tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11020749040926791692024-02-08T09:42:30.246-08:00In the write mind.©Copyright Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2010-2011Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-29301707391874364382011-05-29T05:16:00.000-07:002011-06-13T15:14:39.766-07:00New blogPlease go to <a href="http://themindssky.wordpress.com/">The mind's sky -- Der Himmel des Geistes</a>--my new blog as of 29 May 2011. I look forward to your visit. Thank you.Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-34543230575000652422011-05-25T12:10:00.000-07:002011-05-25T12:17:44.626-07:00The poet's voice<i>"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech." --Simonides</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Abigail Baker, is one of those talented poets, who engages your mind and heart with her words. You can read her blog <a href="http://thelinnet.blogspot.com/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://the-linnet.tumblr.com/post/5806036797/letters-pronouncing-kisses-it-is-with-great">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>Letters pronouncing kisses</b><br />
<br />
Purse the lips and exhale the air when saying:<br />
Where, which, what, with, whom, whether and why--<br />
The breath of air should extinguish a candle burning.<br />
Tantalise, titillate, scintillate, exhilarate with breath, the lips, like a sigh.<br />
<br />
Before baffling and babbling, becoming beloved, and beaming blossom,<br />
Peering into eyes, parting lips, pausing pleasurably, placing lips upon lips,<br />
pulsating with passion, panting, the proof, the promise; then, as smooth as eating a plum,<br />
Most marvellously the meeting of lips, mmmmmmmm, until touching the tongue tips.<br />
<br />
Mouth in motion, melting, in momentum with its own miming and rhyming.<br />
Bitter sweet; bitter the marjoram, sweet the cardamom.<br />
Mumbling, fumbling and then the tumbling.<br />
The tongue trembling saying renaissance romance; souls to fathom.<br />
<br />
The rising and falling sound song of every diphthong.<br />
Thirsty, hungry and lovelorn; kiss-drenched with love life long.<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-34344060883474330022011-05-19T14:28:00.000-07:002011-06-15T09:04:15.988-07:00TeestundenEin Drache durchstreift den blauen Himmel,<br />
aus weiβen Wolkenfetzen locker genäht.<br />
Seinen gelben Bauch von Raps beleuchtet,<br />
auf der Suche nach einer Zauberformel.<br />
<br />
Der Kirchenturm durch weites Land steiget,<br />
markant wie ein Gedanke an eine Freundin.<br />
Kaum gedacht und schon sind wir begegnet.<br />
Treffen wir uns gleich? Zu ihrem Haus hin.<br />
<br />
Von Tee war erst die Rede, Blätter gewählt,<br />
Grüner Oolong, der Teetrank von Wonne.<br />
Wir saßen lang in der prallen Sonne. <br />
Wir sprachen von Geburt und Fehlgeburt.<br />
<br />
Von der Kirchenglocke, Ruhe schmücken,<br />
Von der Stille der Seele spüren reden,<br />
Von Sonnenstich, und dann Regen, flüchten.<br />
Durch die Seelenwälder Trauer wandern.<br />
<br />
Die Beerdigung, drüben Spiegel sprach,<br />
Der Geist als weiβer Engel Frieden schimmern, <br />
Kinder leben, und reden lieb und frech, <br />
Deren Ängste, immer wieder kümmern.<br />
<br />
Dämonen, zärtlich und ehrlich enthüllt,<br />
Goldenes Vergnügen trotzdem geholt.<br />
Wir malen schon unseren Grabsteinschmutz,<br />
nie sagt es, „Fenster waren schön geputzt.“<br />
<br />
von <br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-28889052784162898612011-03-27T12:38:00.000-07:002011-03-27T13:15:42.958-07:00Letters pronouncing kissesPurse the lips and exhale the air when saying:<br />
Where, which, what, with, whom, whether and why--<br />
The breath of air should extinguish a candle burning.<br />
Tantalise, titillate, scintillate, exhilarate with breath, the lips, like a sigh.<br />
<br />
Before baffling and babbling, becoming beloved, and beaming blossom,<br />
Peering into eyes, parting lips, pausing pleasurably, placing lips upon lips,<br />
pulsating with passion, panting, the proof, the promise; then, as smooth as eating a plum,<br />
Most marvellously the meeting of lips, mmmmmmmm, until touching the tongue tips.<br />
<br />
Mouth in motion, melting, in momentum with its own miming and rhyming.<br />
Bitter sweet; bitter the marjoram, sweet the cardamom.<br />
Mumbling, fumbling and then the tumbling.<br />
The tongue trembling saying renaissance romance; souls to fathom.<br />
<br />
The rising and falling sound song of every diphthong.<br />
