit.


Well, today a friend told me this sorry tale
as he stood there trembling and turning pale
he said each day's harder to get on the scale
sort of like Jacob Marley's chain.
But it's not like life's such a vale of tears
it's just full of thoughts that act as souvenirs
for those tiny blunders made in yesteryear
that comprise Jacob Marley's chain.
Well, I had a little metaphor to state my case
it encompassed the condition of the human race
but to my dismay, it left without a trace
except for the sound of Jacob Marley's chain.
Now there is no story left to tell
so I think I'd rather just go on to Hell
where there's a snowball's chance that the personnel
might help to carry Jacob Marley's chain.
help to carry Jacob Marley's chain.
carry Jacob Marley's chain.

A. Mann

Some Mondays

Some mondays you know that you should have stayed in bed. Some mondays are too rainy, too hung over, too busy, and too much work for not staying in. Some mondays I know to be all about the comfort of my bed and not about sour cold coffee and locked doors. Some mondays I'd prefer to be just a long sunday night.


The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload
And nobody’s gonna go to school today
She’s gonna make them stay at home
And daddy doesn’t understand it
He always said she was good as gold
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be show-ow-ow-ow-own?

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot the whole day down

The Telex machine is kept so clean
And it types to a waiting world
And mother feels so shocked
Father’s world is rocked
And their thoughts turn to their own little girl
Sweet 16 ain’t that peachy keen
Now that ain’t so neat to admit defeat
They can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reasons do you need?
Oh Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot
The whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down

And all the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with the toys a while
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die
And then the bullhorn crackles
And the captain tackles
(With the problems of the how's and why's)
And he can see no reasons
'Cos there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die, die?
Oh Oh Oh

Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don’t like
I don’t like (Tell me why)
I don’t like Mondays
Tell me why
I don't like Mondays
I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot the whole day down.

B. Geldof

Almost six o'clock

Well, there are those nights that you instantly fall asleep the moment you hit anything soft and pillowish, and there are those nights when you get to see the sunrise before going to bed. I must confess that I enjoy those nights that will never end. Chatting away with friends far away, listening to Waits. This has been such a night. But, now one might say it is nearing closing time.

Well I hope that I don't fall in love with you
'Cause falling in love just makes me blue,
Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well the room is crowded, people everywhere
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown, take that frown and break it,
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well the night does funny things inside a man
These old tom-cat feelings you don't understand,
Well I turn around to look at you, you light a cigarette,
I wish I had the guts to bum one, but we've never met,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late,
You'd like some some company,
Well I turn around to look at you, and you look back at me,
The guy you're with has up and split, the chair next to you's free,
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.

Now it's closing time, the music's fading out
Last call for drinks, I'll have another stout.
Well I turn around to look at you, you're nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face, guess I'll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you.

T.Waits

Misty Mountains on the Way Home

There are some rather pleasant sights to see whilst driving home over the mountains, by driving I mean of course relaxing on a train that moves steadily, listening to the exquisite words of an Oxonian don read aloud by a tremendously British fellow, one can enjoy a magnificent vista of pure white. This is what I newly have experienced. Would it were just a few hours shorter. I came to think, when, as mentioned, listening to the hazardous adventures read in a outstandingly soft tone, about misty mountains. I must say that I find it most disturbing to see people dressed up in strange contraptions ready to fling themselves down from a mountain top. But then again, having spent quite a few Easters in a somewhat gray city just around April, I remembered a small poem by Carl Sandburg:

"Just Before April Came"

The Snow piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.

Frogs plutter and squdge - and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin
steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?

An Angel in the Library

There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.

I hear nothing, but she does.

C. Simic

Gentleman Alone

The young maricones and the horny muchachas, The big fat widows delirious from insomnia, The young wives thirty hours' pregnant, And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night, Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters Surround my solitary home, Enemies of my soul, Conspirators in pajamas Who exchange deep kisses for passwords. Radiant summer brings out the lovers In melancholy regiments, Fat and thin and happy and sad couples; Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon, There is a continual life of pants and panties, A hum from the fondling of silk stockings, And women's breasts that glisten like eyes. The salary man, after a while, After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night, Has decisively fucked his neighbor, And now takes her to the miserable movies, Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes, And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes. The night of the hunter and the night of the husband Come together like bed sheets and bury me, And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating, And the animals mount each other openly, And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically, And cousins play strange games with cousins, And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient, And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought, Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast, And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly On beds big and tall as ships: So, eternally, This twisted and breathing forest crushes me With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth And black roots like fingernails and shoes.

