ulla hahn. verbesserte auflage & eurydikes lied. [poems]

if i had found the poem on the left somewhere in the depth of the world wide web and didn't have to go to the library i'd never know about the poem on the right. however, i do know now. complete circle.






Hahn, Ulla. Gesammelte Gedichte. München: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 2013.

 

 

 

 

le bruit de graviers II. [acoustic versions]

more from where this came from:

barbarossa. imager.

grand ocean. the rivers.

pale grey. seaside.

flip grater. exit sign.

pihpoh. laisse moi.

madisen ward and the mama bear. silent movies.

oh so perfect for not being perfect.

der römische brunnen. conrad ferdinand meyer. [poems]

not yet a breach but an expansion. [memories]

like gold to ayery thinnesse beate

anna aaron. labyrinth & stellarling. [songs i love]

andri peer. un pled. [poems]

i found these sheets covered in braille writing in an alternative art supply store in vancouver and knew that i wanted to do something with it. about a month later, back home, when i came across this poem "un pled" (in german: "ein wort", in english: "a word"), written by andri peer and translated from rätoromanisch into german by herbert meier, in the newspaper i suddenly knew what that something was gonna be.

i was for some reason thrilled by the idea to paint a poem in a language that i do not speak on sheets covered in a script that i cannot read. just think of all the stories that could be mentioned in braille writing underneath the poem, the emerging - or rather hidden- juxtapositions of meanings and the possibilities that open up by not knowing! and most of all the opportunity to let the imagination roam free... rätoromanisch (romansh) is the fourth official language of switzerland, next to italian, french and german. it is a romance language and is spoken only in the southeastern part of the country, mostly in a canton called graubünden (grisons). 

ever since i can remember i wanted to learn this language but each time when the thought came up i was again and again disheartened by the low speaker number and the fact that there are just simply more useful languages to learn - says someone who put in some serious effort to learn icelandic...;) anyway, i will try to give a translation of the german version of the poem but i have to say that although both my german and my english are good enough i am probably the worst translator ever. additionally, as bede already stated in the ecclesiastical history of the english people in the 8th century when he translated caedmon's hymn from old english into latin:

"for it is not possible to translate verse, however well composed, literally from one language to another without some loss of beauty and dignity."

so - keeping that in mind - here goes: 

A word

Written into the white

Of your eyes

And I can't read it

For it becomes invisible during the day

Just to return at night

Word full of mystery

born and died

In a blink of an eye

And glowing 

In the darkness of self

as i said, just to give you a general sense of the words in the poem. i tried.

here is what it looked like in the end:

emily brontë. i'm happiest when most away. [poems]

I'm happiest when most away
I can bear my soul from its home of clay
On a windy night when the moon is bright
And the eye can wander through worlds of light—
When I am not and none beside—
Nor earth nor sea nor cloudless sky—
But only spirit wandering wide
Through infinite immensity.

Brontë, Emily. "I'm happiest when most away". The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 9th ed. Vol 2. Gen. ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York, London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2012.

samuel daniel. are they shadows. [poems]

Are they shadows that we see? 
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be 
Cast by bodies we conceive 
And are made the things we deem
In those figures which they seem. 

But these pleasures vanish fast
Which by shadows are expressed;
Pleasures are not, if they last;
In their passing is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.

Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
On the wonder you behold;
Take it sudden as it flies,
Though you take it not to hold.
When your eyes have done their part,
Thought must length it in the heart.

Daniel, Samuel. "Are They Shadows". The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 5th ed. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. New York, London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

azar nafisi. reading lolita in tehran. [invented worlds]

this post is somewhow mistitled but since i found this quote by czeslaw milosz in azar nafisi's memoir reading lolita in tehran i will just leave it as it is. i am sure i will post more of azar nafisi's words here in the weeks to come.

"to whom do we tell what happened on the earth, for whom do we place everywhere huge mirrors in the hope that they will be filled up and will stay so?"

czeslaw milosz. "annalena"

edmund spenser. sonnet 1. [poems]

Happy ye leaves when as those lily hands,
Which hold my life in their dead doing might
Shall handle you and hold in loves soft bands,
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines, on which with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
Written with teares in harts close bleeding book.
And happy rymes bath'd in the sacred brooke,
Of Helicon whence she derived is,
When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
My soules long lacked foode, my heavens blis.
Leaves, lines, and rymes seeke her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

 Spenser, Edmund. "Sonnet 1". The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 5th ed. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. New York, London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

m. nourbese philip. anonymous. [poems]

this week i absolutely fell in love with a book. to everyone who has an open mind, likes poetry, loves language and is interested in the many ways it can be used to convey meaning: pick up a copy of the book Zong! by m. nourbese philip. it is worth it. it is beautiful, it is in a way disturbing and it makes you think. hard. for a long time. it stays with you. and it makes you want to read more of her writing. i have to say, i am deeply moved by it. 
since it is impossible to share the wonder that is Zong! here, just a little poem out of one of her earliest collection of poems Salmon Courage. it's just a tiny one.

ANONYMOUS

If no one listens and cries
is it still poetry
if no one sings the note between the silences
if the voice doesn't founder on the edge of the air
is it still music
if there is no one to hear
is it love
or does the sea always roar
in the shell at the ear?

Philip, M. NourbeSe. Salmon Courage. Toronto: Williams-Wallace, 1983.

margaret atwood. up. [poems]

You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it.
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong,
you can’t get out of bed.

It’s something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage, the terry slippers gaping
their dark pink mouths for your feet,
the unseen breakfast—some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open—you will not dare to eat.

What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there.
No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air.

Forget all that and let’s get up.
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house is on fire
and you must run or burn.
No, that one’s useless.
It’s never worked before.