Thirsty, hungry and lovelorn; kiss-drenched with love life long.<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-20140284340950537392011-03-17T07:07:00.000-07:002011-03-17T07:07:48.620-07:00Life is like a row of dominoesLife is like a row of dominoes. Everybody places them. Some have good motives and some don't. But, when one event kick-starts the domino effect, all sorts of things happen that you cannot blame on anybody in particular, because we are all connected some way or another in a very complex, and sometimes ironic, web.<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-15633809776636178422011-03-06T08:40:00.000-08:002011-03-06T08:40:03.643-08:00RespectHave no fear when thine spear is near,<br />
but be gracious and sincere,<br />
heart to heart, eye to eye, and ear to ear,<br />
and never veer to the rear.<br />
<br />
Be a warrior on the frontier,<br />
defend what is dear, and confront here,<br />
turning only when all is clear,<br />
shake hands in triumph and cheer.<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer<br />
<br />
November 2009Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-41945510196339692082011-02-23T02:41:00.000-08:002011-03-06T08:38:52.556-08:00A star for youOur feet sinking softly on the white sands,<br />
of the peninsula's carbonate shore,<br />
our loving clasping hands,<br />
we all of each other so adore.<br />
<br />
Walking on land that the Miocene Epoch brought,<br />
where rock is ground offshore, onshore and alongshore, <br />
for each other we are fraught,<br />
with gems of heart and mind, loving to explore more and more.<br />
<br />
The ocean tide gently rippling o'er our feet,<br />
and Helios gently kissing our skin aglow,<br />
when we're together, all is so complete,<br />
and our feelings and thoughts simply flow.<br />
<br />
The ocean air caressing our senses,<br />
the sound of waves falling and nearing<br />
the ocean mists on our cool skin condenses,<br />
despite passions deep within us searing.<br />
<br />
When Uranus is farthest from our Earth,<br />
we shall stride together in harmony,<br />
basking in each other's mirth,<br />
rivalling even the holiest matrimony.<br />
<br />
At sunset, one of the gentlest kisses we shall share,<br />
to each other we are eternally drawn,<br />
resting upon our shoulders all of my longer hair,<br />
until, emerging in the sky, the son of the Titanic goddess of dawn.<br />
<br />
Hesperus, the evening star, mirroring our own beaming,<br />
and later the waxing moon visits,<br />
touching each other, proof of our not dreaming.<br />
Eos, with her rosy fingers fidgets.<br />
<br />
She opens the gates of heaven,<br />
so that Apollo can ride his chariot across the sky,<br />
the beauty of the night to us god-given,<br />
our exquisite love as perfect as infinity and pi.<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-46262205040605046712011-02-17T01:21:00.000-08:002011-02-17T01:21:42.766-08:00Mein GedankenabenteuerDer Geruch von Graphit und Holz.<br />
Der sanfte Klang von Gekritzel auf Papier<br />
hörbar über dem Summen der Fliegen<br />
und getrennt von dem Ticken der Uhr.<br />
<br />
Die Stille dazwischen ist erkennbar<br />
wie die Vakuumräume zwischen Atomen der Materie.<br />
Wenn ich mich noch mehr konzentrieren könnte<br />
würde ich den Klang der Gedanken hören.<br />
<br />
Mit jedem Atemzug von ruhiger Luft<br />
und jeden Strahl von Sonnenlicht auf meinen Augen,<br />
ist den Gehirn angetrieben.<br />
Und dann ein Seufzer—das Produkt der Gedanken ausgeatmet.<br />
<br />
Gedanken unterbrechen die enorme Stille.<br />
Jeder Gedanke, pur und ungetrübt.<br />
Nervenzellen von diversen zerebralen Räumen<br />
finden einen Weg sich klar zu verbinden.<br />
<br />
Dieser Einsamkeit ermöglicht die Freude<br />
mit der ich immer tiefer in der Mathematik eintauchen.<br />
Bei jeder Ebene tauscht man durch Abstraktion<br />
das Konkrete für mentale Mobilität.<br />
<br />
Zahlen werden eigentlich weniger.<br />
Es handelt sich mehr über symbolisierter Ideen und Zusammenhängen.<br />
Das Abenteuer ist das Finden eines Weges von etwas Bekanntem<br />
durch das Unbekannte vielleicht zurück zu einem anderen Bekannten.<br />
<br />
von<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer<br />
<br />
31 August 2009Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-15761362929179111182011-02-07T11:03:00.000-08:002011-02-07T11:03:42.922-08:00The finest gold is in our hearts to holdFractal divine trees defining the horizon,<br />
Silhouetted black against the golden glow of eventide,<br />
With Helios, most precious liaison,<br />
To thee, god of sun, I abide.<br />
<br />
