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Art

Hein Mogensen

Fårene og bukkene

Stroking Auden Yeah

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

(W. H. Auden)




Shakespeare in Love

SONNET 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage 

Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart. 

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say 

The perfect ceremony of love's rite, 

And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. 

O, let my books be then the eloquence 

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, 

Who plead for love and look for recompense 

More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

   O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:  

   To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. 

 (William Shakespeare)





Hopkeen

Cheery Beggar

Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain,
In Summer, in a burst of summertime
Following falls and falls of rain,
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of
Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime;
. . . . . . . .
The motion of that man’s heart is fine
Whom want could not make píne, píne
That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him
Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine.
(Gerard Manley Hopkins)



High Hopes at 5 a.m.

Five A.M.

Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
(Allen Ginsberg) 


Singura postare în limba română

Decor

În amiaza dintre mâine și ieri,
n-are margini livada de meri,
merii cu tulpinile opalescente
în neguri înfipți, în șiruri divergente.
Nimic între ei decât amiaza
Și gândaci trandafirii care vânează.
Nimic, până la nesfârșit, decât meri
În livada dintre mâine și ieri,
Doar la distanțe de ani și ani,
Ecrane de cinema cu Stan și Bran.
Doar ca între toți acești meri la fel
Este unul livid, ca de oțel,
Cu frunze încremenite etern,
Cu nume latinesc terminat în quern,
Ați ghicit, desigur, ori v-au spus părinții
Mai știutori: e mărul cunoștinței.
Iată, șarpele-i încolăcit pe-o cracă 
Între Adam si Eva lui buimacă;
Știți ce se va întâmpla mai departe:
Ea va face păcatul de moarte,
Îl va lua de mână pe Adam
Și se vor plimba prin orașe, pe macadam,
Milenii de piatră tulbure de jad.
Șarpele va sfredeli pământul pâna-n iad,
Heruvimii vor străjui din auroră-n chindie
Să nu intre nimeni în livada pustie
Cu merii ei ordonați în șiruri precise,
Fără adieri, fără cântăreți, fără vise,
Cu, numai, mărul acela mușcat,
Putrezind etern pe pământ roșcat.
(Leonid Dimov)

 

Blake in Beirut
A Divine Image

Cruelty has a Human heart
And Jealousy a Human Face,
Terror, the Human Form Divine,
And Secrecy, the Human Dress.

The Human Dress is forgéd Iron,
The Human Form, a fiery Forge,
The Human Face, a Furnace seal'd,
The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.

(William Blake)




Friendship...what's it like?

"We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know." W. H. Auden