Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

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

The Value of Sparrows

Meister Eckhart—Five Poems

When I Was The Forest
When I was the stream, when I was the
forest, when I was still the field
when I was every hoof, foot,
fin and wing, when I
was the sky itself,

no one ever asked me did I have a purpose, no one ever
wondered was there anything I might need,
for there was nothing
I could not love.

It was when I left all we once were that
the agony began, the fear and questions came,
and I wept, I wept. And tears
I had never known before.

So I returned to the river, I returned to
the mountains. I asked for their hand in marriage again,
I begged—I begged to wed every object and creature,

and when they accepted,
God was ever present in my arms.
And He did not say,
“Where have you
been?”

For then I knew my soul—every soul—
has always held
Him.

Why So Many Souls
When were you last really happy?
Let that experience ferment,
bring it to mind once
in a while.

Surely in the genesis of that past moment, when you danced,
you would not have wanted a constable
to have knocked
on your
door,

or have said, “You just entered
a restricted ground.”

Why are there so many stars and souls,
with no end in sight for
them?

Because nothing can interrupt God
when He is having
fun,

creating!

Jerusalem
A hand in my soul can reach out and touch Jerusalem
as my other hand tastes the beauty of the Rhine.

And my bare foot can stand upon the holy ashes of rain—each drop a
fallen Phoenix—that sang out from the fire of union
with clay.

The hills, the valleys, the beasts, the vineyards, the sacred meadows
on our earth and body—they shall pass and ascend as all form does,
tiring of the space within a cage;

for all crowds the soul but the infinite. Ascenders to God we are.

Look though how we enrich this planet with our melting organic
shadows, wondrous shadows are all but He.

What a womb God has—what wild love He must have made to
Himself for days and days without stopping

to have given birth to all you can imagine, and to all you cannot conceive.

Draw a circle around the frontiers of space, barely can God fit a
toe there.

All language has taken an oath to fail to describe Him;
any attempt to do so is the height of arrogance and will
always declare some kind of war:
the inner ones that undermine our strength, and the outer conflicts
that maim red.

I cried out one night in the madness of separation from love,
in the madness of doing, of trying to add to the Perfect;
for Perfect is All.

The awakened heart is like a luminous sphere—just giving without
thought to any who may come close or gaze at it.
The soul becomes blessedly lost to all
but its own holy
being.

When we cannot be who we are our divine senses become mute,
mute and sick from the insanity of judging
what He made Immaculate.

Who must God have made love to in order to have given birth to all this sound,
to this sacred spectrum of color, scents, and music from the
wind’s body and existence’s plea for mercy—that
plea for the real mercy, unbearable joy?

Once we had four legs and tails so useful to balance our raid into
heaven, and I found them again.

I am a swimming galaxy tonight. Angels prowl around me
hoping I will toss them a fresh piece of light—
here dears, here, my sack is full.

The universe rents space from me, and oceans are drawn
from my well. How can that be?

For I can touch Jerusalem while my other hand tastes
the beauty of the
Rhine.

Yes, I can kiss Jerusalem while my mouth
tastes the wonders of
the Rhine.

Always Kissing
They are always kissing, they can’t
control themselves.

It is not possible
that any creature can have greater instincts
and perceptions than the
mature human mind.

God
ripened me.
So I see it is true:
all objects in existence are
wildly in
love.

Intimate
Knowledge always deceives.

It always limits the Truth, every concept and image does.

From cage to cage the caravan moves,
but I give thanks,

for at each divine juncture
my wings expand
and I

touch Him more
intimately.

Meister Eckhart

<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>><<>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Behind Me — dips Eternity –
Before Me — Immortality –
Myself — the Term between –
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin –

– Emily Dickinson (Behind Me – dips Eternity)

“Behind Me — dips Eternity –
Before Me — Immortality –
Myself — the Term between –
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin –”

– Emily Dickinson (Behind Me – dips Eternity)

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Rattle: Poetry… WITHOUT PRETENSION SINCE 1995.

“Ask” by Thomas Mann

ASK

ask for forgiveness again the man with the dark skin
sat in the crevasse of the building and asked for spare
change and you lied again his dry face turned open like
a palm and smacked you with shame and you should feel
ashamed you saw on his face distorted features you still
recognized as human he was no animal other than the
animal each of us is despite the lie we tell that we are not
that lie is a cruelty which you hope dissolves with the wave
of a forgiving god a god who must face you as you faced
the man there but your god appearing within you will also turn
away and will leave you speechless won’t he just as this man
in his rags is speechless to you.


Thomas Mann: “I am by training a theorist and social scientist. And however much this training claims to get to the quick of experience and relation, something inevitably remains untouched. Poetry, I find, attends most seriously to affective resonances that are so important to human life. Poetry, in other words, is that attempt to utter the impossible thing.”

Notice: © 2020 Rattle Foundation.

Why does almost everything seem to me like its own parody? Why must I think that almost all, no, all the methods and conventions of art today are good for parody only?★★★★★This longing for the bliss of the commonplace.★★★★★Because it often happens that an old family, with traditions that are entirely practical, sober and bourgeois, undergoes in its declining days a kind of artistic transfiguration.★★That swamp of impropriety … in … which two civilized beings will behave like cannibals.★★★★★The writer’s joy is the thought that can become emotion, the emotion that can wholly become a thought.

Thomas Mann