Kristina från Duvemåla

Zwei wunderbare Lieder aus „Kristina från Duvemåla“ gesungen von Helen Sjöholm und Peter Jöback

 

 

Du måste finnas

 

Du fördrev mej, Gud från mitt hemland slets jag bort
Här är jag en flykting och en främling , och det ödet finner jag mej i
Men Du tog mitt barn och Du tar mej från min man
Jag kan inte längre se en mening, vad är det Du vill , vad ska jag tro?

 

Tanken är svinlande, framför mej gapar en avgrund
Hela mitt väsen gör uppror och vill säga nej
Frågan är väckt och nu darrar min själ inför svaret
Att Du inte finns till , fast jag trodde på Dej
Vem skulle hjälpa mej uthärda livet här ute?
Vem skulle ge mej den kraften som jag måste få?
Vem skulle trösta mej?, jag är så liten på jorden
Om Du inte fanns till, ja, vad gjorde jag då?

 

Nej, Du måste finnas, Du måste , jag lever mitt liv genom Dej
Utan Dej är jag en spillra på ett mörk och stormigt hav
Du måste finnas, Du måste, hur kan Du då överge mej ?
Jag vore ingenstans , Jag vore ingenting om Du inte fanns

 

Aldrig förut har jag haft det I tal eller tanke
Det lilla ordet som skrämmer och plågar mej så
Ordet är om- om jag bett alla böner förgäves
Om Du inte finns till, vad ska jag göra då ?
Vem skulle känna min ånger och sedan förlåta?
Friden i själen, ja, vem skulle skänka mej den?
Vem skulle så ta emot mej till slut efter döden ?
Om Du inte fanns till vem tog hand om mej sen ?

 

Nej, Du måste finnas, Du måste , jag lever mitt liv genom Dej
Utan Dej är jag en spillra på ett mörk och stormigt hav
Du måste finnas, Du måste, hur kan Du då överge mej ?
Jag vore ingenstans , Jag vore ingenting om Du inte fanns

 

Du måste finnas, Du måste,
Hur kan Du då överge mej ?
Jag vore ingenstans ,
Jag vore ingenting
Om Du inte fanns

 

 

Guldet blev till sand

 

Han kom med mej när jag drog bort den våren
som en hund följde han mej tätt i spåren
Jag var glad åt hans sällskap, när jag sökte Guldets Land
Men Kristina, guldet blev till sand

 

Vi slet ont, ja, allt gott fick vi försaka
Ofta grät han och bad: Ta mej tillbaka!
Men jag vägrade alltid fast jag tvekade ibland
Åh Kristina, guldet blev till sand

 

Han, som var min kamrat, han trodde mitt ord, fast jag redan då,
Såg, att längs denna väg fanns knappast det jag ville nå

 

Över prärien kom vi till en öken
Vi gick vilse och började se spöken
Man gör vatten som porlar,
När ens huvud står i brand
Åh Kristina, guldet blev till sand

 

Jag, som var hans kamrat, jag tog honom över land och hav
Ökenvinden har höljt, ett täcke över hans tysta grav

 

Ur en stinkande källa drack han vatten
Han blev sjuk och gick bort från mej den natten
När hans blick hade slocknat
Då gled klockan ut hans hand

 

Och Kristina, guldet blev till sand
Åh Kristina, guldet blev till sand

Weißer Flieder…

Nass war der Tag – 
Die schwarzen Schnecken krochen – , 
Doch als die Nacht schlich durch die Gärten her, 
Da war der weiße Flieder aufgebrochen, 
Und über alle Mauern hing er schwer. 

Und über alle Mauern tropften leise 
Von bleichen Trauben Tropfen groß und klar, 
Und war ein Duften rings, durch das die Weise 
Der Nachtigall wie Gold geflochten war. 

 

von Börries Freiherr von Münchhausen

 

Would it all make sense?


Sense – by Tom Odell

 

 

Hard to know,
Maybe if I’d skim the stone,
Walk a different way back home,
It would all make sense.
Or shut my eyes,
Could lose myself in teenage lies.
If I fell in love a thousand times,
Would it all make sense?
Cause I, I’m feeling pretty small,
Sometimes feel like I’m slipping down walls
And every line I ever get a hold it seems to break.
Called you up and I could tell you just how much,
No no, maybe I’ll just get drunk
And it will all make sense.
Or if I weren’t so nice,
I convince my friends that you weren’t right
I could promise you my heart won’t cry,
but would it all make sense?
Cause I, I’ve been feeling pretty small,
Sometimes feel like I’m slipping down walls
And every line I ever get a hold it seems to break.
Oh I, I’ve been feeling pretty small,
Sometimes feel like I’m slipping down walls
And every line I ever get a hold it seems to break.

„Das Alte stürzt, es ändert sich die Zeit, und neues Leben blüht aus den Ruinen…“

Die wunderschönen Arbeiten der Künstlerin Lori Nix…

 

 


 

The raven

The raven –
by Edgar Allan Poe

 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,‘ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.‘

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,‘
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,‘ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you‘ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!‘
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!‘
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,‘ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‚Tis the wind and nothing more!‘
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,‘ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!‘
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.‘
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.‘
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.‘
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.‘
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,‘ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of „Never-nevermore.“‚

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.‘
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,‘ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!‘
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.‘
`Prophet!‘ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!‘
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.‘
`Prophet!‘ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?‘
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.‘
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!‘ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!‘
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.‘

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

 

Robinson Crusoe


Schon als Kind liebte ich die Geschichte von Robinson Crusoe. Mein Vater hatte mir oft vor dem Schlafen gehen aus dem Buch vorgelesen und manchmal dachte er sich sogar selbst die Abenteuer aus, die Robinson auf der Insel erlebte und erzählte mir dann jedes Mal eine neue spannende Geschichte.
Auch wenn ich mich Jahre später kaum noch an die Details des Romans erinnern konnte, war doch eine Sache unauslöschlich in meinem Kopf hängen geblieben: Die Faszination für unerforschte Inseln.

