Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

would you were the hollow ship

fashioned to bear the cargo of my love

the unrelenting glove

hurled in defiance at our blackest world

or that great banner mad unfurled

the poet plants upon the hill of time

or else amphora for the gold of life

liquid and naked as a virgin wife.

Yourself the prize

I gird with Fire

The Great White Ruin

Of my Desire.

I burn to gold

fierce and unerring as a conquering sword

I burn to gold

fierce and undaunted as a lion lord

seeking your Bed

and leave to them the

burning of the dead.

Harry Crosby

13 ways to look at a blackbird :

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

-Wallace Stevens

Hungarian Diva playing a gypsy wedding:

youtu.be/fJJmd98TBeg

Translated : “Far is the forest, that you flew to from me”

Never be a martyr… hated in life, but loved and worshipped in death. That’s no fun… no fun, in being a Matyr, and for who’s cause?

Dostoyevsky weren’t wrong.

"might have seen, (not on a movie or television screen), but had looked where the mind flickers when I am not there to block the view. In that place, where my dreams see through a darkling glass, skins and organs put on new clothes, mind-bones structure the unfinished scaffolding of forgotten lives. Life-stories just threads in a flying carpet, a legend for a Navaho shaman to drape about his shoulders. Perhaps reincarnation is a book of dreams for insomniacs. I watch for facets in a prism, each one is cut into a hundred views, a casting of what was or could be. There are names and places, all sorts of leasing’s destined to always by-pass each other until all arrive as one in one multifaceted picture. Those faces mean nothing much until the mirror reveals your eyes watching, as if you had just walked through a door in a mega-mansion you helped build. "

Shaman poem

From here into the north, the ways are

dry. Yellow grass,

thirst in the roots. In the hearts.

It’s all simple, but false.

When I try to think history,

the enormous vertebrae

of the dinosaur behind the purple beeches

in Invalidenstrasse,

Bismarck in marble,

and Benn, a nameplate on Bolzano, lifeless.

In the depths of the bunkers

on Potsdamer Platz in Berlin

are the shoes of Hitler’s favorite horse.

Profile of power: armor and helmet.

In our pants pockets, we crumple

the banners. Full of satisfaction

we hear the flags splinter

in the fabric’s darkness.

Don’t forget the poets’ loaded dice.

When iron rules again,

we will have to console ourselves,

adorn stones with smaller stones,

the heart with water.


Joachim sartorius

To any, & every man.

Shelley,

Prometheus unbound

TS Elliot Love song for St. Sebastian

"would come in a shirt of hair
I would come with a lamp in the night
And sit at the foot of your stair;
I would flog myself until I bled,
And after hour on hour of prayer
And torture and delight
Until my blood should ring the lamp
And glisten in the light;
I should arise your neophyte
And then put out the light
To follow where you lead,
To follow where your feet are white
In the darkness toward your bed
And where your gown is white
And against your gown your braided hair.
Then you would take me in
Because I was hideous in your sight
You would take me in without shame
Because I should be dead
And when the morning came
Between your breasts should lie my head.

I would come with a towel in my hand
And bend your head beneath my knees;
Your ears curl back in a certain way
Like no one’s else in all the world.
When all the world shall melt in the sun,
Melt or freeze,
I shall remember how your ears were curled.
I should for a moment linger
And follow the curve with my finger
And your head beneath my knees—
I think that at last you would understand.
There would be nothing more to say.
You would love me because I should have strangled you
And because of my infamy;
And I should love you the more because I mangled you
And because you were no longer beautiful
To anyone but me."

“In other words, the universe itself—and the Mind behind it—is insane. Therefore someone in touch with reality is, by definition, in touch with the insane: infused by the irrational.
In essence, Fat monitored his own mind and found it defective. He then, by the use of that mind, monitored outer reality, that which is called the macrocosm. He found it defective as well. As the Hermetic philosophers stipulated, the macrocosm and the microcosm mirror each other faithfully. Fat, using a defective instrument, swept out a defective subject, and from this sweep got back the report that everything was wrong.”

Philip K. Dick, VALIS (VALIS Trilogy

Thomas Mann

Disillusionment excerpt

"It is my favourite occupation to gaze at the starry heavens at night – that being the best way to turn my eyes away from earth and from life. And perhaps it may be pardoned in me that I still cling to my distant hopes? That I dream of a freer life, where the actuality of my fondest anticipations if revealed to be without any torturing residue of disillusionment? Of a life where there are no more horizons?