I forfeit the splendour of landscape colour, to glory in your gold,<br />
So colourful your glory, backscattered circular in the fine mist,<br />
Handsome Titan with shining halo I so dearly behold,<br />
The depths of my soul feel so kissed.<br />
<br />
So precious is this, within us the alchemist<br />
Strives to distill this divine elixir,<br />
Contain it in flagons, so that in darkness we spray its mist,<br />
In our illusion that we could harness the powers of Excalibur.<br />
<br />
We crave its tangibility and bow to Khrysos, god of gold,<br />
The metal, cold to hold, soft and noble, brilliantly gleams,<br />
Mining deep the dark earth for its treasures gold, toiling hard and bold,<br />
To all our material urges quelling it seems.<br />
<br />
But those that greed to own it, possessing<br />
like Midas, that everything turn golden that he touches,<br />
becoming starved of what truly is nurturing and progressing,<br />
and for the antithesis thereafter he beseeches.<br />
<br />
Pindar says of gold: “…neither moth nor rust devoureth it;<br />
But the mind of man is devoured by this supreme possession.”<br />
The dark Brocken spectre is but a shadow of a summit unlit,<br />
No gold that we in our hands can hold can defy the darkness demon procession.<br />
<br />
We seek and seek, seeking the philosopher’s stone,<br />
As we seek, we perpetuate our torment,<br />
For the jewel of happiness is realized in the serenity of being alone,<br />
And in not seeking, and not grasping; by letting be, inviting enlightenment.<br />
<br />
Redemption of Midas’ curse,<br />
The river sands turn to gold,<br />
Making light the purse,<br />
So that light can fill the heart of fortunes untold.<br />
<br />
Facing our darkness demons ,<br />
Having the courage to be with the pain,<br />
Summoning the wealth of our acumens,<br />
To liberate us from being possessed by demons of gain.<br />
<br />
Having gratitude for time and fortitude for patience,<br />
Helios will again ride his chariot across Theia’s canvas,<br />
Without suffering we could not be granted our sentience,<br />
Without blackness we cannot know lightness.<br />
<br />
But even in the darkness of the universe,<br />
Selene brings the sun’s light from other people’s day,<br />
In her silver chariot, dragon-pulled, across the sky she will traverse,<br />
And stars twinkle their old light, red, blue and gold, from far far away.<br />
<br />
Often we will be embraced by Helios on one side and Selene on the other,<br />
And then she radiates Helios’ glory to us in the dark,<br />
Reflecting the beauty of her brother, who is illuminating the beauty of their mother,<br />
But she will cycle herself between us and her brother, and be dark.<br />
<br />
When we are embraced by her, she will end her journey spectacular,<br />
On the horizon, all her beautiful cratered features bathed in the pink of dawning,<br />
Solar gold splendour like a rose unfolding, rays through clouds heavenly crepuscular,<br />
And the day is born to us, all its possibilities to us yawning.<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer<br />
<br />
13 December 2009Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-75057255858249741202011-01-28T00:24:00.000-08:002011-01-28T00:24:32.083-08:00Timeless raptureYou enchant me with melodic Escher staircases,<br />
scintillating all the way up my spine into my brain.<br />
I walk around in bewilderment so that again I have to tie my shoe laces.<br />
Brilliant and powerful and passionate, perfect is the harmony train.<br />
<br />
Where the notes play a strange kind of algebra;<br />
the rich tonality echoes like a rainbow in my mind,<br />
displacing even the darkest of shadow in the mind’s umbra,<br />
where music, poetry and mathematics are intertwined.<br />
<br />
Colour and light expanding mind, making room for geometrical thought,<br />
and causing a riot with my passionate sensibilities,<br />
evoking true love to be sought,<br />
calculating all the probabilities and possibilities.<br />
<br />
That your music has lived on,<br />
that your compositions can make thine spirit alive in me,<br />
even though thou art long gone,<br />
that still today it can be.<br />
<br />
Even though your heart is in an urn, in a pillar, in a church,<br />
and no longer beating in your ribcage, in your handsome frame,<br />
but in the ears of the mind of the beholder’s search,<br />
your music lights mine heart aflame.<br />
<br />
It teleports me into the past, at a time when Delacroix painted us together,<br />
where I was an imposter in a man’s world,<br />
freeing myself from all forms of tether,<br />
so that my spirit could be unfurled.<br />
