Poetry, April 8

In honor of the fact that I couldn't find Beyond Good and Evil this morning when trying to write my Nietzsche short draft, here is his poem from the end of that book. From Friedrich Nietzsche:



Aftersong: From High Mountains
O noon of life! A time to celebrate!
Oh garden of summer!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting:—
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time!

Was it not for you that the glacier's grayness
today decked itself with roses?
The stream is seeking you, and wind and clouds
with yearning push themselves higher into the blue today
to look for you from the furthest bird's eye view.

For you my table has been set at the highest point.
Who lives so near the stars?
Who's so near the furthest reaches of the bleak abyss?
My realm—what realm has stretched so far?
And my honey—who has tasted that? . . .

There you are, my friends!—Alas, so I'm not the man,
not the one you're looking for?
You hesitate, surprised!—Ah, your anger would be better!
Am I no more the one? A changed hand, pace, and face?
And what am I—for you friends am I not the one?

Have I become another? A stranger to myself?
Have I sprung from myself?
A wrestler who overcame himself so often?
Too often pulling against his very own power,
wounded and checked by his own victory?

I looked where the wind blows most keenly?
I learned to live
where no one lives, in deserted icy lands,
forgot men and god, curse and prayer?
Became a ghost that moves over the glaciers?

—You old friends! Look! Now your gaze is pale,
full of love and horror!
No, be off! Do not rage! You can't live here:
here between the furthest realms of ice and rock—
here one must be a hunter, like a chamois.

I've become a wicket hunter! See, how deep
my bow extends!
It was the strongest man who made such a pull—
Woe betide you! The arrow is dangerous—
like no arrow—away from here! For your own good! . . .

You're turning around?—O heart, you deceive enough,
your hopes stayed strong:
hold your door open for new friends!
Let the old ones go! Let go the memory!
Once you were young, now—you are even younger!

What bound us then, a band of one hope—
who reads the signs,
love once etched there—still pale?
I compare it to parchment which the hand
fears to touch—like that discoloured, burned.

No more friends—they are . . . But how can I name that?—
Just friendly ghosts!
That knocks for me at night on my window and my heart,
that looks at me and says, "But we were friends?"—
—O shrivelled word, once fragrant as a rose!

O youthful longing which misunderstands itself!
Those yearned for,
whom I imagined changed to my own kin,
they have grown old, have exiled themselves.
Only the one who changes stays in touch with me.

O noon of life! A second youthful time!
O summer garden!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting!
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time

The song is done—the sweet cry of yearning
died in my mouth:
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,
a noontime friend—no! Do not ask who it might be—
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . .

Now we celebrate, certain of victory, united,
the feast of feasts:
friend Zarathustra came, the guest of guests!
Now the world laughs, the horror curtain splits,
the wedding came for light and darkness . . . .

a post of many things!

1) So, in the song "Bad Romance," which I love a lot and which you should listen to, she repeats the line "I don't wanna be friends" multiple times.

Having listened to the song, do you think this line refers to
a) the fact that she wanted a solely sexual relationship
or
b) the fact that they are friends but she wants to be more?

I am doing an informal poll, and your input is welcome.


2) I wrote my Nietzsche paper in an hour (literally) and then lo and behold my knee started going all crazy on me and my good knee started tickling and so I ended up emailing the paper in and sitting on my futon with an ice pack, WOE.


3) I have grown very attached to this cover of Coldplay's "The Scientist," in a "I listen to this over and over again and want to write."


4) Speaking of writing, this is me NOT starting my post-season-3 Katara fic that I spent three hours plotting the other night with nessismore. (Y'all, I hit all the plot points. I even, like, made decisions, where normally I just keep changing it over and over in my head--I had to pick and go.) I really ought to go ahead and get the prologue down before I forget it.


5) I haven't talked about my life in forever, but I haven't really had any crazy adventures or done anything particularly fun lately. I mean, I've had fun, but I've also had a lot of long conversations that amount to "I am screwed once I leave this institution," and that's just not much fun to talk about.


6) A Room with a View is up on YouTube in its entirety, JUST SAYING, if you want to celebrate mah birfday the way I will be celebrating it. (Singing along to "O Mio Babbino Caro" is optional but encouraged. Bonus points if you can do a crazy operatic soprano not-glissando between those two syllables of "bello.")


7) Sophos's face is up, and it is appropriately pretty.


8) Idk, is there anything y'all want to hear about from me?


9) I took Pictash into the creative writing club and they liked him! (He is the singer in this post.)


10) As for that icon meme everyone's been doing, here's my answers from September. (Not!surprise: my answers are mostly the same.)


♥

Poetry, April 9

idk, blame my Facebook news feed, or farens, or the website with a limited number of poems to pick from, or the fact that I'm really tired, but here is a your poem for today, from Edna St. Vincent Millay:





The Betrothal
Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad,
And love me if you like.
I shall not hear the door shut
Nor the knocker strike.

Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts,
And wed me if you will.
I'd make a man a good wife,
Sensible and still.

And why should I be cold, my lad,
And why should you repine,
Because I love a dark head
That never will be mine?

I might as well be easing you
As lie alone in bed
And waste the night in wanting
A cruel dark head.

You might as well be calling yours
What never will be his,
And one of us be happy.
There's few enough as is.