Kippenvelmoment tijdens Genk on Stage: "de groene-man-in-kilt" op de didgeridoo

Happy tune :-)

And because love battles

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was
laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.

And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come before
to wear down the tour
of the sweet and hard love which binds us,
and they will say: "The one
you love,
is not a woman for you,
Why do you love her? I think
you could find one more beautiful,
more serious, more deep,
more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,
and what a head she has,
and look at how she dresses,
and etcetera and etcetera".

And I in these lines say:
Like this I want you, love,
love, Like this I love you,
as you dress
and how your hair lifts up
and how your mouth smiles,
light as the water
of the spring upon the pure stones,
Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach me
but only not to lack during every day of life.
I don’t know anything about light, from where
it comes nor where it goes,
I only want the light to light up,
I do not ask to the night
explanations,
I wait for it and it envelops me,
And so you, bread and light
And shadow are.

You came to my life
with what you were bringing,
made
of light and bread and shadow I expected you,
and Like this I need you,
Like this I love you,
and to those who want to hear tomorrow
that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,
and let them back off today because it is early
for these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give them
a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf
which will fall on the earth
like if it had been made by our lips
like a kiss which falls
from our invincible heights
to show the fire and the tenderness
of a true love.

(Pablo Neruda)

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

(Pablo Neruda)

Därf ih ‘s Dirndl liab’n

Ih bin jüngst verwichn
Hin zan Pforra gschlichn:
„Därf ih ‘s Dirndl liab’n?“
„Untasteh dih nit, ba meina Seel,
Wonst as Dirndl liabst, so kimst in d Höll!“

Bin ih vull Valonga
Zu da Muada gonga:
„Därf ih ‘s Dirndl liab’n?“
„O du feiner Knob, es is noh zfrua,
Wort bis d zeiti wirst, mei liaba Bua!“

Woar in großn Nötn,
Hon ih n Vodan beten:
„Därf ih ‘s Dirndl liab’n?“
„Duners Schlagl!“ schreit er in sein Zurn,
Willst mein Steckn kostn, konst es tuan!“

Wos is onzufonga?
Bin zan Herrgott gonga:
„Därf ih ‘s Dirndl liab’n?“
„Ei jo freilih“, sogt er und hot glocht,
„Wegn an Büaberl hon ih s Dirndl gmocht!“

(Peter Rosegger *1843 †1918 - Österreichischer Dichter )



Peter Rosegger (eigentlich Roßegger; * 31. Juli 1843 in Alpl, Steiermark; † 26. Juni 1918 in Krieglach; (Pseudonyme: P.K. (für Petri Kettenfeier), Hans Malser)) war ein österreichischer Schriftsteller.

Leben
Peter Rosegger wurde in Alpl (Gemeinde Krieglach) als Sohn des Waldbauern Lorenz Roßegger und seiner Ehefrau Maria geboren. Da in Alpl kein Schulzwang bestand, gab es viele Analphabeten. Auch sein Vater war Analphabet, so lernte er viel von seiner Mutter. Auch Rosegger hatte nur einen beschränkten Schulunterricht genossen. Ein Lehrer, der auf Grund seiner Sympathien zur Märzrevolution durch den konservativen Pfarrer von der Schule verwiesen wurde, wurde von den armen Bauern aufgenommen und unterrichtete einige Bauernkinder, darunter auch Rosegger. Weil er körperlich zu schwach war, Bauer zu werden, begann er als 17-jähriger bei einem Wanderschneider in Sankt Kathrein am Hauenstein die Lehre. Er zog auf seiner Stör von Hof zu Hof und lernte dabei Leute und Bräuche kennen. Rosegger hatte nur ein schmales Einkommen, mit dem er Bücher zu kaufen begann, die anfangs hauptsächlich Dorfgeschichten waren. Bald darauf begann Rosegger selbst zu schreiben. Der Redakteur der Grazer Tagespost, Dr. Svoboda, entdeckte sein schriftstellerisches Talent und vermittelte ihn aufgrund dessen an die Grazer Akademie für Handel und Industrie. Von ihm stammte die Bezeichnung Naturdichter, gegen die Rosegger sein Leben lang ankämpfte. Unterstützt wurde er von dem Industriellen Johann Peter Reininghaus, der in Graz Reininghaus eine der größten Brauereien Österreichs betrieb.

A child said, What is the grass? (Walt Whitman)

A child said, What is the grass?


A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

Walt Whitman

Alone (Edgar Allan Poe)

Alone

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
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe