LL-L "Literature" 2005.11.20 (04) [E]

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Mon Nov 21 03:22:01 UTC 2005


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   L O W L A N D S - L * 20 November 2005 * Volume 04
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From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Literature

Folks,

Arthur Jones shared a couple of his un-Gothesque poems with me, and I 
presume some of you will find them interesting and will enjoy seing another 
facet of our Arthur's personality, including his _Galgenhumor_.  Arthur 
permitted me to pass them on to you.  Please find them below.  Hopefully, 
Arthur won't mind me inserting a dabbled German "recreation" after the first 
one.

Enjoy!
Reinhard/Ron|
***

   The Rendition Song
   (inspired by Bert Brecht, to be sung to the tune of
   "While Strolling Through the Park One Day")

   Oh, we've scheduled you to die today,
   There is nothing you can do or say,
   We have cancelled all your calls,
   Picked the place where you will fall,
   Cleared your desk and sent your adjutant away.

***
   German rendition: R. F. Hahn

   Der Übertragungsgesang

   Ach, ja! Für heute haben wir Ihr Sterben angesetzt.
   Es tut uns leid. Ganz unumgänglich ist die Sache jetzt.
   Jeder Anruf ist gestrichen, wie man diesem Plan entnimmt,
   Und auch der Ort des Sterbens ist seit Langem vorbestimmt.
   Abgeräumt ist Ihr Schreibtisch und Ihr Adjudant versetzt.

***
   Centuries

   Tell the story. Don't be in it,
   Reconstruct attested minutes.
   Restore, reform, rebuild trust,
   Fly your timecraft if you must:
   Savour nineteenth, save one-and-twenty,
   Mourn the firebombed twentieth. Plenty

   of words got tossed. Shallow, witty,
   Bleating sophomore self-pity,
   O Narcissues, I sing of ME!
   Whose sunken eyes in streams I see,
   I don't need meter, don't do quatrain,
   Du bist allein, Lili Marlene.

   Centuries start with such bold promise;
   Yeats and Rilke, Joyce and Thomas.
   But soldier boys and sodomites
   Go gentle into war-torn night,
   And Sappho's must, departing host,
   PUlled tight her shroud, gave up the ghost.

   Resist the urge to search within,
   For innards neither lose nor win.
   Leave still life to the architects,
   And icons should host genuflects.
   Pace, Stein: There's no THERE, there;
   Best fly your kites on outside airs.

   When fascist empire came to play,
   We learned to look the other way.
   We saw our poets turned to pawns,
   Defined by porcine Neocons.
   Where be the griots, skalds and bards?
   (Just stirred a spirit! Smelled like lard).

   Pay debased dollars at the gate,
   Watch Minnesingers masturbate.
   Yet Orpheus made no leer for Lear,
   Were troubadours consumed by fear?

   When karmic stinkbombs hurl through space,
   True trovatori howl disgrace.
   Arise! Reclaim the poet's rage,
   And sing us to the barricades.

   finis. 

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