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Montag, 11. Dezember 2006
Das Leben ein Traum
rabe489, 20:58h
da das Licht
nun von Jahreszeiten jeweils
leuchte inwendig
Frühjahr herrsche
Blumenwiesen
frische Felder und Lerchenlieder
und Amseln
vielleicht im Gesang
am Morgen wenn
Dunkles
azurnem Licht weiche
aber so
eher den Geschmack
von Rotwein
noch innerlich noch
frohe Reden
dies und jenes
Leichte und
Offene
aber immerhin
schreitet Zeit
ins Glückliche
nun von Jahreszeiten jeweils
leuchte inwendig
Frühjahr herrsche
Blumenwiesen
frische Felder und Lerchenlieder
und Amseln
vielleicht im Gesang
am Morgen wenn
Dunkles
azurnem Licht weiche
aber so
eher den Geschmack
von Rotwein
noch innerlich noch
frohe Reden
dies und jenes
Leichte und
Offene
aber immerhin
schreitet Zeit
ins Glückliche
... link
"Nach dem Sturm"
rabe489, 20:03h
Im Klassischen waren es erst die Klavierkonzerte Beethovens in der Einspielung Glenn Goulds, später Wagner, dann alle Countertenöre (-tenors) und Koloratur-Sopranistinnen (bis heute) später Schubert Lieder, später wieder Beethoven, dazwischen das 20. Jahrhundert, dann die Italiener, vorher irgendwann die Blechbläser Bruckners, dann die Opern, dann wieder Schubert, parallel immer das Mittelalter, Perotinus Magnus, dann wieder die späten Streichquartette Ludwig vans, im Augenblick immer wieder Sibelius'sche Träume, was ich hörte und höre, wie gesagt im Augenblick der große Finne - vor Ausbrüchen nie sicher -. Warum dieses Nachdenken über Werden und Vergehen? Weil ich keineWeihnachtplätzchen backen kann (*neid*) und mich mit diesem Bloggern zu guter letzt vor dem Wäscheaufhängen drücken kann.
... link
Daily Soap
rabe489, 18:44h
Den halben Tag im Regen herumgelaufen. Um 16 Uhr war es duster. Ein kleines Buch von Gedichten mitgebracht zur Einstimmung in einen romantischen Abend voller Selbstgespräche:
THREE SONNETS ON WOMAN (1817)
WOMAN'! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again ;
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances,
E'en then my soul with exultation dances,
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain :
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens ! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning graces;—to be thy defender
I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—
A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.
Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck and creamy breast;
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
Till the fond, fixed eyes forget they stare.
From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot dare
To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
They be of what is worthy,—though not drest
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark:
These lures I straight forget,—e'en ere I dine,
Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark
Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ?
Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ?
God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who intreats
Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing
One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear
A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, and near:
Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
THREE SONNETS ON WOMAN (1817)
WOMAN'! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again ;
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances,
E'en then my soul with exultation dances,
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain :
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens ! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning graces;—to be thy defender
I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—
A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.
Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck and creamy breast;
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
Till the fond, fixed eyes forget they stare.
From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot dare
To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
They be of what is worthy,—though not drest
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark:
These lures I straight forget,—e'en ere I dine,
Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark
Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ?
Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ?
God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who intreats
Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing
One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear
A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, and near:
Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
... link
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by rabe489 (Fr, 26. Okt, 16:45)
