Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Charles Baudelaire: Spleen

Juni 12, 2017

I’m like the king of a rainy country, rich
but helpless, decrepit though still a young man
who scorns his fawning tutors, wastes his time
on dogs and other animals, and has no fun;
nothing distracts him, neither hawk nor hound
nor subjects starving at the palace gate.
His favorite fool’s obscenities fall flat
—the royal invalid is not amused—
and ladies in waiting for a princely nod
no longer dress indecently enough
to win a smile from this young skeleton.
The bed of state becomes a stately tomb.
The alchemist who brews him gold has failed
to purge the impure substance from his soul,
and baths of blood, Rome’s legacy recalled
by certain barons in their failing days,
are useless to revive this sickly flesh
through which no blood but brackish Lethe seeps.

Lacenaire Hip Hop/ Pierre Francois Lacenaire: Träume eines zum Tode Verurteilten

Juni 12, 2017

Wie ist man, wenn man träumt,

so glücklich! …

Auch ohne Schlaf, welch süßer Wahn.

Kaum eine Stunde, schon entwickl´ich

Den allerherrlichsten Roman.

Schaff eine Welt mir nach Belieben,

Die besten Lose sind für mich,

Mir das des Königs zuzuschieben,

Das wagt´ ich nie – wie könnte ich.

 

Auf meinem Ruhesitz, dem leisen,

Um meine Zukunft unbesorgt,

Laß ich mich von Chimären speisen,

Auch von Erinnrung wird geborgt;

Ihr Träume, frisch aus Jugendquellen,

Noch frei von Unglück und Verdruß,

Kommt, mir mein Alter zu erhellen:

Alt ist man, wenn man sterben muß.

 

Manchmal, in prächtigem Palaste,

Versamml´ich Mädchen weit und breit;

Noch öfter ich im Grünen raste,

Hab dort die Liste nur zur Seit.

Der Flor auf ihrer Brust, der schönen,

Reißt mich noch weit zu träumen hin.

Nur daß, um diesen Traum zu krönen,

Ich leider ganz alleine bin.

 

Zuweilen, in bescheidner Hütte,

Als Vater froh, als Gatte zart,

Sitz ich in der Familie Mitte,

Kinder und Weib um mich geschart;

Auch bin ich Buch und Brief gewogen

Im Schatten unter dichtem Baum;

Ach! ein Gewitter kommt gezogen,

Warum ist er so kurz, der Traum?

Dawn and Sunset

Mai 24, 2017

If I should come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man;

And should I kiss thy rosy lips,

Thy days will not be lang.

James Elroy Flecker:

Mai 14, 2017

James Elroy Flecker: A Ship, an Isle, a Sickle Moon

Mai 14, 2017

Vita Sackville-West: Phantom

Mai 14, 2017

W.H. Davies: The Wind

Mai 14, 2017

Sometimes he roars among the leafy trees

Such sounds as in a narrow cove, when Seas

Rush in between high rocks; or grandly roll´d,

Like music heard in churches that are old.

Sometimes he makes the children´s happy sound,

When they play hide and seek, and one is found.

Sometimes he whineth like a dog in sleep,

Bit by the merciless, small fleas; then deep

And hollow sounds come from him, as starved men

Oft hear rise from their empty parts; and then

He´ll hum a hollow groan, like one sick lain,

Who fears a move will but increase his pain.

And now he makes an awful wail, as when

From dark coal-pits are brought up crushed, dead men

To frantic wives. When he´s on mischief bent,

He breeds more ill than that strange Parliament

Held by the witches, in the Hebrides;

He´s here, he´s there, to do whate´er he please.

For well he knows the spirit´s tricks at night,

Of slamming doors, and blowing out our light,

And tapping at our windows, rattling pails,

And making sighs and moans, and shouts and wails.

T´was he no doubt made that young man´s hair white,

Who slept alone in a strange house one night,

And was an old man in the morn and crazed,

And all who saw and heard him were amazed.

 

W.H. Davies: Bewitched

Mai 14, 2017

Give me a night in June that´s clear and quiet,

That I may stare at Heaven until I see

Her face all twitching to her farthest star –

Conscious of one true man´s idolatry.

 

I stare at dewdrops till they close their eyes,

I stare at grass till all the world is green;

I stare at rainbows all their precious life,

Till nothing´s left to prove what I have seen.

 

I stare at Robin Redbreast on his bough,

Till he comes down with many a pretty dance:

I stare at my own Self, and walk the earth

With half my spirit in a wonder-trance.

Maurice Baring: From `Vale´

Mai 14, 2017

Maurice Baring: Elegy on the Death of Juliet´s Owl

Mai 14, 2017