<br />
In the dress of men I was free and unrestrained,<br />
men’s clothes aside I was such a womanly woman,<br />
your melodies unchained.<br />
So remarkable was our acumen.<br />
<br />
I, a French novelist,<br />
imparting the first kiss,<br />
always looking forward to our tryst.<br />
I was the love of your life; eternal is this bliss.<br />
<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-86547647836353438232011-01-21T04:58:00.000-08:002011-01-21T04:58:13.666-08:00InspireWhat it is, to inspire,<br />
reaching up to the skies,<br />
powerful spear structure,<br />
beautifully starred spire?<br />
<br />
What does out of this arise,<br />
tis not a guise,<br />
but sublime allure,<br />
sovereign rise?<br />
<br />
What gives to assure,<br />
speaking words wise,<br />
there is a cure,<br />
lofty aims for sure?<br />
<br />
What it is to infuse,<br />
gazing soul's eyes,<br />
golden azure,<br />
hearts and minds fuse?<br />
<br />
by <br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer<br />
<br />
21 July 2009Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-9092826091641402442011-01-13T23:37:00.000-08:002011-03-27T12:46:00.588-07:00Tea of lifeLament lament — my beautiful little Taiwanese teapot.<br />
What it meant? In it steeped leaves of tea — elixir for my sleepy soul,<br />
waking heaven frontiers — from clay, mindfully wrought.<br />
Breaking after seven years — seeped tears — an err from a blinded soul.<br />
<br />
Every morning — this ritual of mine.<br />
Grievously mourning — scattered unseen shards — amongst the stench of trash.<br />
Potion it contained — virtual shrine.<br />
Notion explained — badgered sheen in cosmic graveyards — for it is now proverbial ash.<br />
<br />
Exclaim delight! I discover something peculiar.<br />
Ending plight — Japanese, beautiful little teapot — within, a scaffolding mesh.<br />
Special pot — handle and spout, perpendicular.<br />
Thrilled at my lot — ease this has brought — restoring the flesh.<br />
<br />
New passage — this middle path taken. <br />
Knew the sage — a new leaf turned — fresh leaves to brew<br />
Gleam in sight — in my new-found enchanted haven.<br />
Glean insight — lessons of life learned — finding what is true.<br />
<br />
by <br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-Gutzmer <br />
<br />
22 August 2009Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-16905702742102266932010-12-10T03:56:00.000-08:002011-05-22T09:34:35.329-07:00Ten things I love about GermanyI had the great privilege to get to know a very sincere and dynamic German woman by the name of Christine Hartmann. A golden opportunity arose, where as a South African I could write about what I love about Germany. This article is featured on her website, which she created as a networking platform to promote women entrepreneurs and professionals. I invite you to <a href="http://frauenmesse.com/blog/3-newsflash/124-ten-things-i-love-about-germany-by-quirina-roode-gutzmer.html/">Frauenmesse.com</a> to read my article. If you would like to leave a comment about the article, you are very welcome to do so here (below).Quirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102074904092679169.post-657140221692769852010-12-02T12:36:00.000-08:002011-11-10T13:22:08.900-08:00All about pheeMJ was what Transistorians called him, which was short for Master of Jugudzi. He found himself at a junction of sorts in the middle of nowhere with a multitude of high-tech highways crossing over this way and that. He didn’t exactly know where he was, because the satellite signal to his GPS system was interrupted. Consulting his e-map was only something he would consider if the adventure turned epic. <br />
<br />
He stood in a queue and experienced time-perception failure. His gaze roamed along the floor trying to discern patterns on the tiled floor, but alas this was in vain. There were lots of people around him, but they were not as interesting as the floor. He was aware of someone behind him and someone in front of him. Too close to him. Nobody looked at him. He looked at nobody. There was a kind of minimal stranger acknowledgement. People were just here to get phee—a beverage, bitter tasting, but addictively consumed because of the alkapheeloid content. The food was not really important.<br />
<br />