"So I dream and wait for death. Ah, how well I know it already, death, that last disappointment! At my last moment I shall be saying to myself: 'So this is the great experience – well, and what of it? What is it after all?’ "

Shelley, in defense of poetry, excerpt

“The poetry of Dante may be considered as the bridge thrown over the stream of time, which unites the modern and ancient world. The distorted notions of invisible things which Dante and his rival Milton have idealized, are merely the mask and the mantle in which these great poets walk through eternity enveloped and disguised. It is a difficult question to determine how far they were conscious of the distinction which must have subsisted in their minds”

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times

we will know it

we will know it
more than
ever

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

and

we will want
and
want

in that
space

2

the nut in the ref outfit
came walking down the street
talking to himself
when a hotshot in a sports car
Cut into an alley
in front of the nut
who hollered, "HEY, DOG, DRIP!
SWINE SHIT! “YOU. GOT PEANNUTS FOR BRAINS?”

the hotshot braked his sports
car , backed toward the nut,
stopped,
said: “WHATS. THAT YOU SAID,
BUDDY?”

“I said,YOU BETTER
DRIVE. OFF WHILE YOU CAN,
ASSHOKE!”

the hotshot had his girl in the
car with him and started to
open the door.

“YOU BETTER NOT GET OUT OF THAT
CAR, PEANUT BRAIN!”

the door closed and the sports car
roared
off

the nut in the red outfit then
continued to walk down the
street.

“THERE AIN’T NOTHING NOWHERE,”
he said, “AND IT’S GETTING TO BE
LESS THAN NOGHING ALL THE ALL THE
TIME”

it was a great day
There on 7th street just off
Weymouth
Drive.

Charles Bukowski

ilovephilosophy.com/posting … 0&t=193583

ilovephilosophy.com/posting … 0&t=193583

.

“D. H. Lawrence’s “The Man Who Died”: The Phallic Christ.”(even if Lawrence denied the obvious connotation

gutenberg.net.au/ebooks07/0700631h.html

The Astronomer
by Rabindranath Tagore
I only said, “When in the evening the round full moon gets
entangled among the beaches of that Dadam.
tree, couldn’t somebody
catch it?”
But dada laughed at me and said, “Baby, you are the silliest
child I have ever known.
The moon is ever so far from us, how could
anybody catch it?”
I said, “Dada, how foolish you are! When mother looks out of
her window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far
away?”
Still dada said, “You are a stupid child! But, baby where
could you find a net big enough to catch the moon with?”
I said, "Surely you could catch it with your hands.
"
But dada laughed and said, "You are the silliest child I have
known.
If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is.
"
I said, “Dada, what nonsense they teach at your school! When
mother bends her face down to kiss us, does her face look very
big?”
But still dada says, "You are a stupid child.

And :

“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”

Tzara, resurfacing into some phletorum::

No non sense gives additional space, before a fall.

The discontinuance of winter, is long for discontent ; my son of yorkie!

But either way ok
I guess.

Meno

Tristan Tzara

The masochistic xxxxxx(expletive) of requited love(4. three oranges, is soooooooooo close to love, then,

Like this symbol’s irreplaceable symbol, the metaphor risen from kitsch,

As Dali, well not nearly and his Gala

  • this whole train of expression started with S.Dali’s ’ The Metamorphosis of Narcissus, led into Dali’s redemption by Gaia.

I’ll Be a Tree

I’ll be a tree, if you are its flower,
Or a flower, if you are the dew-
I’ll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,
Only to be united with you.

My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,
I shall be a star above on high;
My darling, if you are hell-fire,
To unite us, damned I shall die.

Sandor Petofi

Kathy Acker

If you ask me what I want, Ill tell you. I want everything.”

“Dreams are manifestations of identities.”
King of the Pirates

“Death is another bar which lies several steps below the normal world. Im at its threshold, but not yet in it. Its doorway is doorless.”

Harry Crosby

I exchange eyes with the Mad Queen

the mirror crashes against my face
and bursts into a thousand suns
all over the city flags crackle and bang
fog horns scream in the harbor
the wind hurricanes through the window
and I begin to dance the dance of the
Kurd Shepherds

I stamp upon the floor
I whirl like dervishes

colors revolve dressing and undressing
I lash them with my fury
stark white with iron black
harsh red with blue
marble green with bright orange
and only gold remains naked

columns of steel rise and plunge
emerge and disappear
pistoning in the river of my soul
thrusting upwards
thrusting downwards
thrusting inwards
thrusting outwards
penetrating