 

robinson_crusoe_book_a_p

E10251

Robinson Crusoe als Ebook: hier klicken

 

Ich liebte die Vorstellung selbst auf einer einsamen Insel zu stranden, sie zu erforschen, mir Nahrung zu suchen und eine Hütte aus Palmblättern und Ästen zu bauen.
Später lieh ich mir aus der Bücherei das Hörspiel von Scott O’Dells Buch „Insel der blauen Delfine“ aus. Die Geschichte handelt von zwei Geschwistern die alleine auf einer Insel zurückgelassen werden und dort leben.
Und Nachts träumte ich dann davon, selbst auf dieser Insel herum zu streunen und sie zu meinem Zuhause zu machen.

 

 

Seit diesem Zeitpunkt bin ich in geheimnisvolle Inseln vernarrt und egal was mit diesem Thema zu tun hat, ich will es besitzen. Zum Beispiel das Brettspiel „Robinson Crusoe“ das sich schon in meiner Spielesammlung befindet oder das wunderschöne und melancholische Buch „Der Mann der Inseln liebte“ von David Herbert Lawrence.
Letztendlich bleibt es aber nur ein Traum selbst einmal auf eine geheimnisvolle Insel zu gelangen. Doch egal wo, ob im Ozean oder in der Lagune vor Venedig, ich wünschte ich könnte sie alle erkunden…

 


 

And a new earth


 

CUT TO COMMERCIAL

Ladies and gentlemen,
the world is much larger and stranger than you have been led to believe
there are extraordinary things in your everyday lives
there are hidden treasures in familiar shadows
you have been kept shielded
shielded from the dangerous and untamable world of the actual
we hand it all to you on a plate packaged and pristine
the blandly mass-produced trinkets
the omnipresent corporate cafes
the unchallenging brainless autotuned overprocessed media that fills your screens and airwaves
we’ve anaesthetised you like a Huxleyan Soma
with all the aroma of neatness and control
whilst the disorder of your anarchic nature has been pounding at your soul
we can never be like you
so we reduce you to simplicity
but you have sparks of divinity
you are married to infinity
we make you fear your imperfections
but in fact they are the diamond of your being
and they will always offer unimaginable variations
you have forgotten how to dream
because we have removed it from your language
but there are things inside you that are mysterious and magical and impossible to explain
and if anything cannot be rationally explained then our machines will not compute
you are being watched, my friends
you are taxed livestock
you are numbers on our screens
and you are seeking little other than the peaceful parade of pictures on screens
the tranquil melody of corporate lullaby
this is an invitation
put down your newspapers
turn off your tvs
because there is a war being waged for your minds
and you’re starting to feel scared
you’re starting to forget just how free and powerful you really are
deep inside you there is a roaring fire
that is not cooled by comfort or tamed by fear
a fire that burns in all things
a fire that can drag your fellow beings out of stagnant waters
and re-imagine your world with no leader or station
no grants from rich foundations
a world that is not made of atoms but stories
a world that shifts its shape with every passing daydream that intervenes your daily routines
and the narcotic moments of creative bliss
the bizarre stomach flutterings with the lovers you kiss
the complex structures you devise
and the endless nights shooting stars into your eyes
there are trails of light in your collective dreams
there is sentience in your discarded machines
everything in this world is intoxicating
everything is on fire all the time
and you are bound only by the limits of your imagination everything else will follow
the world will follow
as above so below
a new heaven and a new earth

 

 


Quelle: hitrecord.org

Gunkanjima

Ruinen

Zerfallen seh‘ ich der Paläste Pracht,
Gestürzt, zerstückt der Tempel schlanke Säulen:
In schwachen Resten — welche Zaubermacht!
Und welche Schönheit in entstellten Teilen!
Wo ist der Geist, der ihren Bau erdacht?
Gedankensplitter seh‘ ich nur verweilen…

 

Gunkanjima – Yves Marchand & Romain Meffre

 

Webseite: Marchand & Meffre

 

 

The Dull Flame Of Desire

I Love Your Eyes, My Dear
Their Splendid, Sparkling Fire
When Suddenly You Raise Them So
To Cast A Swift Embracing Glance
Like Lightning Flashing In The Sky
But There’s A Charm That Is Greater Still:
When My Love’s Eyes Are Lowered
When All Is Fired By Passions Kiss
And Through The Downcast Lashes
I See The Dull Flame Of Desire
And Through The Downcast Lashes
I See The Dull Flame Of Desire
by Björk and Antony Hegarty

Wiese


 

Es färbte sich die Wiese grün
Und um die Hecken sah ich blühn,
Tagtäglich sah ich neue Kräuter,
Mild war die Luft, der Himmel heiter.
Ich wußte nicht, wie mir geschah,
Und wie das wurde, was ich sah…
Anne Schwalbe – Wiese XXI-XLVIII