Quizzes & Puzzles1 min ago
Night Poem From Khandro (Wed.)
9 Answers
When the Barocco.
came over the hill with its cerulean vaults and golden exhortations
Otto in the tower took leave of his fleisch,
attending to the rumble in the near beyond.
Up the staircase of the Dolomites
and along the length of the turquoise river,
streaming in channels of differing hue,
it bounded like a beach ball across the great passes,
the summer pastures,
flattening all that came before it,
down the slopes,
through woodland and paddock,
coming to rest
but a furlong from the thorned hedge
of Otto and his forbears’ village,
and there, sweating dew,
matted with pine needles, grape mash,
insects, rodents, all manner of grasses,
like a vast, lopsided globe,
opalescent, trembling,
a planet unto itself,
very like a planet, there it sat,
a colossus, a visitation,
blocking what remained of the afternoon light
and emitting a kind of tuneful bleating,
two parts piccolo, one, perhaps, trombone.
A most remarkable phenomenon to behold.
The villagers trembled from behind mud walls.
Otto thence convened the Elders.
The alphorn was taken up and blown,
first a necklace of quarter notes, then one long,
and from the forests all around,
like fleas off a hound,
came the Woodwoses from their rustic nests,
a swarm of hairy Calibans,
waving pointed sticks,
chisels, flints, hatchets and cudgels,
and fell upon it,
poking and flailing. You’d have thought
it was just a big piñata.
While from inside came an ominous strange music:
first, a silvery harmonic fuzz,
then some spectral pedal tones
that suggested the tolling of bells,
then an agitated chromaticism, then . . .
then . . . o, dear, then . . . . . .
Like lava from deep in a seething volcano
out burst a geyser of foam,
a foam of stucco and plaster,
covering butcher-yard and meadow, orchard and cow path,
pigs at their acorns,
hares, bears and Hans,
dozing behind the refectory,
churrigueresque, like whipped cream,
suddenly dripping off half-timbered houses,
the town hall and chapel,
their corpses stacked high like cordwood
dead Styrians and Savoyards,
and that doyen among rivers, the Enns,
for no good reason o’erflowing its banks,
and Otto, Otto the pious, spellbound:
ovals, porticos, diagonals, whorls,
staircases, credenzas, putti galore.
Wine ran like squirrels in the forest.
And down from the sky above
fell ribands of damask, of silk, then a fine rain,
more a mist,
coloured purple in patches, or ochre, indigo or gold,
inlaying plain gardens with mother-of-pearl.
Pageants sprouted like mushrooms.
Trompe l’oeil windows opened room upon room,
and in the trees passacaglias
of birdsong. Not a birch
nor gable left unfestooned, the valley
awash in high colour
and upon itself enfolding, trebly enfolding,
until what had been there, there,
and there, earthbound, fixed in repose,
all in now concert reaching heavenward
moved.
//August Kleinzahler//
came over the hill with its cerulean vaults and golden exhortations
Otto in the tower took leave of his fleisch,
attending to the rumble in the near beyond.
Up the staircase of the Dolomites
and along the length of the turquoise river,
streaming in channels of differing hue,
it bounded like a beach ball across the great passes,
the summer pastures,
flattening all that came before it,
down the slopes,
through woodland and paddock,
coming to rest
but a furlong from the thorned hedge
of Otto and his forbears’ village,
and there, sweating dew,
matted with pine needles, grape mash,
insects, rodents, all manner of grasses,
like a vast, lopsided globe,
opalescent, trembling,
a planet unto itself,
very like a planet, there it sat,
a colossus, a visitation,
blocking what remained of the afternoon light
and emitting a kind of tuneful bleating,
two parts piccolo, one, perhaps, trombone.
A most remarkable phenomenon to behold.
The villagers trembled from behind mud walls.
Otto thence convened the Elders.
The alphorn was taken up and blown,
first a necklace of quarter notes, then one long,
and from the forests all around,
like fleas off a hound,
came the Woodwoses from their rustic nests,
a swarm of hairy Calibans,
waving pointed sticks,
chisels, flints, hatchets and cudgels,
and fell upon it,
poking and flailing. You’d have thought
it was just a big piñata.
While from inside came an ominous strange music:
first, a silvery harmonic fuzz,
then some spectral pedal tones
that suggested the tolling of bells,
then an agitated chromaticism, then . . .
then . . . o, dear, then . . . . . .
Like lava from deep in a seething volcano
out burst a geyser of foam,
a foam of stucco and plaster,
covering butcher-yard and meadow, orchard and cow path,
pigs at their acorns,
hares, bears and Hans,
dozing behind the refectory,
churrigueresque, like whipped cream,
suddenly dripping off half-timbered houses,
the town hall and chapel,
their corpses stacked high like cordwood
dead Styrians and Savoyards,
and that doyen among rivers, the Enns,
for no good reason o’erflowing its banks,
and Otto, Otto the pious, spellbound:
ovals, porticos, diagonals, whorls,
staircases, credenzas, putti galore.
