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Gedichte - lost & found (2)

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08.06.2019 22:19

A Kind of Thinking

The potter turning clay into a vase
by force applied evenly to all sides, lifting
so what’s left is muscle memory,
willing container, and the occasional
faint impression of a finger—is this
what it was like, becoming? All summer,
we languished in applied physics.
A ball secured to a long string
hung from a tall pole. The point
was to punch and watch it return to you.
If someone hit the ball mid-orbit,
it looped back in the opposite direction.
That was all it took for a fundamental
change. I watched the clumsy injuries unfold.
The world was tender work, ours
and not, tamed and taming. Girls gathered
flowers for crowns, boys whispered
in the shade of the basketball courts.
What happened and didn’t pushed
with equal force. Head against the bus
window, colors passed beneath the bridge,
the river. The colors passed, no sense
sufficient to make sense, but gathering
at the edges, impressions of some order;
sudden gladness bloomed with all
the qualities of light. In its loveliness,
summer said something encouraging,
and yet, for all its intimations, indefinite
and silent, careful with becoming.

Maya Catherine Popa

12.06.2019 17:43

Guter Stil eine Frage der Haltung. Es geht um Anstand, Respekt und Würde. Denn Stil hat nicht nur mit Geschmack zu tun, sondern auch mit Moral

Thomas Vasek

12.06.2019 21:29

Sicherlich bekannt und dennoch immer wieder entdeckbar:

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
konnte ich erkennen, dass emotionaler Schmerz und Leid
nur Warnungen für mich sind, gegen meine eigene Wahrheit zu leben.
Heute weiß ich: Das nennt man AUTHENTISCH SEIN.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
verstand ich, wie sehr es jemanden beeinträchtigen kann,
wenn ich versuche, diesem Menschen meine Wünsche aufzuzwingen,
auch wenn ich eigentlich weiß, dass der Zeitpunkt nicht stimmt
und dieser Mensch nicht dazu bereit ist – und das gilt auch,
wenn dieser Mensch ich selber bin.
Heute weiß ich: Das nennt man RESPEKT.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
habe ich aufgehört, mich nach einem anderen Leben zu sehnen
und konnte sehen, dass alles um mich herum
eine Aufforderung zum Wachsen war.
Heute weiß ich, das nennt man REIFE.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
habe ich verstanden, dass ich immer und bei jeder Gelegenheit,
zur richtigen Zeit am richtigen Ort bin
und dass alles, was geschieht, richtig ist –
von da an konnte ich gelassen sein.
Heute weiß ich: Das nennt man SELBSTVERTRAUEN.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
habe ich aufgehört, mich meiner freien Zeit zu berauben,
und ich habe aufgehört, weiter grandiose Projekte für die Zukunft zu entwerfen.
Heute mache ich nur das, was mir Spaß und Freude macht,
was ich liebe und was mein Herz zum Lachen bringt,
auf meine eigene Art und Weise und in meinem Tempo.
Heute weiß ich, das nennt man EINFACHHEIT.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
habe ich mich von allem befreit, was nicht gesund für mich war,
von Speisen, Menschen, Dingen, Situationen
und von Allem, das mich immer wieder hinunterzog, weg von mir selbst.
Anfangs nannte ich das „Gesunden Egoismus“,
aber heute weiß ich, das ist SELBSTLIEBE.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
habe ich aufgehört, immer recht haben zu wollen,
so habe ich mich weniger geirrt.
Heute habe ich erkannt: das nennt man BESCHEIDENHEIT.

Als ich mich selbst zu lieben begann,
habe ich mich geweigert, weiter in der Vergangenheit zu leben
und mich um meine Zukunft zu sorgen.
Jetzt lebe ich nur noch in diesem Augenblick, wo ALLES stattfindet,
so lebe ich heute jeden Tag und nenne es ERFÜLLUNG.