Where is it coming from, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you,
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful

Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers?
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows you’ve tried.)

Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?

Atwood, Margaret. "Up". The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 5th ed. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. New York, London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

ted hughes. wind. [poems]

This house has been far out at sea all night,

The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,

Winds stampeding the fields under the window

Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky

The hills had new places, and wind wielded

Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,

Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as

The coal-house door. I dared once to look up- 

Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes

The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,

At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;

The wind flung a magpie away and a black-

Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note

That any second would shatter it. Now deep

In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip

Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,

And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,

Seeing the window tremble to come in,

Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons

Hughes, Ted. "Wind". The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 5th ed. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. New York, London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

margaret cavendish. of many worlds in this world. [poems]

Just like as in a nest of boxes round, 
Degrees of sizes in each box are found: 
So, in this world, may many others be 
Thinner and less, and less still by degree: 
Although they are not subject to our sense, 
A world may be no bigger than two-pence. 
Nature is curious, and such works may shape, 
Which our dull senses easily escape: 
For creatures, small as atoms, may be there, 
If every one a creature’s figure bear. 
If atoms four, a world can make, then see 
What several worlds might in an ear-ring be: 
For, millions of those atoms may be in 
The head of one small, little, single pin. 
And if thus small, then ladies may well wear 
A world of worlds, as pendents in each ear.
Cavendish, Margaret. "Of Many Worlds in this World". The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 5th ed. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. New York, London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

john keats. on first looking into chapman's homer. [poems]

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
     And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
     Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of wide expanse had I been told
     That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
     Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
     When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with his eagle eyes
     He star'd at the Pacific - and all his men 
Look'd at each other with wild surmise -
     Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Keats, John. "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer". The Norton Anthology of Poetry. 5th ed. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy. New York, London : W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

to kill a king. choices. [songs]

a couple of weeks back one of my dearest friends told me that she had a surprise for me and that i should not plan anything for the first of february. 

well, when i arrived at her place that night she had the most delicious dinner ever prepared and afterwards we went to a concert at bogen f, quite a cool concert venue i had never been to before. now, i very much love live music, however, since pretty much everything is expensive in zurich (concerts are no exception), i kinda spent the winter hibernating in my apartment, reading and learning for uni, working out at the gym and ...at work. occasionally, i would visit friends, spend some time at my parents' place and just going to a little café was something special to me. 

i love züri. i really do. and in summer it is an amazing place. it's just that there is not a whole lot you can do during the winter that does not cost you money. 

so, after an entire winter of entertainmant deprivation i was incredibly excited to have the pleasure to enjoy live music again. and it was everything i hoped for. and apparently longed for more than i thought i did .

i did not know to kill a king before that evening but when the whole room joined in when they played  the song choices i almost had a little cry then and there. 
oh, it would have been tears of joy.

thank you anina.

wintersleep. listen [listen, listen]. [songs]

and even if the words don't sound right,
i will love you to the day my heart dies,
till the day my heart dies. 

and even of this ain't the right light,
you're prettier than anything,
you're prettier than anything that i'd
prettier than anything that i'd write.

there's something in the way our lips touch,
there's something in the way we're stuck together
and they don't build love like that no more.

you said you'd like it when the thunderstorms came,
said you'd like it if the thunderstorm just
pulled you piece by piece away.

anais mitchell. coming down & bon iver. coming down cover. [songs]

i think with anais mitchell's voice it is the same as with whiskey. it is an acquired taste but once you fall for it the appreciation is even bigger than it could ever be for something easily accessible. however, while i can live without whiskey i could never live without anais mitchell's voice and her storytelling abilities. in my opinion the gift of storytelling is an exceptionally rare one and the real storytellers are hard to find. however, her skills - not only in creating stories but also in telling them in her unique way - are quite unmatched. the reason why this song is one of the songs i love most, even though it is not so much of a storytelling song in a conventional sense but rather a song which creates a setting - an atmosphere - where the listener can insert his own story, is that it reflects the magic quality of her songs. the highest mastery of storytelling is to spark a story in the listener's head, by - in a way - reducing the elaborateness of the art and by keeping the story elusive to encourage the imagination of the listener.

she is a true goddess of storytelling. 

tom waits. anywhere i lay my head. [songs]

my head is spinning round
my heart is in my shoes
i went and set the thames on fire
now i must come back down
she's laughing in her sleeve, boy
i can feel it in my bones
but anywhere, anywhere i'm wanna
lay my head, boy, I wanna call my home
when I see that the world is upside down
seems that my pockets were filled up with gold
now the clouds have covered everything o'er
and the wind is blowing cold
well, i don't need anybody
because I learned, i learned to be alone
and i say anywhere, anywhere, anywhere
i lay my head, boy, i will call my home.

this song was a constant companion through many of the more solitary parts of my travels. this is a nomad's song. and when i grow up i wanna be a nomad. seriously.

alin coen. wolken. [songs]

komm mit mir mit, wir geh'n irgendwo hin und dann, schauen wir hoch und seh'n uns die wolken  an. ich nehme dich bei der hand und ziehe dich hinter mir her, ich frage mich, warum fällt es so schwer; ich glaube, du willst nicht mehr. ist dein wesen für alle so schwer zu lesen? wenn ich's nicht verstehen kann, wie fühlt sich's für dich denn an? wenn du dann gehst, schau ich dir nach, schau wie das ende verdreht, was der anfang versprach. das wetter wird wieder wolkig bis heiter. die wolken zieh'n weiter.

there are songs that make their way right into your heart and this sure is one of them. it could not be shorter, quieter, or more reduced but just her voice and the way she paints a picture with this little tune is unique.