August 8th, 2020

grün

утопия

Приснилось, что я живу в Священной Римской Империи Германской Нации. Только это не поздний христианский Рим, а древний - республика, но при этом он в Германии находится и вместо римлян - высокие светлые немцы в белых туниках по улицам ходят)))

Вокруг классическая строгая архитектура, как на макетах Шпеера (архитектор Гитлера), улицы аккуратно замощены булыжником...

Только аристократы ходят не по каменным мостовым (как остальной плебс) а по специальным водным тротуарам, проложенным рядом, в которых плещется чистая вода, сантиметра 2 глубиной, не более.

У аристократов это считается самым шиком - шлепать по воде))) А плебс пускай по сухому топает.

Наверное, это потому что они даосы, подумал я по пробуждению, а водные дорожки "Путь воды" символизируют.

Еще (подумалось по пробуждению), это было похоже скорее не на реальный Рим или Грецию, а на Идеальное Государство по Платону или Атлантиду.
grün

(no subject)

"Which at once calls to mind a passage from Thoreau:

I saw the setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood. Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble hall. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and shining family had settled there … unknown to me, — to whom the sun was servant,—who had not gone into society in the village, — who had not been called on. I saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through the wood…. The pines furnished them with gables as they grew. Their house was not obvious to vision; the trees grew through it. I do not know whether I heard the sounds of a suppressed hilarity or not. They seemed to recline on the sunbeams. They have sons and daughters. They are quite well. The farmer’s cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not in the least put them out, as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes seen through the reflected skies. They … do not know that he is their neighbor, — notwithstanding I heard him whistle as he drove his team through the house. Nothing can equal the serenity of their lives. Their coat of arms is simply a lichen. I saw it painted on the pines and oaks. Their attics were in the tops of the trees. They are of no politics. There was no noise of labor. I did not perceive that they were weaving or spinning. Yet I did detect, when the wind lulled and hearing was done away, the finest imaginable sweet musical hum, — as of a distant hive in May, which perchance was the sound of their thinking. They had no idle thoughts, and no one without could see their work, for their industry was not as in knots and excrescences embayed."

(Tao. The Watercourse Way - Alan Watts)
grün

Mary Oliver

Why I Wake Early
by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety–

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light–
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

🌿


Warum ich früh aufwache

🌿

I worried
by Mary Oliver

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

---
открыл для себя интересного американского автора - Mary Oliver
пишет очень простые, ясные, какие-то даже даосистские я бы сказал по духу стихи)))
котоыре даже новичку в английском могут быть понятны.
самое знаменитое ее стихотворение - wild geese...

Мэри Оливер (англ. Mary Oliver, 1935—2019) — американская поэтесса. Лауреат Пулитцеровской премии 1984 года за поэтический сборник «Американский примитивизм» (American Primitive). Лауреат Национальной книжной премии 1992 года за сборник «Новые и избранные стихотворения» (New and Selected Poems). В 2007 году литературный критик «Нью-Йорк таймс» назвал Оливер далеко всех обошедшей по продаваемости произведений американской поэтессой... (вики)



05:40
But one thing I do know is that a poetry to be understand must be clear. It mustn't be fancy.
...I always feel that whatever isn't necessary should not be in the poem.