Als ich mich zu lieben begann,
da erkannte ich, dass mich mein Denken
armselig und krank machen kann.
Doch als ich es mit meinem Herzen verbunden hatte,
wurde mein Verstand ein wertvoller Verbündeter.
Diese Verbindung nenne ich heute WEISHEIT DES HERZENS.

Wir brauchen uns nicht weiter vor Auseinandersetzungen,
Konflikten und Problemen mit uns selbst und anderen fürchten,
denn sogar Sterne knallen manchmal aufeinander
und es entstehen neue Welten.
Heute weiß ich: DAS IST DAS LEBEN !

(das Gedicht wird Charlie Chaplin zugeschrieben... vielleicht war es aber auch Kim McMillen)

12.06.2019 21:49

Without Me

Once, in the hiatus of a difficult July,
down Eskra’s lorryless roads from sweet fuck all,
we were flinging – such young sophisticates – like a giant frisbee
this plastic lid of an old rat poison bin.

We were flinging it from you to me, me to you, you to me;
me-you, you-me, me-you, you back again.
And you would have sworn that its flat arc was a pendulum,
compassing Tyrone’s prosey horizon.

And I would have sworn that our throw and catch had such momentum
that its rhythm might survive, somehow, without me.

Leontia Flynn

25.06.2019 22:00


It doesn’t take much, really, for things to fall back into place,
just the natural course of gravity, or something obvious, like time.
Nothing will ever be the same again, said Bill,
but same is in our nature, something about being so heavy, landbound,
it’s our industry on this earth: mighty mammals, builders of cars, makers of calendars.
A few restaurants serve gumbo now, waiters smile and fill cups with water,
workers work and go home to watch television and dream
over soils returning to the same tempo,
and before the same tone of an unnotable morning. Sun rises and lifts around clouds.
People are more evident today.  Yesterday was remarkable:
Henry finished painting: a radiant spread of blues and reds
rippling out from his porch over the skin of five houses, as if
abandonment could color wood, some comprehension of experience
by the inanimate, which today fades as fact. Henry won’t see it at all, his mind
reoccupied with that solid, warming feel of forward motion,
leaving yesterday abandoned on the lawn as artifact.
Later, an older man, drunk
and wandering the wrong way home,
will come upon the red-blue wave and note
how close we still live to destruction.

Abraham Burickson

08.07.2019 08:18

Poetry is a kind of lying

Poetry is a kind of lying,
necessarily. To profit the poet
or beauty. But also in
that truth may be told only so.

Those who, admirably, refuse
to falsify (as those who will not
risk pretensions) are excluded
from saying even so much.

Degas said he didn't paint
what he saw, but what
would enable them to see
the thing he had.

Jack Gilbert

09.07.2019 19:23

These Poems

These poems
they are things that I do
in the dark
reaching for you
whoever you are
are you ready?

These words
they are stones in the water
running away

These skeletal lines
they are desperate arms for my longing and love.

I am a stranger
learning to worship the strangers
around me

whoever you are
whoever I may become.

June Jordan

18.07.2019 23:04

The moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Margaret Atwood

21.07.2019 01:43

I think I should have loved you presently

I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
And all my pretty follies flung aside
That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
And walk your memory’s halls, austere, supreme,
A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
Who would have loved you in a day or two.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950)

28.07.2019 21:53


You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

Billy Collins

02.08.2019 10:36


There was an apple tree in the yard—
this would have been
forty years ago—behind,
only meadow. Drifts
of crocus in the damp grass.
I stood at that window:
late April. Spring flowers in the neighbor’s yard.
How many times, really, did the tree
flower on my birthday,
the exact day, not
before, not after? Substitution
of the immutable
for the shifting, the evolving.
Substitution of the image
for relendess earth. What
do I know of this place,
the role of the tree for decades
taken by a bonsai, voices
rising from the tennis courts—
Fields. Smell of the tail grass, new cut.
As one expects of a lyric poet.
We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.

Louise Glück

04.08.2019 21:46

What we need is here

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

Wendell Berry

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