Wine ran like squirrels in the forest.
And down from the sky above
fell ribands of damask, of silk, then a fine rain,
more a mist,
coloured purple in patches, or ochre, indigo or gold,
inlaying plain gardens with mother-of-pearl.
Pageants sprouted like mushrooms.
Trompe l’oeil windows opened room upon room,
and in the trees passacaglias
of birdsong. Not a birch
nor gable left unfestooned, the valley
awash in high colour
and upon itself enfolding, trebly enfolding,
until what had been there, there,
and there, earthbound, fixed in repose,
all in now concert reaching heavenward
moved.
//August Kleinzahler//
Answers
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Salutation the Second
By Ezra Pound
From “Contemporania”
YOU were praised, my books,
because I had just come from the country;
I was twenty years behind the times
so you found an audience ready.
I do not disown you,
do not you disown your progeny.
Here they stand without quaint devices,
Here they are with nothing archaic about them.
Watch the reporters spit,
Watch the anger of the professors,
Watch how the pretty ladies revile them:
“Is this,” they say, “the nonsense
that we expect of poets?”
“Where is the Picturesque?”
“Where is the vertigo of emotion?””
“No! his first work was the best.”
“Poor Dear! he has lost his illusions.
Go, little naked and impudent songs,
Go with a light foot!
(Or with two light feet, if it please you!)
Go and dance shamelessly!
Go with an impertinent frolic!
Greet the grave and the stodgy,
Salute them with your thumbs at your noses.
Here are your bells and confetti.
Go! rejuvenate things!
Rejuvenate even “The Spectator.”
Go! and make cat calls!
Dance and make people blush,
Dance the dance of the phallus
and tell anecdotes of Cybele!
Speak of the indecorous conduct of the Gods!
(Tell it to Mr. Strachey.)
Ruffle the skirts of prudes,
speak of their knees and ankles.
But, above all, go to practical people—
go! jangle their door-bells!
Say that you do no work
and that you will live forever.
By Ezra Pound
From “Contemporania”
YOU were praised, my books,
because I had just come from the country;
I was twenty years behind the times
so you found an audience ready.
I do not disown you,
do not you disown your progeny.
Here they stand without quaint devices,
Here they are with nothing archaic about them.
Watch the reporters spit,
Watch the anger of the professors,
Watch how the pretty ladies revile them:
“Is this,” they say, “the nonsense
that we expect of poets?”
“Where is the Picturesque?”
“Where is the vertigo of emotion?””
“No! his first work was the best.”
“Poor Dear! he has lost his illusions.
Go, little naked and impudent songs,
Go with a light foot!
(Or with two light feet, if it please you!)
Go and dance shamelessly!
Go with an impertinent frolic!
Greet the grave and the stodgy,
Salute them with your thumbs at your noses.
Here are your bells and confetti.
Go! rejuvenate things!
Rejuvenate even “The Spectator.”
Go! and make cat calls!
Dance and make people blush,
Dance the dance of the phallus
and tell anecdotes of Cybele!
Speak of the indecorous conduct of the Gods!
(Tell it to Mr. Strachey.)
Ruffle the skirts of prudes,
speak of their knees and ankles.
But, above all, go to practical people—
go! jangle their door-bells!
Say that you do no work
and that you will live forever.
brainac, I think you ought to keep away from that which you do not like, or understand, - poetry for example, this isn't the first time you have graced us with your prejudice. It wasn't translated by Google or anybody else, Kleinzahler is an American, he is still writing & is considered by many to be among the finest poets of his generation.
You are entitled to your opinion of course, but only if it is a considered one, calling it 'awful' demonstrates how foolish & out of touch you are.
You are entitled to your opinion of course, but only if it is a considered one, calling it 'awful' demonstrates how foolish & out of touch you are.
Here is some really lovely Baroque music by Telemann, (wait for the entrance of the central lady with the hair & recorder!) imagine the joy of the arrival of this coupled with the Baroque style in art & architecture sweeping through southern Europe, Germany, Austria & the Tyrol.
That's what it's 'about'.
That's what it's 'about'.
Margarettom. I think you have to visualise objectifying a collective image of everything Baroque which came sweeping through the south of Europe.
By the way, there's a link to the full 25 min. version of the Telemann just below the video picture, which I should have put up & is more to the point & well worth viewing.
By the way, there's a link to the full 25 min. version of the Telemann just below the video picture, which I should have put up & is more to the point & well worth viewing.
1 to 9 of 9
