Ich mag Texte von Muriel Rukeyser, die häufig mit Momentaufnahmen/ Fragmenten/ Erinnerungssplittern arbeitet, zB auch in diesem Liebesgedicht
Effort at Speech between two people -- Muriel Rukeyser
: Speak to me. Take my hand. What are you now?
I will tell you all. I will conceal nothing.
When I was three, a little child read a story about a rabbit
who died, in the story, and I crawled under a chair :
a pink rabbit : it was my birthday, and a candle
burnt a sore spot on my finger, and I was told to be happy.
: Oh, grow to know me. I am not happy. I will be open:
Now I am thinking of white sails against a sky like music,
like glad horns blowing, and birds tilting, and an arm about me.
There was one I loved, who wanted to live, sailing.
: Speak to me. Take my hand. What are you now?
When I was nine, I was fruitily sentimental,
fluid : and my widowed aunt played Chopin,
and I bent my head to the painted woodwork, and wept.
I want now to be close to you. I would
link the minutes of my days close, somehow, to your days.
: I am not happy. I will be open.
I have liked lamps in evening corners, and quiet poems.
There has been fear in my life. Sometimes I speculate
on what a tragedy his life was, really.
: Take my hand. Fist my mind in your hand. What are you now?
When I was fourteen, I had dreams of suicide,
I stood at a steep window, at sunset, hoping toward death :
if the light had not melted clouds and plains to beauty,
if light had not transformed that day, I would have leapt.
I am unhappy. I am lonely. Speak to me.
: I will be open. I think he never loved me:
he loved the bright beaches, the little lips of foam
that ride small waves, he loved the veer of gulls:
he said with a gay mouth : I love you. Grow to know me.
: What are you now? If we could touch one another,
if these our separate entities could come to grips,
clenched like a Chinese puzzle . . . yesterday
I stood in a crowded street that was live with people,
and no one spoke a word, and the morning shone.
Everyone silent, moving . . . Take my hand. Speak to me.
Und diese beiden Gedichte hängen bei mir an der Wand. Samuel Butler war sein Leben lang Single, hatte aber Jahrzehnte lang Kontakt zu einer Miss Savage, die ihn liebte, die er aber nicht liebte. Jahre nachdem sie starb schrieb er diese beiden Sonette - wobei ich interessant finde, dass er das Sonett als Form verwendet hat, das traditionellerweise die Form fürs Liebesgedicht schlechthin ist - und auÃerdem als Kommentar unter die Gedichte schrieb: "Jaja, bevor das hier wer missversteht: ich war niemals in diese Frau verliebt!" Ansonsten ist das Gedicht auch ganz witzig.
by Samuel Butler to a certain Miss Savage who died in 1885:
She was too kind, wooed too persistently,
Wrote moving letters to me day by day;
The more she wrote, the more unmoved was I,
The more she gave, the less I could repay.
Therefore I grieve not that I was not loved
But that, being loved, I could not love again.
I liked; but like and love are far removed;
Hard though I tried to love I tried in vain.
For she was plain and lame and fat and short,
Forty and over-kind. Hence it befell
That, though I loved her in a certain sort,
Yet did I love too wisely but not well.
Ah! Had she been more beauteous or less kind,
She might have found me of another mind.
(1901)
And now, though twenty years are come and gone,
That little lame lady..s face is with me still;
Never a day but that, on every one,
She dwells with me, as dwell she ever will.
She said she wished I knew not wrong from right;
It was not that; I knew, and would have chosen
Wrong if I could, but, in my own despite,
Power to choose wrong in my chilled vains was frozen.
..Tis said that if a woman woo, no man
Should leave her till she have prevailed; and, true,
A man will yield for pity if he can,
But if the flesh rebels what can he do?
I could not. Hence I grieve my whole life long
The wrong I did in that I did no wrong.
Und ansonsten mag ich noch Gedichte von Erich Fried, T.S. Eliot und die Nonsensgedichte von Joachim Ringelnatz. zB:
RITTER SOCKENBURG
Wie du zärtlich deine Wäsche in den Wind
Hängst, liebes Kind
Vis à vis,
Diesen Anblick zu genieÃen,
Geh ich, welken Efeu zu begieÃen.
Aber mich bemerkst du nie.
Deine vogelfernen, wundergroÃen
Kinderaugen, ach erkennen sie
Meiner Sehnsucht süÃe Phantasie,
Jetzt ein Wind zu sein in deinen Hosen – ?
Kein Gesang, kein Pfeifen kann dich locken.
Und die Sehnsucht läÃt mir keine Ruh.
Ha! Ich hänge Wäsche auf, wie du!
Was ich finde. Socken, Herrensocken;
Alles andre hat die Waschanstalt.
Socken, hohle JunggesellenfüÃe
Wedeln dir im Winde wunde GrüÃe.
Es ist kalt auf dem Balkon, sehr kalt.
Und die Mädchenhöschen wurden trocken,
Mit dem Winter kam die Faschingszeit.
Aber drüben, am Balkon, verschneit,
Eisverhärtet, hingen hundert Socken.
Ihr Besitzer lebte fern im Norden
Und war homosexuell geworden.