Despite diminished neuronal activity in his cranium, he was in a unique position to contemplate life, which took the form of surveying the behaviour of the woman who took the orders and operated the cash register. He had plenty of time to decide his order and prepare his speech logistics before it became his turn. He found that this minimised the chances of being misunderstood and possibly sparing him some social agony. She was the same as everybody else and made no eye contact. He was just a number, like one of the highways. He was strangely aware of the fact that she would never see him again and that he would never see her again and nobody seemed to care about that.<br />
<br />
The moment he could establish the group symmetry of the patterns on the floor, he knew that the phee was authentic. Other things that mattered suddenly started to occur to him, like the fact that his vehicle needed to be refuelled. He also made the conclusion that he needed to leave as soon as possible, because under no circumstances did he want to remain in this anonymous state.<br />
<br />
MJ was different to other Transistorians, who were known to have a fetish for electronics, whereas he was dead set on learning how to do the programming of robots. And this was the reason for his mission. He spent a very productive day at a workshop and was feeling particularly pleased with himself, because he now knew how to program his robot to climb a particularly knotty kind of tree. He had had this idea to program a robot to harvest the oval-shaped fruit of a Pheetum tree. His simulation project resulted in a yield of 82.6 % of fruit harvested. Soon he would test his robot in the field on a real Pheetum tree.<br />
<br />
Celebration was in order, he thought, and called up his friend Vortius, who he met at a local bar.<br />
<br />
“So, which route did you take this time, MJ?” Vortius enquired curiously.<br />
<br />
“Don’t really know the sequence of highways, but I did end up in this weird junction place.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, the one where everybody makes no eye contact.”<br />
<br />
“Ye-hes?”<br />
<br />
MJ wriggled uncomfortably on his bar stool.<br />
<br />
“I hope you didn’t drink any of their phee.”<br />
<br />
MJ did not like where this was going. He considered for a while what this might mean, because there was a brand of phee that was recently taken off the shelves, because the Shuranigans put a particular cockroach poison in it to get it to look the right kind of brown (to make it look like coffee—the stuff humans used to drink thousands of years ago). This poison contained a neurotoxin, which accumulates within brain tissue, and then slowly over many years releases a weird chemical that results in irreversible neurological damage manifesting as extreme paranoia.<br />
<br />
“I had to. There was no way out of there without the alkapheeloid. Why?”<br />
<br />
“A lot of people died because of that pfee.”<br />
<br />
“Fyghee joly hownosis!”<br />
<br />
Colour drained from MJ’s face like a shocked chameleon on white paper. He worried about neurotoxins. He worried about his brain. He worried a lot about paranoia. Eventually he got paranoid about paranoia. He stared at Vortius, dreading what he would say next.<br />
<br />
“It wasn’t fair trade pfee. That’s why.”<br />
<br />
He gloried in his relief for a while. No neurotoxins, he thought, breathing out heavily.<br />
<br />
“People died?” <br />
<br />
“Don’t you remember? This news made it to the Galactic Times. The Golon people were colonised by the Ubanites, and they were ruthless MJ. They surgically removed their digits if they didn’t harvest enough nuts from the Pheetum trees, which the Ubanites then used to brew phee.”<br />
<br />
“Where was I when this happened? How come I don’t know this?”<br />
<br />
“If you thought that was bad, you should hear the rest of the story. What the Ubanites did not realise is that upon their blades were traces of a strange kind of bacteria, to which the Ubanites had no immunity whatsoever. They had no antibiotics either. Their wounds went septic, and they died a most terrible death.”<br />
<br />
MJ started convulsing, eventually falling off his bar stool. Vortius had seen this happen before. MJ suffered an apoplectic fit, involving exclusively his conscience. Once he came round he considered what a privilege he had of a fine unadulterated brain, because he didn’t drink the stuff with the neurotoxins in it (because that time he had read the newspaper), and that he was now in the position to contemplate his complicity in the mass murder of all those Golons.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me, Vortius, do you think it is too late for me to projectile vomit that stuff out of my liver.”<br />
<br />
<br />
by<br />
<br />
Quirina Roode-GutzmerQuirinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16452348531020187202noreply@blogger.com10