Desiderata (deutsche Übersetzung,in der ursprüngliche Sprache english ist es viel schöner)
Gehe gelassen inmitten von Lärm und Hast
und denke an den Frieden der Stille.
So weit als möglich, ohne dich aufzugeben,
sei auf gutem Fuß mit jedermann.
Sprich deine Wahrheit ruhig und klar aus,
und höre Andere an,
auch wenn sie langweilig und unwissend sind,
denn auch sie haben an ihrem Schicksal zu tragen.
Meide die Lauten und Streitsüchtigen.
Sie verwirren den Geist.
Vergleichst du dich mit anderen,
kannst du hochmütig oder verbittert werden,
denn immer wird es Menschen geben,
die bedeutender oder schwächer sind als du.
Erfreue dich am Erreichten und an deinen Plänen.
Bemühe dich um deinen eigenen Werdegang,
wie bescheiden er auch sein mag;
er ist ein fester Besitz im Wandel der Zeit.
Sei vorsichtig bei deinen Geschäften,
denn die Welt ist voller Betrügerei.
Aber lass deswegen das Gute nicht aus den Augen,
denn Tugend ist auch vorhanden:
Viele streben nach Idealen,
und Helden gibt es überall im Leben.
Sei du selbst.
Täusche vor allem keine falschen Gefühle vor.
Sei auch nicht zynisch, wenn es um Liebe geht,
denn trotz aller Öde und Enttäuschung verdorrt sie nicht,
sondern wächst weiter wie Gras.
Höre freundlich auf den Ratschlag des Alters,
und verzichte mit Anmut auf die Dinge der Jugend.
Stärke die Kräfte deines Geistes,
um dich bei plötzlichem Unglück dadurch zu schützen.
Quäle dich nicht mit Wahnbildern.
Viele Ängste kommen aus Erschöpfung und Einsamkeit.
Bei aller angemessenen Disziplin,
sei freundlich zu dir selbst.
Genau wie die Bäume und Sterne,
so bist auch du ein Kind des Universums.
Du hast ein Recht auf deine Existenz.
Und ob du es verstehst oder nicht,
entfaltet sich die Welt so wie sie soll.
Bleibe also in Frieden mit Gott,
was immer er für dich bedeutet,
und was immer deine Sehnsüchte und Mühen
in der lärmenden Verworrenheit des Lebens seien –
bewahre den Frieden in deiner Seele.
Bei allen Täuschungen, Plackereien und zerronnenen Träumen
ist es dennoch eine schöne Welt.
Sei frohgemut. Strebe danach glücklich zu sein.
von Max Ehrmann
Ausdrücke der innerseel, Lyrik von hier und dort.
Zuletzt geändert von Alket am Di, 29. Jan 2013, 20:33, insgesamt 3-mal geändert.
Re: Lyrisches aus der neuen Heimat...
....aus "Leichenreden"
als sie mit zwanzig
ein kind erwartete
wurde ihr heirat befohlen
als sie geheiratet hatte
wurde ihr verzicht
auf alle studienpläne
befohlen
als sie mit dreissig
noch unternehmungslust zeigte
wurde ihr dienst im hause
befohlen
als sie mit vierzig
noch einmal zu leben versuchte
wurde ihr anstand und tugend
befohlen
als sie mit fünfzig
verbraucht und enttäuscht war
zog ihr mann
zu einer jüngeren frau
liebe gemeinde
wir befehlen zu viel
wir gehorchen zu viel
von Kurt Marti
als sie mit zwanzig
ein kind erwartete
wurde ihr heirat befohlen
als sie geheiratet hatte
wurde ihr verzicht
auf alle studienpläne
befohlen
als sie mit dreissig
noch unternehmungslust zeigte
wurde ihr dienst im hause
befohlen
als sie mit vierzig
noch einmal zu leben versuchte
wurde ihr anstand und tugend
befohlen
als sie mit fünfzig
verbraucht und enttäuscht war
zog ihr mann
zu einer jüngeren frau
liebe gemeinde
wir befehlen zu viel
wir gehorchen zu viel
von Kurt Marti
Re: Ausdrücke der innerseel, Lyrik von hier und dort.
The Crunch
too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and .
virgins.
an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.
who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
"no."
von Charles Bukowski
Crucifix In A Deathhand
yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -
and you know how these look, they do look good
as if you could eat them all
light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.
then it's best to go back to the bars, the same bars
wooden, stale, merciless, green
with the young policeman walking through
scared and looking for trouble,
and the beer is still bad
it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and
decay, and you've got to be strong in the shadows
to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
and the shopping bag between your legs
down there feeling good with its avocados and
oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs
a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
with a film over one eye, who was too fat
and made little silver bells out of cigarette
tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then
although this was probably not
true, and you take your shopping bag
outside and walk along the street
and the green beer hangs there
just above your stomach like
a short and shameful shawl, and
you look around and no longer
see any
old men.
von Charles Bukowski
too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and .
virgins.
an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.
who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
"no."
von Charles Bukowski
Crucifix In A Deathhand
yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -
and you know how these look, they do look good
as if you could eat them all
light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.
then it's best to go back to the bars, the same bars
wooden, stale, merciless, green
with the young policeman walking through
scared and looking for trouble,
and the beer is still bad
it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and
decay, and you've got to be strong in the shadows
to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
and the shopping bag between your legs
down there feeling good with its avocados and
oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs
a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
with a film over one eye, who was too fat
and made little silver bells out of cigarette
tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then
although this was probably not
true, and you take your shopping bag
outside and walk along the street
and the green beer hangs there
just above your stomach like
a short and shameful shawl, and
you look around and no longer
see any
old men.
von Charles Bukowski