I roar with pain

black-footed ferrets disappear into holes

the sun tattooed on my back
begins to spin
faster and faster
whirring whirling
throwing out a glory of sparks
sparks shoot off into space
sparks into shooting stars
shooting stars collide with comets

Explosions

Naked Colors Explode
Into
Red Disaster

I crash out through the
window naked, widespread
upon a
Heliosaurus
I uproot an obelisk and plunge
it into the ink-pot of the
Black Sea
I write the word
SUN

by Harry Crosby

Firebrand

Sun-Rhapsody
The Sun! the Sun!
a fish in the aquarium of sky
or golden net to snare the butterfly
of soul

Quatrains To The Sun
A sunfort flourished in my sunless heart
Beyond the Sun. Here in a tower apart
The sunbirds of my lady’s eyes were caged
Alas, poor targets for the sun-god’s dart.

To my friend : EC

A dream, a dream is our being
of mortal clay,
like shadows on the road we’re fleeing
and fade away.

We measure progress by the ride of
an hours’ strife,
and live - and know not - right inside of
eternal life…

poem by Johann Gottfried von Herder,

I am filthy. I am riddled with lice. Hogs, when they look at me, vomit. My skin is encrusted with the scabs and scales of leprosy, and covered with yellow pus.[…] A family of toads has taken up residence in my left armpit and, when one of them moves, it tickles. Mind one of them does not escape and come and scratch the inside of your ear with its mouth; for it would then be able to enter your brain.”

Poems I

The poetic moans of this century are only sophisms.
The first principles must be out of discussion.
I accept Euripides and Sophocles; but I do not accept Aeschylus.
Do not show lack of the most basic proprieties
and bad taste towards the creator.
Repel unbelief: you will please me.
There are only two kinds of poetry; there is only one.

There is a little tacit convention between the author and the reader, by
which the first calls himself sick, and accepts the second as
nurse. It is the poet who consoles humanity! The roles are
switched arbitrarily.

I will not leave any Memoirs.
Poetry is not the storm, any more than the cyclone. It is a
majestic and fertile river.
It is only by admitting the night physically that we have managed to
do it morally. O Young nights! you gave me a lot of
migraines!
We only dream when we sleep. It is words like the dream one,
nothingness of life, terrestrial passage, the preposition perhaps, the
disordered tripod, which have infiltrated into your souls this damp poetry
of languors, like rottenness. Going from words to ideas,
there is only one step.
Disturbances, anxieties, depravities, death, exceptions
tions in the physical or moral order, the spirit of negation, stupefactions
, hallucinations served by the will, torments,
destruction, reversals, tears, insatiabilities,
enslavements, digging imaginations, novels, what is
unexpected, what not to do, the chemical peculiarities of the
mysterious vulture that awaits the carrion of some dead illusion,
the precocious and aborted experiences, the
bug- shell obscurities , the terrible monomania of the pride, the inoculation of
deep stupors , funeral orations, envies, betrayals, tyrannies
, impieties, irritations, acrimonies, pranks
aggressive, dementia, spleen, reasoned fright,
strange worries, which the reader would prefer not to experience,
grimaces, neuroses, bloody channels, through which we make
logic pass at bay, exaggerations, absence of sincerity,
the saws, the platitudes, the gloomy, the gloomy, the childbirth worse
than the murders, the passions, the clan of the novelists of the courts of assizes,
the tragedies, the odes, the melodramas, the extremes presented in perpetuity.
death, reason whistled with impunity, the smells of sissy,
fading, frogs, octopuses, sharks, the simoun of the
deserts, which is somnambulist, fishy, ​​nocturnal, sleeping pill, night owl,
slimy, talking seal, equivocal, consumptive, spasmodic, aphrodisiac
, anemic, one-eyed, hermaphrodite, bastard, albino, pederast,
aquarium phenomenon and bearded woman, the drunken hours of
taciturn discouragement , the fantasies, the acridities, the monsters,
demoralizing syllogisms , garbage, what does not reflect like the child,
desolation, this intellectual mancenillier, the scent cankers, the
thighs of camellias, the guilt of a writer who rolls on the slope
of nothingness and is despises himself with joyful cries, remorse,
hypocrisies, the vague perspectives which crush you in their
imperceptible meshes , the serious spitting on sacred axioms, the
vermin and its insinuating tickles, the insane prefaces, like
those of Cromwell, Mlle de Maupin and Dumas fils, the caducities,
the impotences, the blasphemies, the asphyxiations, the suffocations, the
rages - in front of these filthy mass graves, which I blush to name, it is
time to finally react against what shocks us and bends us so
sovereignly.

Le Compte De Lauetremonot- Maldoror