Der Käfer-Gott (Horror) (German Edition)
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Actor Self Archive footage. Adriatic, Adriatic Sea Adriatisches Meer: Adriatic, Adriatic Sea Adscharien: Albanian, Albanian language Albanien: Albanian, Albanian woman Albanisch: Albanian, Albanian language Album: American, US citizen Amerikanerin: Anatolia, Asia Minor Anatomie: Atlantic, Atlantic Ocean Atlas: Basque, Basque language Basrelief: Belgian, Belgian woman Belgrad: Benedictine, Benedictine monk 2. Berliner, Berlin lady, Berlin woman Bern: Bosnia Bosnien und Herzegowina: Britain, Great Britain Brite: German Federal Republic Bundesrepublik Deutschland: German Federal Republic Bure: Chinese, Chinese language Chinin: German, German language Deutsche: German, German woman Deutscher: Der dritte Text war "perfection" von Ernst Jandl: Perfection 0 lovely apple!
No one has moved you since I placed you on the porch rail a Month ago to ripen. Vollkommenheit 0 lieblicher Apfel! Wie satt und feucht der Mantel aus Braun auf jenem un- angetasteten Fleisch! Many thanks for introducing selected poems by D. Idiosynchratic works are appreciated. Spring Breezes Spring breezes over the blue, now lightly frolicking in some tropic bay, go forth to meet her way, for here the spell hath won and dream is true.
And now I bid thee bring tenderly hither over a subject sea that golden one whose grace hath made me king, and, soon to glad my gaze at shut of day, loosen'd in happy air her charmed hair. Comment A Gift See! I give myself to you, Beloved! My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me, But I shall be dead.
Mai ebenda war eine amerikanische Frauenrechtlerin und Dichterin. A Living A man should never earn his living, if he earns his life he'll be lovely. A bird picks up its seeds or little snails between heedless earth and heaven in heedlessness. But, the plucky little sport, it gives to life song, and chirruping, gay feathers, fluff-shadowed warmth and all the unspeakable charm of birds hopping and fluttering and being birds. Kronen schimmern in den Kirchen. Ihre feuchten Lippen beben Und sie warten an den Toren.
Fremde lauschen auf den Stufen. Wie viel darf man wohl in dieses Gedicht hinein interpretieren??? Bisher hat hier noch keiner deiner Interpretation widersprochen. Wer hat denn das Monopol auf die 'richtige' Interpretation eines Gedichtes? And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Caught in a thicket by its horns, A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one. For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in ten degrees. For first he looks upon his fore-paws to see if they are clean. For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the fore-paws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly he washes himself. For sixthly he rolls upon wash. For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. For eighthly he rubs himself against a post. For ninthly he looks up for his instructions. For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
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For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour. For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins. For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life. For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. For he is of the tribe of Tiger. Christopher Smart was an English poet, a major contributor to popular magazines and a friend to influential writers such as Samuel Johnson and Henry Fielding.
A high church Anglican, Smart was known throughout London. He was infamous for his role as "Mrs. Mary Midnight" and widespread accounts of his father-in-law, John Newbery, locking him away in a mental asylum for many years over his religious "mania". Smart's two best-known works are A Song to David and Jubilate Agno , both written at least partly during his confinement in asylum. Jubilate Agno was not published until Wie Despoten enden, hat's dich Nicht gelehrt des Bruders Beispiel?
Nicht gelehrt des Vaters Beispiel? Nicht des Vaters-Vaters Beispiel? Blutig fingst auch du zu herrschen An! August von Platen, ; aus den "Polenliedern". November ist ein deutscher Lyriker und Essayist; Autor gesellschaftskritischer Lyrik z. Wort und Vers werden mit anscheinend spielerischer Leistung gehandhabt, u. Comment Buttercups and Daisies I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart; - My smile expires into a sigh; I feel a struggling in my eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way; For, soul and brain will travel back, Through memory's chequer'd mazes, To days, when I but trod life's track For buttercups and daisies.
There seems a bright and fairy spell About there very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if you will, but some heartstrings Are closest link'd to simplest things; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past; And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave With buttercups and daisies. Eliza Cook — Valentine Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. Not a cute card or a kissogram. Dezember in Glasgow ist eine schottische Lyrikerin und Dramatikerin. Comment "There was a man and he was mad" There was a man and he was mad And he ran up the steeple, And there he cut his nose off And flung it at the people. Comment Vergissmeinnicht Three weeks gone and the combatants gone, returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun.
The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Vergissmeinnicht in a copybook gothic script. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt. Keith Douglas , English poet, killed in action in France. I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds,-and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of-wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air June 9, — December 11, was an Anglo-American aviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II.
Comment Monet's Waterlilies Today as the news from Selma and Saigon poisons the air like fallout, I come again to see the serene, great picture that I love. Here space and time exist in light the eye like the eye of faith believes. The seen, the known dissolve in iridescence, become illusive flesh of light that was not, was, forever is. He was appointed Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in Comment The Invisible With a flutter and a pitterpat The pigeon settles on the parapet.
