Ich sitze am Straßenhang.
Der Fahrer wechselt das Rad.
Ich bin nicht gern, wo ich herkomme.
Ich bin nicht gern, wo ich hinfahre.
Warum sehe ich den Radwechsel
Mit Ungeduld?
Ich sitze am Straßenhang.
Der Fahrer wechselt das Rad.
Ich bin nicht gern, wo ich herkomme.
Ich bin nicht gern, wo ich hinfahre.
Warum sehe ich den Radwechsel
Mit Ungeduld?
Bertolt Brecht
während ich den reifen abmontiere
haut sich der chef auf die wiese, sieht dauernd rüber.
als fahrer verwartest du stunden, warum
wird er nervös wenn er einmal
auf mich warten muss? wenn die panne
ihn zuviel zeit kostet: er
kann mir ja helfen.
The Red
Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
This Is Just To Say
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten,
dass ich so traurig bin;
ein Alptraum aus unseren Zeiten,
der geht mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
Die Luft ist schwül und verdunkelt,
und dreckig fließt der Rhein;
kein Gipfel des Berges funkelt,
was sollt' auch die Sonne sein?
Am Ufer des Rheines sitzt sie,
die deutsche Chemie-Industrie;
dort braut sie gefährliche Gifte,
die Luft macht erstickend sie.
Sie kümmert sich nicht um den Abfall,
der aus ihren Rohren fließt;
wo er in den Rhein sich ergießt.
Dem Schiffer im Tankerschiffe,
ihm macht das Atmen Müh';
er schaut nicht die Felsengriffe,
er schaut nur die dreckige Brüh'.
Ich weiß, die Wellen verschlingen
einst nicht nur Schiffer und Kahn;
und das hat mit ihren Giften
die Industrie getan.
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
William Shakespeare (1564–1616).
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
Hamlet's
Cat's Soliloquy
Shakespaw
To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within? that is the question.
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own free will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision
The Bachelor’s
Soliloquy
Edgar Albert Guest (1881—1959)
To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,
Or to say “nit” when she proposes,
And by declining cut her. To wed; to smoke
No more; And have a wife at home to mend
The holes in socks and shirts
And underwear and so forth. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed for life;
To wed; perchance to fight; ay, there’s the rub;
For in that married life what fights may come,
When we have honeymooning ceased
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
That makes the joy of single life.
For who would bear her mother’s scornful tongue,
Canned goods for tea, the dying furnace fire;
The pangs of sleepless nights when baby cries;
The pain of barking shins upon a chair and
Closing waists that button down the back,
When he himself might all these troubles shirk
With a bare refusal? Who would bundles bear,
And grunt and sweat under a shopping load?
Who would samples match; buy rats for hair,
Cart cheese and crackers home to serve at night
For lunch to feed your friends; play pedro
After tea; sing rag time songs, amusing
Friendly neighbors. Buy garden tools
To lend unto the same. Stay home at nights
In smoking coat and slippers and slink to bed
At ten o’clock to save the light bills?
Thus duty does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of chores;
And thus the gloss of marriage fades away,
And loses its attraction.
Ein gleiches (Wanderers Nachtlied)
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832)
Über allen Gipfeln
ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.
Warte nur! Balde
Ruhest du auch.
Und zwar wie?
Zwischengelagert? Entsorgt?
Und warum DU
nicht SIE?
Ich fange von vorne an
Das klingt viel höflicher dann:
Über allen Gipfeln
ist Euphemie,
In allen Wipfeln
Spüren Sie
kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde
Bitte warten Sie! Balde
Ruhen Sie auch.
(Die Euphemie versteht sich von selbst bei Goethen:
Er sagt ja auch Ruhen
wenn er Sterben meint oder Töten)
Oder lieber nicht ruhig Blut?
Also gut, mit etwas mehr Wut:
Unter allen Wipfeln
fließt Blut,
In allen Heuchlern
spürest du
kaum einen Jammerlaut!
Die Vögelein menscheln im Walde.
Gipfle nur! Balde
watest du auch
im Blut.
IT was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Samuel Brown
Phoebe Cary (1824-1871)
It was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsman came
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling-house,
In a street quite up in town.
The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,
Of many far wiser than we, -
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
For the morn never shines without bringing me lines
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
Er ist's
Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)
Frühling läßt sein blaues Band
Wieder flattern durch die Lüfte;
Süße, wohlbekannte Düfte
Streifen ahnungsvoll das Land
Veilchen träumen schon,
Wollen balde kommen.
-Horch, von fern ein leiser Harfenton!
Frühling, ja du bist's!
Dich hab'ich vernommen!
mörike schenkte dem frühling
ein blaues band
der aber hat sich damit
aufgehängt.
aus verzweiflung über die
umweltverschmutzung
Das blaue Band, wie Mörike
es sah
Rainer Brambach (1917-1983)
Das blaue Band, wie Mörike es sah,
flatternd in den Lüften, wo?
ich sehe einen Kondensstreifen
quer über den Himmel gezogen -
aber die Amsel ist abends immer da
auf dem First gegenüber singt sie ihr Lied
unsäglich -
She Dwelt
Among the Untrodden Ways
William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850)
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
He Liv'd
amidst th'Untrodden Ways
Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849)
He liv'd amidst th'untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;
A bard whom there were none to praise,
And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works - his 'Milk White Doe'
With dust is dark and dim;
It's still in Longman's shop, and oh!
The difference to him!
Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär
Anonym
Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär,
Und auch zwei Flüglein hätt,
Flög ich zu dir;
Weil's aber nicht kann sein,
Bleib ich allhier.
Bin ich gleich weit von dir,
Bin ich doch im Schlaf bei dir
Und red mit dir;
Wenn ich erwachen tu,
Bin ich allein.
Es vergeht keine Stund in der Nacht,
Da mein Herz nicht erwacht,
Und an dich gedenkt,
Dass du mir viel tausendmal
Dein Herze geschenkt.
Wenn ich zwei Vöglein wär
Und auch vier Flügel hätt,
Flög die eine Hälfte zu dir.
Und die andere, die ging auch zu Bett,
Aber hier zu Haus bei mir.
Wenn ich einen Flügel hätt
Und gar kein Vöglein wär,
Verkaufte ich ihn dir
Und kaufte mir dafür ein Klavier.
Wenn ich kein Flügel wär
(Linker Flügel beim Militär)
Und auch keinen Vogel hätt,
Flog ich zu dir.
Da's aber nicht kann sein,
Bleib ich im eignen Bett
Allein zu zwein.
Die Forelle
Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart (1739-1791)
In einem Bächlein helle,
Da schoß in froher Eil
Die launige Forelle
Vorüber wie ein Pfeil.
Ich stand an dem Gestade
Und sah in süßer Ruh
Des muntern Fisches Bade
Im klaren Bächlein zu.
Ein Fischer mit der Rute
Wohl an dem Ufer stand
Und sah's mit kaltem Blute,
Wie sich das Fischlein wand.
So lang dem Wasser Helle,
So dacht ich, nicht gebricht,
So fängt er die Forelle
Mit seiner Angel nicht.
Doch endlich ward dem Diebe
Die Zeit zu lang. Er macht
Das Bächlein tückisch trübe,
Und eh’ ich es gedacht,
So zuckte seine Rute,
Das Fischlein zappelt d’ran,
Und ich mit regem Blute
Sah die Betrogene an.