P. Neruda

Just Take Five

Just stop and take a little time out with me.
Oh just take five, just take five.
Stop your busy day and take the time out to see
that I'm alive, I'm alive.

Oh, though I'm going out of my way
Just so I can pass by each day
not a single word do we say
It's a pantomine, I'm out of time.
Still I know our eyes often meet,
I feel tingles down to my feet,
When you smile, that's much too discreet.
Sends me on my way.

Now wouldn't it be better not to be so polite
when you could offer a light?
Just start a little conversation now, it's alright
when you're taking five...(ah-ha)

Five!


Won't ya take a little time out with me (my pretty)
Baby take five.
Stop your busy day and take the time to see, girl, that i'm alive
Though I'm going out of my way
Just so I can pass by each day
Not a single word do we say
It's a pantomine, I'm out of time
Still I know our eyes often meet,
I feel tingles down to my feet,
When you smile, that's much too discreet.
Sends me on my way.

Wouldn't it be better not to be so polite, pretty mama
Don't you know that you could offer me a light?
Start a little conversation now, it's alright
when you're taking five...


Won't ya take a little time out with me, girl
Come take five
Stop your busy day and take the time to see that I'm alive
Oh, though I'm going out of my way
so I can pass by each day
not a single word do we say
It's a pantomine, I'm out of time
Still I know our eyes often meet,
I feel tingles down to my feet,
When you smile, that's much too discreet.
Sends me on my way.

Baby,just don't say hello and do not stare
you could offer your hand
hugging and a-chugging it could be so grand
oh take fiiive

If you want to

A. Jarreau

careful hands

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

e.e.cummings

A Green World

I fell into the ocean
When you became my wife
I risked it all against the sea
To have a better life
Marie you are the wild blue sky
Men do foolish things
You turn kings into beggars
And beggars into kings

Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
When all the world is green

The face forgives the mirror
The worm forgives the plow
The questions begs the answer
Can you forgive me somehow?
Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
And all the world is green

Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
Can we bring back the old days again?
And all the world is green

The moon is yellow silver
On the things that summer brings
It's a love you'd kill for
And all the world is green
He's balancing a diamond
On a blade of grass
The dew will settle on our graves
When all the world is green

Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
When all the world is green

He's balancing a diamond
On a blade of grass
The dew will settle on our graves
When all the world is green.

T.Waits

See the World

Day to day
Where do you want to be?
cose now you're trying to pick a fight
With everyone you need

You seem like a soldier
Who's lost his composure
You're wounded and playing a waiting game
In no-man's land no-one's to blame

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want

Empty handed, surrounded by a senseless scene
With nothing of significance
Besides a shadow of a dream
You sound like an old joke
You're worn-out, a bit broke
An' askin me time and time again
When the answer's still the same

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want

You've got a chance to put things right
So how's it going to be?
Lay down your arms now
And put us beyond doubt
So reach out it's not too far away
Don't mess around now, don't delay

See the world
Find an old fashioned girl
And when all's been said and done
It's the things that are given, not won
Are the things that you want.

Gomez

The Sun warms everything

The sun warms everything,
pure and gentle,
once again it reveals to the world
April's face,
the soul of man
is urged towards love
and joys are governed
by the boy-god.

All this rebirth
in spring's festivity
and spring's power
bids us to rejoice;
it shows us paths we know well,
and in your springtime
it is true and right
to keep what is yours.

Love me faitfully!
See how I am faithful:
with all my heart
and with all my soul,
I am with you
even when I am far away.
Whosoever loves this much
turns on the wheel.

Carmina Burana

Another Time

For us like any other fugitive,
Like the numberless flowers that cannot number
And all the beasts that need not remember,
It is today in which we live.

So many try to say Not Now,
So many have forgotten how
To say I Am, and would be
Lost, if they could, in history.

Bowing, for instance, with such old-world grace
To a proper flag in a proper place,
Muttering like ancients as they stump upstairs
Of Mine and His or Ours and Theirs.

Just as if time were what they used to will
When it was gifted with possession still,
Just as if they were wrong
In no more wishing to belong.

No wonder then so many die of grief,
So many are so lonely as they die;
No one has yet believed or liked a lie,
Another time has other lives to live.

W.H. Auden

Reality sandwich

On Burroughs' Work

The method must be pures meat
and no symbolic dressing,
actual visions & actual prisons
as seen then and now.