Draw down from your palate then A tightening tongue, and cluck. The pigeon turns his iridescent head, But how he hears is anybody's guess. By what other channel than an ear, When he has none, can any pigeon hear? Along the parapet he waddles, next, Not closer, but away, and eyeing still The middle of a nowhere Schumann said , Root of a distress my tongue alerts him to.
A second triple claw touches the parapet, And fear is a force, molding the invisible. No big deal, pigeon. You are wise to scare; Wiser than me to see nobody there. Comment Naturgesetze und psychologische Gesetze I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I waterd it in fears, Night and morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole. When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see, My foe outstretchd beneath the tree. William Blake — And on Tuesday he fell on the hill And the happy lamb Never knew why the loud collie straddled him. And on Wednesday he fell on a bush And the blackbird Laid by his little flute for the last time. George Mackay Brown , splendid Orkney poet who wrote in English.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.
This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.
Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known. But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.
So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart. Joyce Kilmer December 6, — July 30, was an American journalist, poet, literary critic, lecturer, and editor.
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride! And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow! Where got ye that winsome marrow? Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow. O dule and sorrow!
And weep around, in woeful wise, His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow. As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed; As green its grass, its gowan as yellow; As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple from its rocks as mellow. Though he was fair, and well beloved again Than me, he never loved thee better. Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! How can I busk, a winsome marrow? For there was basely slain my love— My love as he had not been a lover.
I little, little knew He was in these to meet his ruin! With bridal sheets my body cover! Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door; Let in the expected husband lover! His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with willow.
I wandered Lonely As A Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. You need to be logged in to use the vocabulary trainer. Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Ich diene beiden, die mich alles lehrten. It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock. Beide kannte ich bislang nicht in diesen Sprachen.
No youth lay ever there before thee. O lovely, lovely youth! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter; And lie all night between my breasts! No youth shall ever lie there after. Return, and dry thy useless sorrow! Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs— He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. His health is said to have been delicate, leading him to spend a deal of his time indoors, in study; where he become enthusiastic about literature, and began to write poetry.
The song is believed to be based on an actual incident. The hero of the ballad was a knight of great bravery, popularly believed to be John Scott, sixth son of the Laird of Harden. According to history, he met a treacherous and untimely death in Ettrick Forest at the hands of his kin, the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh in the seventeenth century. However, recent scholars are sceptical about this story as the origin of the song.
To equip, prepare, make ready. To adorn, to deck, dress up. Unkraut; Trauerkleidung, Trauerflor weel: Comment At The Ball Game The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them -- all the exciting detail of the chase and the escape, the error the flash of genius I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Stevie Smith http: All the poet has to do is listen. The poet is not an important fellow. There will always be another poet. Comment The Bonnie Broukit Bairn Mars is braw in crammasy, Venus in a green silk goun, The auld mune shak's her gowden feathers, Their starry talk's a wheen o' blethers, Nane for thee a thochtie sparin', Earth, thou bonnie broukit bairn!
Comment Hugh MacDiarmid When he speaks a small sentence he is a man who presses a plunger that will blow the face off a cliff. Or he dynamites a ramshackle idea--when the dust settles, what structures shine in the sun. Norman MacCaig , fine Scottish poet: Comment Die Gedanken sind frei Fassung um 1. Die Gedanken sind frei. Die Gedanken sind frei Wer kann sie erraten? Die Gedanken sind frei 4. Comment Atlantis--A Lost Sonnet How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder that a whole city--arches, pillars, colonnades, not to mention vehicles and animals--had all one fine day gone under?
And so, in the best traditions of where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name and drowned it. Ja, die schottische und irische Dichtung ist bisher zu kurz gekommen. Buttercups and Daisies war ein direktes Copy und Paste aus Poemhunter http: Die zweite Strophe sollte eigentlich so anfangen: There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Several critics, both Kilmer's contemporaries and modern scholars, disparaged Kilmer's work as being too simple, overly sentimental, and suggested that his style was far too traditional, even archaic.
Stevie Smith kannte ich noch nicht. Die Haltung, die sie in ihren Gedichten einnimmt, ist recht eigenwillig und originell. Hier habe ich ein weiteres ausgesucht: It is a human face that hides A monkey soul within, That bangs about, that beats a gong, That makes a horrid din. Sometimes the monkey soul will sprawl Athwart the human eyes, And peering forth, will flesh its pads, And utter social lies. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation. Comment A Wasted Illness Through vaults of pain, Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain And hammerings, And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent With webby waxing things and waning things As on I went.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend The door to death. It loomed more clear: And back slid I Along the galleries by which I came, And tediously the day returned, and sky, And all was well: Old circumstance resumed its former show, And on my head the dews of comfort fell As ere my woe. I roam anew, Scarce conscious of my late distress. And yet Those backward steps through pain I cannot view For that dire train Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before, And those grim aisles, must be traversed again To reach that door.
