Wow, what a synthesis of topics in this Vastarien Journal. Since I likely may never possess a copy, it makes me all the more grateful for this little, noncorporate corner of the internet. And again I appreciate the looseness of sorts - we can come and go, pick up old threads, bounce between conversations, or just type for oneself. Little constraints minus those imposed by The Machine, and just general decency.
Well, how about two poems from Georg Trakl:
De ProfundisA wind is blowing! The green lights
Sing extinguished - large and satiated
The moon fulfils the high hall,
Where no more celebrations sound through.
The ancestral portraits quietly smile
And far-off - their last shadow fell,
The room is sultry with putrefaction,
Arround which ravens mutely move in circles.
A lost sense of past times
Looks from the stony masks,
Pain distorted and empty of existence
Mourning in abandonments.
Sick smells of sunken gardens
Quietly caress the decay -
Like the echo of sobbing words
Quivering over open crypts.
DecayThere is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts- -
How sad this evening.
Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.
Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.
A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.
On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.
At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel copse
Crystal angels have sounded once more.
Home
Search
Members
Login
Register