Prisons and visions presented
with rare descriptions
corresponding exactly to those
of Alcatraz and Rose.

A naked lunch is natural to us,
we eat reality sandwiches.
But allegories are so much lettuce.
Don't hide the madness.

A. Ginsberg

Grey Rooms

Well I've been here before
Sat on the floor in a grey grey room
Where I stay in all day
I don't eat, but I play with this grey grey food

Desolé, if someone is prayin' then I might break out,
Desolé, even if I scream I can't scream that loud

I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Well I've been here before
Sat on a floor in a grey grey mood
Where I stay up all night
And all that I write is a grey grey tune

So pray for me child, just for a while
That I might break out yeah
Pray for me child
Even a smile would do for now

'Cause I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Have I still got you to be my open door
Have I still got you to be my sandy shore
Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm
Have I still got you to keep me warm

If I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Coz if I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Oh coz nothing is lost, it's just frozen in frost,
And it's opening time, there's no-one in line

But I've still got me to be your open door,
I've still got me to be your sandy shore
I've still got me to cross your bridge in this storm
And I've still got me to keep you warm.

D. Rice

The Phoenix and the Ashes

O Blest unfabled Incense Tree, That burns in glorious Araby, With red scent chalicing the air, Till earth-life grow Elysian there! Half buried to her flaming breast In this bright tree, she makes her nest, Hundred sunn'd Phoenix! When she must Crumble at length to hoary dust! Her gorgous death-bed! Her rich pyre Burnt up with aromatic fire! Her urn, sight high from spoiler men! Her birthplace when self-born again! The mountainless green wilds among, Here ends she her unechoing song! With amber tears and oderous sighs Mourn'd by the desert where she dies! Laid like the young fawn mossily In sun-green vales of Araby, I woke hard by the Phoenix tree That with shadeless boughs flamed over me, And upward call'd for a dumb cry With moonbread orbs of wonder I Beheld the immortal Bird on high Glassing the great Sun in her eye. Stedfast she gazed upon his fire, Still her destroyer and her sire! As if to his her soul of flame Had flown already whence it came; Like those that sit and glare so still, Intense with their death struggle, till We touch, and curdle at their chill! But breathing yet while she doth burn The deathless Daughter of the Sun! Slowly to crimson embers turn The beauties of the brightsome one. O'er the broad nest her silver wings Shook down their wasteful glitterings; Her brinded neck high arch'd in air Like a small rainbow faded there; But brighter glow'd her plumy crown Mouldering to golden ashes down; With fume of sweet woods, to the skies, Pure asa Saint's adoring sighs, Warm as a prayer in Paradise, Her life-breath rose in sacrifice! The while with shrill triumphant tone Sounding aloud, aloft, alone, Ceaseless her joyful deathwail she Sang to departing Araby!

George Darley

I miss you, and love you...

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height.

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints.

I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life;

and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.

E. Browning

La Fee Verte

Even when she walks she seems to dance!
Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes
obedient to the rhythm of the wands
by which a fakir wakens them to grace.
Like both the desert and the desert sky
insensible to human suffering,
and like the ocean’s endless labyrinth
she shows her body with indifference.
Precious minerals are her polished eyes,
and in her strange symbolic nature
angel and sphinx unite,
where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light,
shining forever, useless as a star,
the sterile woman’s icy majesty.

Charles Baudelaire

Like the Gods Of the Sun

As I draw up my breath,
And silver fills my eyes.
I kiss her still,
For she will never rise.
On my weak body,
Lays her dying hand.
Through those meadows of Heaven,
Where we ran.
Like a thief in the night,
The wind blows so light.
It wars with my tears,
That won't dry for many years.
"Loves golden arrow
At her should have fled,
And not Deaths ebon dart
To strike her dead."

Some Changes and Some new Words

As time has flown by and I have read exhaustively these past few month I now try another deal with other words.

With these opening words I will give the floor to the thoughts of Deadalus as a starter to smothen the path I now have taken:

"It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle’s phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind’s darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms."

With the words of Wallace Stevens the thoughts go on:

The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.


At this very end the last thoughts are in the words of Auden:

What does the song hope for? And his moved hands
A little way from the birds, the shy, the delightful?
To be bewildered and happy,
Or most of all the knowledge of life?

But the beautiful are content with the sharp notes of the air;
The warmth is enough. O if winter really
Oppose, if the weak snowlake,
What will the wishm what will the dance do?

Thank you, and good night.