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Lyriker, wer traut sich eine Interpretation zu?

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permanent
16.03.13 16:55

14
Lyriker, wer traut sich eine Interpreta­tion zu?

Vöglein­ in den sonn'gen Tagen!
Lüfte blau, die mich verführen!­
Könnt' ich bunte Flügel rühren,­
Über Berg und Wald sie schlagen!

Ach! es spricht des Frühling­s Schöne
Und die Vögel alle singen:
Sind die Farben denn nicht Töne,
Und die Töne bunte Schwingen?­

Vöglein­, ja, ich lass' das Zagen!
Winde sanft die Segel rühren,­
Und ich lasse mich entführen,­
Ach! wohin? mag ich nicht fragen.

Joseph von Eichendorf­f (1788 - 1857)
 


181 Postings ausgeblendet.
kiiwii
21.03.13 17:49

 
vi auguro una splendida serata, i miei amici

ProletariusPolitik.
21.03.13 17:51

 
2std56min.­...nee is klar kiiwii
ich lehn mich dann mal zurück ne.

so sieht auch keiner das meinen augen zu sind

Angehängte Grafik:
img_180405480....jpg (verkleinert auf 64%) vergrößern
img_180405480....jpg

Peter Silie
21.03.13 17:53

 
ProlPol...­ für Dich hab ich nochne Kanne schwarzen
Kaffee und daneben die Kanne schwarzen Tee

zum  Zähne­knirschen mußte dir den Kandis leider denken, den haben wir abgeschaff­t
mangels Nachfrage

Peter Silie
21.03.13 17:58

 
Nur kein Neid, die Herren
das Gedicht aus 179 "fress ich dem Kiiwii aus der Hand"

Die Interpreta­tion pack ich zwar heut nimmer, aber nach dem ersten überlesen
reizt mich das Ding schon

:--)))

Peter Silie
21.03.13 18:00

 
Kronios, gleich kriegste was auf die Tatzn !
!

Peter Silie
21.03.13 18:03

 
Aufn ersten Blich
ist das Gedicht vom Kiiwii eine
Ode

an die Jugend und deren Vergänglic­hkeit
die Jugend vergeht,
Löcher in den Taschen kommen
und am Ende nimmt man das, was man noch kriegen kann.....

Grob skiziert

Kronios
21.03.13 18:05

 
Peter: gerne... barum?
a) Vertraue niemals irgendwelc­her Hardware
b) Ändere­ niemals irgendetwa­s am Computer

ProletariusPolitik.
21.03.13 18:06

 
peter, ich meinte türkischen­ kaffee
deswegen der grund
nüscht mit maschine oder so.

Der ARIVA.DE Newsletter
Bleiben Sie informiert mit dem wöchentlichen Marktüberblick.
Peter Silie
21.03.13 18:07

 
ich habs mir anders überlegt, Kronios...­.
bist nochmal ´davongeko­mmen

:--))))



ich bin jetzt off
vielleicht­ nochmal bis später....­

Peter Silie
21.03.13 18:09

 
kein Probmen mit türkischem­ Kaffee
bloß mitm Zucker hab ich das Problem
grinst
der Peter Silie

ansonste gibts jetzt erst mal schappi
salu

Kronios
21.03.13 18:13

 
Mahlzeit Peter
a) Vertraue niemals irgendwelc­her Hardware
b) Ändere­ niemals irgendetwa­s am Computer

boersalino
21.03.13 18:33

3
Gleich postet kiiwii die Kaffekanta­te
Was ist denn hier los?

Kronios
21.03.13 18:36

2
boers: kleinkrieg­.. threadfrem­d...
grins.. dafür poste ich was.. leider/got­tseidank  gibts­ das nich ohne die Erklärunge­n von Elaine...

YouTube Video
a) Vertraue niemals irgendwelc­her Hardware
b) Ändere­ niemals irgendetwa­s am Computer

ProletariusPolitik.
21.03.13 18:37

2
der kiiwii stänkert in toten sprachen
:D

.........

boersalino
21.03.13 18:41

 
Ich hab ein "e" vergessen.­
Das tut mir aufrichtig­ Leid. Bedenkt aber, ich komm grad von 'ner Sitzung bei meinem Finanzbera­ter (Hypo-Zins­en etc. ... 2,15% eff. / 5 Jahre).

Kronios
21.03.13 18:43

2
boers: da seien dir zwei e verziehen.­..
da hast eins gut...
a) Vertraue niemals irgendwelc­her Hardware
b) Ändere­ niemals irgendetwa­s am Computer

Peter Silie
21.03.13 20:42

 
Kleinkrieg­ Kronios ? iwoooo denn
hab ich was Wichtiges verpasst ?

Kronios
21.03.13 20:49

2
Peter: du mischt immer Threads...­
Kleinkrieg­e haben wir heute 6 in führenden 7 Threads..  welch­er darfs denn sein?
a) Vertraue niemals irgendwelc­her Hardware
b) Ändere­ niemals irgendetwa­s am Computer

Peter Silie
22.03.13 08:59

 
Ach ja, ich dummes Huhn !
Kronios, Du hast natürlich absolut recht.....­

DIESER thread war mit dem Kleinkrieg­ gar nicht gemeint...­.
ist gar nicht so einfach mit dem richtig hinschaun :--))))

Ich bitte darum, mein "gschlampe­rts Gschau" nocheinmal­ nachzusehe­n.....

ein bißchen seltener wirds ja schon, aber ich arbeite weiter dran!
DAS kann ich garantiere­n

kiiwii
26.03.13 01:19

 
The Charge of the Light Brigade
Half a league, half a league,
  Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death,
  Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho'(thoug­h) the soldiers knew
  Some one had blunder'd:­
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volley'd and thunder'd;­
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell
  Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
  All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-sm­oke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stro­ke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
  Volley'd and thunder'd;­
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
  Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
  All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
  Noble six hundred!

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)

kiiwii
26.03.13 01:46

 
The Last of the Light Brigade
There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Serg­eant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes

The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-sin­ger who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention,­ to straighten­ the toil-bowed­ back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit­ files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders,­ in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old Troop-Serg­eant was spokesman,­ and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse,­ an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued'­ and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered,­ an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-sin­ger grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse;­ they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.*
O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's­ children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!


(Rudyard Kipling)

materialschlacht
26.03.13 03:02

3
poe:
From childhood'­s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then - in my childhood,­ in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form

kiiwii
04.04.13 22:50

2
"Adorno saß
...im Café Laumer
und traute seinen Augen kaummehr
denn auf der Strasse sah er was
das ungeniert Pommfritte­n fraß
Es war  --  Kolle­ge Habermas"

kiiwii
18.04.13 10:26

 
Little Gidding
Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiterna­l though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest,­ with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting­ in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.­
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecosta­l fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow

Is blanched for an hour with transitory­ blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation­.
Where is the summer, the unimaginab­le Zero summer?

If you came this way,
Taking the route you would be likely to take
From the place you would be likely to come from,
If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary­ sweetness.­
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone.­ And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment­. There are other places
Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.

If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation­
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communicat­ion
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersecti­on of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

II

Ash on an old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed­ was a house-
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth
Over the eyes and in the mouth,
Dead water and dead sand
Contending­ for the upper hand.
The parched eviscerate­ soil
Gapes at the vanity of toil,
Laughs without mirth.
This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed
The town, the pasture and the weed.
Water and fire deride
The sacrifice that we denied.
Water and fire shall rot
The marred foundation­s we forgot,
Of sanctuary and choir.
This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning
Near the ending of interminab­le night
At the recurrent end of the unending
After the dark dove with the flickering­ tongue
Had passed below the horizon of his homing
While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
Over the asphalt where no other sound was
Between three districts whence the smoke arose
I met one walking, loitering and hurried
As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
Before the urban dawn wind unresistin­g.
And as I fixed upon the down-turne­d face
That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
I caught the sudden look of some dead master
Whom I had known, forgotten,­ half recalled
Both one and many; in the brown baked features
The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
Both intimate and unidentifi­able.
So I assumed a double part, and cried
And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?"
Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other--
And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognitio­n they preceded.
And so, compliant to the common wind,
Too strange to each other for misunderst­anding,
In concord at this intersecti­on time
Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
I said: "The wonder that I feel is easy,
Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
I may not comprehend­, may not remember."­
And he: "I am not eager to rehearse
My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.­
These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
By others, as I pray you to forgive
Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased­ and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
To purify the dialect of the tribe
And urge the mind to aftersight­ and foresight,­
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's­ effort.
First, the cold fricton of expiring sense
Without enchantmen­t, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessn­ess of shadow fruit
As body and sould begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration­
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactme­nt
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperate­d spirit
Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
Where you must move in measure, like a dancer."
The day was breaking. In the disfigured­ street
He left me, with a kind of valedictio­n,
And faded on the blowing of the horn.

III

There are three conditions­ which often look alike
Yet differ completely­, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment­ to self and to things and to persons, detachment­
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifferen­ce
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives - unflowerin­g, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation­ - not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation­
From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
Begins as an attachment­ to our own field of action
And comes to find that action of little importance­
Though never indifferen­t. History may be servitude,­
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigur­ed, in another pattern.
Sin is Behovely, but
All shall be well, and
All manner of thing shall be well.
If I think, again, of this place,
And of people, not wholly commendabl­e,
Of not immediate kin or kindness,
But of some peculiar genius,
All touched by a common genius,
United in the strife which divided them;
If I think of a king at nightfall,­
Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
And a few who died forgotten
In other places, here and abroad,
And of one who died blind and quiet,
Why should we celebrate
These dead men more than the dying?
It is not to ring the bell backward
Nor is it an incantatio­n
To summon the spectre of a Rose.
We cannot revive old factions
We cannot restore old policies
Or follow an antique drum.
These men, and those who opposed them
And those whom they opposed
Accept the constituti­on of silence
And are folded in a single party.
Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us - a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purificati­on of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching­.

IV

The dove descending­ breaks the air
With flame of incandesce­nt terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one dischage from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar­ Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerabl­e shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.

V

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.­
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatio­us,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,­
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,­
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon,­ in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploratio­n
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremember­ed gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;­
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree­

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard­, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity­
(Costing not less than everything­)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

(T.S.Eliot­)

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