Sunday, 29 May 2011
New blog
Please go to The mind's sky -- Der Himmel des Geistes--my new blog as of 29 May 2011. I look forward to your visit. Thank you.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
The poet's voice
"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech." --Simonides
Whenever another poet can fathom your poem and hear its music in their mind's ear, it is like two souls resonate for a moment in an intangible world. But when this poet is able to express the meaning and music of your poem with their voice, so that it is heard, it is extraordinary.
Abigail Baker, is one of those talented poets, who engages your mind and heart with her words. You can read her blog here.
She was particularly intrigued by my poem "Letters pronouncing kisses" (previously published on my blog on 27 March 2011), which she rendered beautiful with her vivid voice in a recording, which you can listen to here.
Letters pronouncing kisses
Purse the lips and exhale the air when saying:
Where, which, what, with, whom, whether and why--
The breath of air should extinguish a candle burning.
Tantalise, titillate, scintillate, exhilarate with breath, the lips, like a sigh.
Before baffling and babbling, becoming beloved, and beaming blossom,
Peering into eyes, parting lips, pausing pleasurably, placing lips upon lips,
pulsating with passion, panting, the proof, the promise; then, as smooth as eating a plum,
Most marvellously the meeting of lips, mmmmmmmm, until touching the tongue tips.
Mouth in motion, melting, in momentum with its own miming and rhyming.
Bitter sweet; bitter the marjoram, sweet the cardamom.
Mumbling, fumbling and then the tumbling.
The tongue trembling saying renaissance romance; souls to fathom.
The rising and falling sound song of every diphthong.
Thirsty, hungry and lovelorn; kiss-drenched with love life long.
by
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer
Whenever another poet can fathom your poem and hear its music in their mind's ear, it is like two souls resonate for a moment in an intangible world. But when this poet is able to express the meaning and music of your poem with their voice, so that it is heard, it is extraordinary.
Abigail Baker, is one of those talented poets, who engages your mind and heart with her words. You can read her blog here.
She was particularly intrigued by my poem "Letters pronouncing kisses" (previously published on my blog on 27 March 2011), which she rendered beautiful with her vivid voice in a recording, which you can listen to here.
Letters pronouncing kisses
Purse the lips and exhale the air when saying:
Where, which, what, with, whom, whether and why--
The breath of air should extinguish a candle burning.
Tantalise, titillate, scintillate, exhilarate with breath, the lips, like a sigh.
Before baffling and babbling, becoming beloved, and beaming blossom,
Peering into eyes, parting lips, pausing pleasurably, placing lips upon lips,
pulsating with passion, panting, the proof, the promise; then, as smooth as eating a plum,
Most marvellously the meeting of lips, mmmmmmmm, until touching the tongue tips.
Mouth in motion, melting, in momentum with its own miming and rhyming.
Bitter sweet; bitter the marjoram, sweet the cardamom.
Mumbling, fumbling and then the tumbling.
The tongue trembling saying renaissance romance; souls to fathom.
The rising and falling sound song of every diphthong.
Thirsty, hungry and lovelorn; kiss-drenched with love life long.
by
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Teestunden
Ein Drache durchstreift den blauen Himmel,
aus weiβen Wolkenfetzen locker genäht.
Seinen gelben Bauch von Raps beleuchtet,
auf der Suche nach einer Zauberformel.
Der Kirchenturm durch weites Land steiget,
markant wie ein Gedanke an eine Freundin.
Kaum gedacht und schon sind wir begegnet.
Treffen wir uns gleich? Zu ihrem Haus hin.
Von Tee war erst die Rede, Blätter gewählt,
Grüner Oolong, der Teetrank von Wonne.
Wir saßen lang in der prallen Sonne.
Wir sprachen von Geburt und Fehlgeburt.
Von der Kirchenglocke, Ruhe schmücken,
Von der Stille der Seele spüren reden,
Von Sonnenstich, und dann Regen, flüchten.
Durch die Seelenwälder Trauer wandern.
Die Beerdigung, drüben Spiegel sprach,
Der Geist als weiβer Engel Frieden schimmern,
Kinder leben, und reden lieb und frech,
Deren Ängste, immer wieder kümmern.
Dämonen, zärtlich und ehrlich enthüllt,
Goldenes Vergnügen trotzdem geholt.
Wir malen schon unseren Grabsteinschmutz,
nie sagt es, „Fenster waren schön geputzt.“
von
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer
aus weiβen Wolkenfetzen locker genäht.
Seinen gelben Bauch von Raps beleuchtet,
auf der Suche nach einer Zauberformel.
Der Kirchenturm durch weites Land steiget,
markant wie ein Gedanke an eine Freundin.
Kaum gedacht und schon sind wir begegnet.
Treffen wir uns gleich? Zu ihrem Haus hin.
Von Tee war erst die Rede, Blätter gewählt,
Grüner Oolong, der Teetrank von Wonne.
Wir saßen lang in der prallen Sonne.
Wir sprachen von Geburt und Fehlgeburt.
Von der Kirchenglocke, Ruhe schmücken,
Von der Stille der Seele spüren reden,
Von Sonnenstich, und dann Regen, flüchten.
Durch die Seelenwälder Trauer wandern.
Die Beerdigung, drüben Spiegel sprach,
Der Geist als weiβer Engel Frieden schimmern,
Kinder leben, und reden lieb und frech,
Deren Ängste, immer wieder kümmern.
Dämonen, zärtlich und ehrlich enthüllt,
Goldenes Vergnügen trotzdem geholt.
Wir malen schon unseren Grabsteinschmutz,
nie sagt es, „Fenster waren schön geputzt.“
von
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer
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