Posted in Language, Music, Music History

Es liegt der heiße Sommer

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Kuno Vollet



Es liegt der heiße Sommer
auf deinen Wängelein;
es liegt der Winter, der kalte,
in deinem Herzchen klein.

Das wird sich bei dir ändern,
du Vielgeliebte mein!
Der Winter wird auf den Wangen,
der Sommer im Herzen sein.

poet Heinrich Heine

There lies the heat of summer
On your cheek’s lovely art:
There lies the cold of winter
Within your little heart.
That will change, beloved,
The end not as the start!
Winter on your cheek then,
Summer in your heart.

HH

Posted in Language, Music

American Dreaming

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All Rights Reserved © mmartel∞

I need my conscience to keep watch over me
To protect me from myself
So I can wear honesty like a crown on my head
When I walk into the promised land

We’ve been too long American dreaming
I think we’ve all lost the way
Forlorn somnambulistic maniacal
In the dark

I’m in love with an American girl
Well, she’s my best friend
I love her surreptitious smile
That hides the pain within her

And we’ll go dancing in the rings of laughter
And leave alone by the shores
Feel alone in the brands of rapture
And leave alone for the loss

Yeah, on the lea the rising wind blows
Yeah, on the lea the rising wind blows
How long? How long?

Here alone on the grounds of allegiances
We’ve left behind
Turned back by the foot of the doorway
Never lost and found

We’ve been too long American dreaming
I think we’ve all lost the heart
Forlorn somnambulistic maniacal
In the dark

Yeah, on the lea the rising wind blows
Yeah, on the lea the rising wind blows
How long? How long?

Posted in Language, Music, Music History

Ein Fichtenbaum

Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
Im hohen Norden auf kahler Höh’.
Ihn schläfert, mit weisser Decke
Umhüllen ihn Eis und Schnee.

Er träumt von eine Palme,
Die, fern im Morgenland,
Einsam und schweigend trauert
Auf brennender Felsenwand.

– HH

A pine-tree standeth lonely
In the North on an upland bare;
It standeth whitely shrouded
With snow, and sleepeth there.

It dreameth of a palm tree
Which far in the east alone,
In mournful silence standeth
On its ridge of burning stone.

– HH

for more on meaning in translation…

http://www.textetc.com/workshop/wt-heine-1.html

Posted in Language

Der Tod, das ist

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All Rights Reserved © mmartel∞

Our death is in the cool of night,

Our life is in the pool of day.

The darkness glows, I’m drowning,

Day’s tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,

Sings the young nightingale.

It only sings of love there,

I hear it in my sleep.

Posted in Fear Inlandish, Uncategorized

Fear Inlandish: Piece VI

“Let the unseen days be. Today is more than enough.”

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Is despair an advantage or a drawback?

Regarded in a purely dialectical
way it is both.
 
 
 
 
If one were to stick to the abstract notion of despair,
without thinking of any concrete despairer, one might say that it is an
immense advantage.
 
 
 
 
 
The possibility of this sickness is man’s advantage
over the beast, and this advantage distinguishes him far more
essentially than the erect posture, for it implies the infinite erectness or
loftiness of being spirit.
 
 
 
 
 
So then it is an infinite advantage to be able to despair; and yet it is
not only the greatest misfortune and misery to be in despair; no, it is
perdition.
 
 
 
 
Ordinarily there is no such relation between possibility and
actuality; if it is an advantage to be able to be this or that, it is a still
greater advantage to be such a thing. That is to say, being is related to
the ability to be as an ascent.
 
 
 
 
In the case of despair, on the contrary,
being is related to the ability to be as a fall.
 
 
 
 
Infinite as is the advantage
of the possibility, just so great is the measure of the fall. So in the case
of despair the ascent consists in not being in despair. Yet this
statement is open to misunderstanding.
 
 
 
The thing of not being in
despair is not like not being lame, blind, etc. In case the not being in
despair means neither more nor less than not being this, then it is
precisely to be it.
 
 
 
 
 
The thing of not being in despair must mean the
annihilation of the possibility of being this; if it is to be true that a
man is not in despair, one must annihilate the possibility every instant.
 
 
 
 
 
 
I, unblessed Atlas!
I carry a world, the entire world of pain,
I bear the unbearable,
And the heart within me wants to break.Proud heart, you have wanted it thus!
You wanted to be happy, eternally happy,
Or eternally miserable, you proud heart,
And now you are miserable.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Such is not ordinarily the relation between possibility and actuality.
Although thinkers say that actuality is the annihilated possibility, yet
this is not entirely true; it is the fulfilled, the effective possibility. Here,
on the contrary, the actuality (not being in despair), which in its very
form is a negation, is the impotent, annihilated possibility; ordinarily,
actuality in comparison with possibility is a confirmation, here it is a
negation.
 
 
 
 
 
Despair is the disrelationship in a relation which relates itself to itself.
But the synthesis is not the disrelationship, it is merely the possibility,
or, in the synthesis is latent the possibility of the disrelationship.
 
 
 
 
If the synthesis were the disrelationship, there would be no such thing as
despair, for despair would then be something inherent in human nature
as such, that is, it would not be despair, it would be something that
befell a man, something he suffered passively, like an illness into which
a man falls, or like death which is the lot of all.
 
 
 
 
No, this thing of despairing is inherent in man himself; but if he were not a synthesis, he could not despair.
 
 
 
 
 
Whence then comes despair?
 
 
 
 
 
From the relation wherein the synthesis relates itself to itself, in that who made man a relationship lets this go as it were out of His hand, that is, in the fact that the relation
relates itself to itself.
 
 
 
 
 
And herein, in the fact that the relation is spirit, is the self, consists the responsibility under which all despair lies, and so lies every instant it exists, however much and however ingeniously the despairer, deceiving himself and others, may talk of his despair as a misfortune which has befallen him, with a confusion of things
different, as in the case of vertigo aforementioned, with which, though
it is qualitatively different, despair has much in common, since vertigo
is under the rubric soul what despair is under the rubric spirit, and is
pregnant with analogies to despair.
 
 
 
 
 
So when the disrelationship — that is, despair — has set in, does it
follow as a matter of course that it continues?
 
 
 
 
 
No, it does not follow as a matter of course; if the disrelationship continues, it does not follow as a consequence of the disrelation but as a consequence of the
relation which relates itself to itself.
 
 
 
 
 
That is to say, every time the disrelation expresses itself, and every instant it exists, it is to the relation one must revert.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Observe that we speak of a man contracting a
disease, maybe through carelessness. Then the illness sets in, and from
that instant it affirms itself and is now an actuality, the origin of which
recedes more and more into the past.
 
 
 
 
 
It would be cruel and inhuman if one were to continue to say incessantly, “This instant thou, the sick man, art contracting this disease”; that is, if every instant one were to
resolve the actuality of the disease into its possibility. It is true that he
did contract the disease, but this he did only once; the continuance of
the disease is a simple consequence of the fact that he once contracted
it, its progress is not to be referred every instant to him as the cause;
 
 
he contracted it, but one cannot say that he is
contracting it. Not so with despair: every actual instant of despair is to be referred back to possibility, every instant the man in despair is contracting it, it is
constantly in the present tense, nothing comes to pass here as a
consequence of a bygone actuality superseded; at every actual instant
of despair the despairer bears as his responsibility all the foregoing
experience in possibility as a present.
 
 
 
 
 
This comes from the fact that despair is a qualification of spirit, that it is related to the eternal in man. But the eternal he cannot get rid of, no, not to all eternity; he
cannot cast it from him once for all, nothing is more impossible; every
instant he does not possess it he must have cast it or be casting it from
him — but it comes back, every instant he is in despair he contracts
despair. For despair is not a result of the disrelationship but of the
relation which relates itself to itself. And the relation to himself a man
cannot get rid of, any more than he can get rid of himself, which
moreover is one and the same thing, since the self is the relationship to
oneself.
 
 
 
 
…More to come in Piece VII
 
Posted in Ancient Greece, Language

Hero and Leander : Piece II

    Amorous Leander, beautiful and young
(Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung),
Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,
Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
Would have allur’d the vent’rous youth of Greece
To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
Fair Cynthia wish’d his arms might be her sphere;
Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.
His body was as straight as Circe’s wand;
Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpast
The white of Pelops’ shoulder: I could tell ye,
How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;
And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path with many a curious dint
That runs along his back; but my rude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,
Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice
That my slack Muse sings of Leander’s eyes;
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That leapt into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
Enamour’d of his beauty had he been.
His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;
The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov’d with nought,
Was mov’d with him, and for his favour sought.
Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,—
A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
A brow for love to banquet royally;
And such as knew he was a man, would say,
“Leander, thou art made for amorous play;
Why art thou not in love, and lov’d of all?
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.”
…More to come in Piece III