bimo: (Default)
As it turns out, my first post of 2013 is little more than a brief note regarding the stuff you discover via fandom.

B5 story recommendation spotted in [personal profile] andraste 's journal  =>


My Late Enchantments Still in Brilliant Colors Shine by Icepixie
"There's no way you could've gotten a pilot's license without realizing 'Equal parts wonder, delight, terror, and whimsy' does not constitute a cargo manifest." Susan Ivanova runs into a technomage.  =>

Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay
=>

From Mine the Harvest

 

 

I
Those hours when happy hours were my estate, —
Entailed, as proper, for the next in line,
Yet mine the harvest, and the title mine —
Those acres, fertile, and the furrows straight,
From which the lark would rise — all of my late
Enchantments, still, in brilliant colours, shine,
But striped with black, the tulip, lawn and vine,
Like gardens looked at through an iron gate.
Yet not as one who never sojourned there
I view the lovely segment of a past
I lived with all my senses, well aware
That this was perfect, and it would not last:
I smell the flower, though vacuum-still the air;
I feel its texture, though the gate is fast.





Bright Star

Jan. 9th, 2010 01:11 pm
bimo: (Best_of_Timelords)
I woke up this morning with the idea of writing a lengthier entry on Jane Campion's Keats movie Bright Star (For the interested: the last three years of John Keats' life, seen through the lens of his relationship with Fanny Brawne; a movie typical of Jane Campion as a director insofar as Bright Star's superb visuals, added by a strong focus on the observation of character dynamics make more than up for the film's slow pace. What struck me as most noteworthy was how Campion has managed to transfer the romanticism of Keats poems into essentially quiet but powerful images. Altogether a film well worth seeing, with some very fine actors and quite a bit of costume porn at work there*g*)

Opening my browser window, however, I got somewhat distracted, not only by reading up on the featured Keats poems, but also by the latest edition of [livejournal.com profile] metafandom, featuring the all time discussion classic of of how much cultural literacy fanfiction authors should expect from their audience.

Without going into any details, some of the actually quite sensible and pragmatist answers to that question scare me, mostly because I firmly believe in the importance of broadening our shared cultural horizons and the role that fiction (any fiction, not just "literature") plays as a means of transporting knowledge.
bimo: (Mug_collectors)
The average life expectancy of the snow flake in north-western Rhineland is brief.
Snow falls out of the skies, meets moist, above zero grounds,
melts away,
dies.

But, hey people, listen:

For the fourth day in a row we are under a thick, glistening blanket!
Real snow, proper snow
that is not wet at all and makes dry, crunchy noises
under your feet.

When you walk

down at the river bank, in the low standing sun
snow is golden.

A desert of diamonds.

And the fog, rising from alien plains,
how milky and soft.
bimo: (Albert_irrelevant)
Just a bit of William Carlos Williams, for no other reason that I would very much like to share it with anyone out there who delights in odd, little things.


The Thinker

My wife's new pink slippers
have gay pom-poms.
There is not a spot or a stain
on their satin toes or their sides.
All night they lie together
under her bed's edge.
Shivering I catch sight of them
and smile in the morning.
Later I watch them
descending the stair,
hurrying through the doors
and round the table,
moving stiffly
with a shake of their gay pom-poms!
And I talk to them
in my secret mind
out of pure happiness.
bimo: (Default)
Browsing my f-list I noticed that somewhere across the Atlantic there must be 'National Poetry Month' again. So here is one of my personal favourites to support and encourage the random posting of beauty :-)


Rainer Maria Rilke, Die Erblindende )


Woman Going Blind by Rainer Maria Rilke )
bimo: (Default)
Some of you may already have spotted this one in [livejournal.com profile] cavendish 's journal, but I'd like to repost it since it's really delightful und deserves to be spread :-)

Behind an LJ cut: A sonett on the nature of LJ )

Written by [livejournal.com profile] cavendish , a much better poet than I could ever be, at the request of [livejournal.com profile] kathyh.
bimo: (Default)
Perhaps you noticed  I almost missed to join  in the delightful spread of poetry promoted by such noble and astounding people as [livejournal.com profile] selenak[livejournal.com profile] kathyh and [livejournal.com profile] quiller77 because I was so overly occupied with switching between different LJ layouts by the minute. I sincerely apologize for any cases of sudden blindness that may have occured during the more horrid combinations and hope that the current solution will be more or less final ....Well apart from one or two minor tweaks to achieve a better readability *g*

To catch up with the rest of  LJ 'verse, I decided posting Dream-Land, one of my favourite pieces by Edgar Allan Poe.Here in the western part of Germany the days are getting shorter again, and while the garden in front of my window is still saturated with autumn colour, plants and branches are becoming ghostlier with each chilly fall of rain. So I'm in a Poe-ish kind of mood *g*


Dream Land )


To quote my favourite Peanuts character Linus:

"Afterward, it's fun to come home and have a cup of hot chocolate. And sit in front of a warm TV"  ;-)
bimo: (DRD_beware)
During the last couple of weeks I found myself either drowning in the works of James Joyce or making long excursions into the history of London sewers. (The godfather of interior monologue being the most natural choice for my impending English literature exam , I have been a major Joyce fan even years before I saw him in his his Ewan McGregor incarnation *g*. My sudden interest in sewers, cesspits and the achievements of Victorian engineer Joseph Balzagette mostly derives from the need for yet another history term paper; however it's a quite fascinating subject. For anyone curious about the sanitory problems of a true metropolis, a good online summary can be found here.)