Thomas Hardy 2 June — 11 January After years of writing novels to earn his living — novels which contain seams of poetry, but in which he felt constrained to work to the demands of the market — poetry came to him as a relief and a pleasure. Poems of Thomas Hardy. Selected and Introduced by Claire Tomalin, which does not include the above poem. Doch endlich kamen sie einander in die Haare, Und ihre Republik versank in Anarchie.
Ha, rief das arme Volk mit tiefgesenkten Ohren Und mit geschundner Haut, was haben wir getan! Satiriker und Philanthrop, For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange;:: Whatever is fickle, freckled who knows how? With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Juni in Dublin war ein britischer Lyriker und Jesuit, dessen Gedichte vor allem wegen der Lebendigkeit ihres Ausdrucks bewundert werden.
The day was green.
They said, "You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are. Comment Eine Antwort zu From: Then Napoleon took over the plan to build the mill. While the animals starved and slaved under the slogan, "I will work harder," the pigs moved into Jones's farmhouse, and the glorification of the Leader as Comrade Napoleon was now called became systematic. Hens were sometimes heard to say: Friend of the fatherless! Lord of the swill-bucket! Thou art the giver of All that thy creature love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon!
George Orwell — The Seven Commandments 1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall sleep in a bed.
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No animal shall drink alcohol. No animal shall kill any other animal. All animals are equal. Comment A Marriage We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love's moment And she, who in life had done everything with a bird's grace, opened her bill now for the shedding of one sigh no heavier than a feather. Thomas , walisischer Lyriker, der auf englisch schrieb. Seine kurze Autobiographie verfasste er auf Walisisch. You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in then there we are.
Comment Friendship A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs, The world uncertain comes and goes; The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled,- And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again, O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness had taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair. I know your lust Is love. Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true? Emily Dickinson , konnte ich mir nach nicht verkneifen Is the blue changed above thee, O world! Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. Echt war dein Vogel, fragst du nun noch? The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd, whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep. The sleepy rustic sloomy goes; The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers, Bemoistening sop his hardened shoes While every leaf that forms a shade, Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop.
But soon shall fly those diamond drops, Is gilding sweet the village-spire. Or list the gurgling of the brook; Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees, To entertain our wished delay,— The images which morning wears, The wakening charms of early day!
Now let me tread the meadow paths Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes; And hear the beetle sound his horn; And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A haling minstrel from the sky. John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption.
In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day, I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown up people's feet Still going past me in the street, And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day? Robert Louis Stevenson —94, Scottish novelist, poet, and essayist,.
Spine chilling horror
Comment The Invitation It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow. If you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or your own; If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being a human. It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. Soon, a bronze Adonis — ogling girls! It must be done! You will realise What a position it puts Me in. I couldn't really Have died for you if so I were inclined. The carn Foxglove here on the wall Outside your first house Leans with me standing In the Zennor wind.
Anyhow how are things? Are you still somewhere With your long legs And twitching smile under Your blue hat walking Across a place? Or am I greedy to make you up Again out of memory? Graham , Graham was born in Greenock, Scotland. His first book, Cage Without Grievance was published in Er hat's begangen, Er hat's vollbracht! Er baute Tempel Dem Teufel selbst! Es sein die Maler Ihm aufgebrannt! Er hat's begangen, Er ist erkannt! Er ist ein Satan, Die Maske fiel! Sie singen laut ihm Triumph, Triumph! Doch ach, es graut ihm, Wie sehr sie dudeln! Harpy'n besudeln Gesalbtes Haupt. August von Platen , Aus den "Polenliedern".
Mann und Frau gehn durch die Krebsbaracke Der Mann: Bett stinkt bei Bett. Komm, hebe ruhig diese Decke auf. Das Fleisch ist weich und schmerzt nicht. Gottfried Benn - gilt als einer der bedeutendsten deutschen Dichter der literarischen Moderne. Comment Oh ja, ein paar deutschsprachige Lyriker dazu ist auch nicht schlecht. Comment Und wie lautet der Titel zu diesem Gedicht, Phillipp?
Comment Claus, der Titel Deines Gedichts in lautet: Sie ist in mancher Hinsicht gelungen: Die letzten zwei Zeilen sind gut. Aber dann wie kann es ja anders sein? Comment Der alte Lear will abtreten. The Tragedy of King Lear Extract from: Act I, Scene I. Nothing will come of nothing: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your Majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.
Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Happily, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. But goes thy heart with this?
Ay, my good Lord. So young, and so untender? So young, my Lord, and true. Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist, and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever.
The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter. Comment Furcht der Geliebten Cidli, du weinest, und ich schlumre sicher, Wo im Sande der Weg verzogen fortschleicht; Auch wenn stille Nacht ihn umschattend decket, Schlumr' ich ihn sicher.
Inhalt und Form decken sich auch vollkommen. Er war ein junger Schmetterling, Der selig an der Blume hing. Ach Gott, wie das dem Schmetterling So schmerzlich durch die Seele ging.