Arts and poems
Since I'm not native English, I don't usually write poems in this language myself. If I happen to do it anyway, please consider the result as just another piece of my usual pleasant craziness and be aware it's not necessarily "high art". However, I will prefer to publish my favourites written by "real" poets. I'll also add some pictures or anything art-like I'd like to share. Should I have violated any copyright laws, please notify me and I'll remove that particular work from this site.
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit,
It's when things seem worse,
that you must not quit.
/author known, but not by me/
In a way, I did want to break you.
Not the way a prisoner breaks
But the way a woman in childbirth
Has to break
To let Nature take her body
And bring forth her child.
But you would not break
To let love be born.
So I could never show you
Its true force,
My true face,
The true number
Of my dimensions.
You have stepped
A couple of times
Into the shallows
Of my waters,
But reluctant to lose footing,
You never learned
How to flow.
I´m mourning for what we have missed:
The places my mind has walked
With your feet,
The words unsaid out of too much pride,
The touch untouched that could have
Made you feel through my senses
And made Us from just You and I.
I´m mourning for the children:
Yours, whom I have grown to love
More than you will ever know,
And for my unborn ones
Who will say "Father"
Not to you.
Pain is tearing, but I have to go
For I did my Breaking an age ago
And my love is born beyond reverse.
It has tinted the inside of my veins,
With more power than I can hold,
So it will never let me cease to stream
And live with any measure less.
And whenever l think about
What to wish you for the way
That you - it seems - won't walk with me,
The only thing I can think of
Is to wish you strength and wisdom
And all the courage it would take
Just for once to bend your knees.
For that's the only perspective
From which to glimpse forbidden truth:
You don't need to live for freedom
Once you let it live in you...
July 24. 2002. - well, I have committed this "free verse" myself,
as means to say farewell to somebody with whom our ways seemed to converge for a while,
but never truly joined.
Shelter by the Lake(for Nandu on her 29th birthday)
However thickly thatched
And weirdly woven,
Is overtautly drawn
When stretched to lid the fevered growth
Of two young families.
However thickly formed
From mother earth
Are pained to bear
The daily birth
Of eight free souls.
I know the reedy cap renews
Through sun and rain and wind,
Just as the graying thatch
That roofs my skull
Is grown by passing of the days.
I know the roots go deep
Beneath the murals
Of her family's generations
Into a time when reeds and mud
Had yet to see the machines
We bear through life
Of wires and resins and crystal silicon,
As the forebears lived with tools
Of iron and leather and wood.
It's true that with the proper spell
This three-room country house
And patch of dirt
Expand as spacious as His own cathedral.
I'll not forget the night
The fox came to me here;
Proof this venue spares the volume
To host the myths of ancient forests.
Unto my wizened days I'll carry
The full-moon morning
I emerged from mud and thatch
To hear the trees in cosmic hum
from hords of insects risen off the marsh.
But other times the box shrinks narrow
As the pockets on our sons' trousers,
Full of rocks and coins and hazelnuts
Jammed hard as eight bodies
Sharing one abode.
Be proud, old house!/Theo Huffman August 24, 2002/
You've served so well.
You sheltered dreams beneath the night
And shaded tender flesh in blasting day.
And none of us is bruised
By being held too tight,
Nor lost beneath the muck
Nor tangled in the sky.
And countless generations yet to come.
The road not taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I should be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only othe sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
According to the 1990s' praxis (that is, as far as I know, unchanged since then) artificial abortion is performed in such a way that a thin stick made of algae is inserted into the woman's cervix; moisture makes this stick expand to several times its original size, slowly (in about a day) widening the cervix so that it can accomodate the necessary "devices". Well, the following fragments were born in a night of this experience.
Blessed are you among women
Your womb is not in shreds,
And its fruit: a man of silver.
The moon, shining in the window
The strings of my soul, torn by
Tears, like good soldiers, lining up
Somewhere behind my eyes,
Flowing out one by one, tireless.
Whimpering is all
this defenselessness can muster.
My God, oh my God,
I can’t pray to you,
You can’t give your blessing to this.
Still I implore you
try to… pull this
……………………. big nail out of me,
…………………………you know, the one inside,
…………………………….. and let me
………………………………… stay alive.
It hurts so badly.
My little one, you already know...
Tiny body shaking for life
never gotten, already robbed.
Oh, don’t ask me why…
You had a soft, warm nest
And I’ve let you down.
But don’t be afraid.
It may be easier to go
than to stay, as I will, without you.
Your brother, pink and milk-scented,
will once grow in the blood-smell of your death.
And as babies are wise,
you both will forgive me.
And meanwhile, men at home,
In deep, peaceful sleep.
Listening to desperate cries
from mothers in labor,
I’m thinking: as soon as tomorrow
they will be happy.
I’m miserable already today.
/Translation from Hungarian by Lajos Hajdu/
1. Some of my own makings. - My drawings usually have a hidden meaning, a special connection to a person or something that has happened. This is especially true for my whole-page cartoons, which I cannot publish here at all due to lacking space. Because of this subtle meaning it is hard for outsiders to understand them, but I trust one can figure them out a little, even without knowing the "story" behind them.
2. Pigeons - painted by V. Henne who is unable to use his hands and paints with his mouth (!)
One of my favorites...
3. Gustav Klimt - one of my favourite painters. I like Danae and The three ages of woman (below: in part) the best.
There are quite a lot of good links on the page http://www.klimt.at to online galleries where you can find more pictures by him.
4. Hundertwasser - well, this fellow must have been as crazy as I, except that he could paint much better... I love his handiworks. One can get lost in them, his pictures are almost living and although you can't find two parallel lines in them, everythng is in place.
However, there is a page called http://www.hundertwasser.at, where you can read texts by him and about him, you can't find pictures there. In case you know any Hundertwasser online gallery, please, e-mail me the address.
5. Anne Geddes - she is the greatest child photographer living in my opinion.
Some of her pictures are "only" cute:
...and some of them are really, spiritually beautiful.
Here are some links where you can look at most of her pictures:
2. I also like the underwater photos of Howard Schatz. You can see some more of them here (at the bottom of the page).
Further sources: http://www.lenswork.com/hsindex.htm , http://www.howardschatz.com
7. Antoni Gaudí - he was not a painter, but an architect, yet, his works are like paintings. I especially like his parabola-shaped arches (doors, windows, walkways) and the bold, lively lines of his buildings.
Left to right from top: Sagrada Familia, Parc Güell, Colegio Teresiano, Colonia Güell, Lizard Fountain (Parc Güell)
Gaudí Central homepage: http://www.op.net/~jmeltzer/gaudi.html
Webhost: Andrea Nandu Noll