The increased academic activity seems to have had a rather peculiar effect on my brain. On the one hand it left me with a strangely insatiable hunger for words. Apart from study related books, I re-read one of my favourite historical novels ([livejournal.com profile] selenak will know which one *g*), Stephen King's Bag of Bones, which instantly made it into the Top Five of my favourite King books (yeah, call me heretical, but a) I love King and b)always find myself able to enjoy his newer works as much as the old) and am currently on page 57 of Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost. All these books have well over 700 pages.

On the downside of all this reading I have neglected online correspondence and LJ to a point which makes me feel like fandom's most uncommunicative, unfaithful daughter.

Will the prodigal be able to redeem herself? Well, I hope so.


Browsing my friendslist, I could not fail to notice [livejournal.com profile] enednoviel 's amazing portrait of a slightly older Harry Potter, [livejournal.com profile] kathyh's musings about the importance of opening paragraphs and [livejournal.com profile] selenak 's entry concerning the different interpretations of well-loved characters.

Also, there is this wonderful little poem [livejournal.com profile] cavendish had written for me shortly after Selena had kindly outed me as secret lover of the Wizarding World's most hated bureaucrat in her comment on my previous entry *g*


Lament for Lost Lovers

When 20 (roughly speaking)
you loved the
athletic type -
swimmer
black
boxer sorts
dark voice,
big sword, immortal
but young
in appearance. you loved
his smile

Somewhat older, came
into your vision: a man
his face was hidden, more
the spiritual type, a sword
of light, and not of steel.
His chastity, his sad looks:
were they to be admired
or to be broken?
In fiction only.

And now, with almost thirty, a
bureaucrat it is, grey hair, great power,
wealth and: a dark secret:
Will the lonely man on his deserted planet
grieve? Will the age old Horseman (?)
come storming to your rescue? Would you
desire him to come?

Or can you love
the three of them
together, as observer or
creator? Imagine:
what the story would be like.
What time? And how would
it take place?

And if it came to contest, who would
- strictly fictionally spoken -
win? Sword or Money?
Mind or voice? Spiritual or
worldly greed? An alliance, maybe,
formed by two that would
remain, with you, and one
your sacrifice?
Will an apologize be made by those
survived?

At least ‘tis I who must
apologize for letting my
imagination go astray: in fiction that in
reality should stay. And stay there only.



The observations made in this poem are about as witty as they are true, I guess. [livejournal.com profile] cavendish has witnessed and endured my fannish passions since the mid nineties ;-)
bimo: (Coop)
Ladies and Gentlemen,

today's broadcast of gratuitous poetry goes out to [livejournal.com profile] selenak. Consider it a small "Thank You" for the highly interesting review of "Troy" that she has written.


I Hear an Army

I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging; foam about their knees:
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
Disdaining the rains, with fluttering whips, the Charioteers.

They cry into the night their battle name:
I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

They come shaking in triumph their long grey hair:
They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
My heart have you no wisdom thus to despair?
My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?


(James Joyce)


I found the poem just this morning while browsing a pile of secondary literature about Joyce and thought that it fitted the movie's theme quite nicely *g*


P.S.

Selena, by the time you are reading this entry, "Power Play" will probably already be on its way to your place :-)
bimo: (Default)
...aka Bimo's attempt at celebrating spring with a self-created lyric meme ... *g*

Following the bloom of the daffodils in [livejournal.com profile] kathyh's journal, I just posted the following poem:

The Windmills (John Gould Fletcher)

The Windmills, like great sunflowers of steel,
Lift themselves proudly over the straggling houses;
And at their feet the deep, blue-green alfalfa
Cuts the desert like the stroke of a sword.

Yellow melon flowers
Crawl beneath the withered peach trees;
A date-palm throws its heavy fronds of steel
Against the scoured metallic sky.

The houses, doubled-roofed for coolness;
Cower amid the manzanita scrub.
A man with jingling spurs
Walks heavy out of a vine-bowered doorway,
Mounts his pony, rides away.

The windmills stare at the sun.
The yellow earth cracks and blisters.
Everything is still.

In the afternoon
The wind takes dry waves of heat and tosses them
Mingled with dust, up and down the streets,
Against the belfry wit its green bells:

And, after sunset, when the sky
Becomes a green and orange fan,
The windmills, like great sunflowers on orange stalks,
Stare hard at the sun they cannot follow.

Turning, turning, forever turning
In the chill night-wind that sweeps over the valley,
With the shriek and the clank of the pumps groaning beneath them,
And choking the gurgle of tepid water.




So, if you know an amazing piece of poetry that you would love to spread through LJ, here is your chance :-)
bimo: (Coop)
Waiting for a late delivery from Amazon.de, I've been nibbling poetry like an impatient restaurant visitor having a good time with just the appetizers while there is still no sight of the main course. Although the refined bits of carefully arranged words and images by no means satisfy my hunger for characters and plotlines, they are at least as delicious as they are entertaining.

Here is the poem that I played with this morning:

IX

An old book on the poisons
of madness, a map
of forest monastries
a chronicle brought across
the sea of Sanskrit slokas.

I hold all these
but you have become
a ghost for me.

I hold only your shadow
since those days I drove
your nature away.

A falcon who became a coward.

I hold you the way astronomers
draw constellations for each other
in the markets of wisdom

placing shells
on a dark blanket
saying 'these
are the heavens'

calculating the movement
of the great stars.

(Michaal Ondaatje, Handwriting)

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