Nemesis

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
   Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
   I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
   When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
   Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
   Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
   That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
   Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
   And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
   That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
   That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
   I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
   Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
   At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
   The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
   I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
   Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
   The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
   When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
   And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
   Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
   Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
   I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

by H.P. Lovecraft

 

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Und die Engel waren voller Zorn, denn Gott hatte sie den Menschen untergeordnet.
Da folgten die Engel dem Beispiel Luzifers
und rebellierten gegen die Heerscharen des Erzengels Michael.
Und im Himmel ertönte zum zweiten Mal der Lärm einer gewaltigen Schlacht.

Und es wird sein eine dunkle Seele. Diese Seele verschlingt andere dunkle Seelen
und wird ihr dunkles Erbe antreten.
Kein Engel beherbert diese Seele, aber ein Mensch, ein Kämpfer und Schlächter

(God's Army)

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Rotkäppchen

Es war einmal ein Mädchen, das hatte seine Mutter 7 lange Jahre nicht
gesehen. Man hatte dem Mädchen ein Kleid aus Eisen angezogen und man
sagte ihm fortwährend: "Du darfst Deine Mutter erst wieder in die Arme
schließen, wenn das Kleid völlig verschlissen ist."

Von nun an rieb das Mädchen das Kleid an der harten Wand aus
Mauerstein, um es so abzunutzen.

Endlich brach das Kleid auseinander. Da besorgte sich das Mädchen ein
wenig Milch und Brot, ein Stückchen Käse und Butter.

Auf dem langen Weg zu seiner Mutter traf das Mädchen im tiefen dunklen
Wald den Wolf.

"Was hast Du in Deinem Körbchen?" fragte der Wolf.

Das Mädchen antwortete: "Ein wenig Milch und Brot, ein Stückchen Käse
und Butter."

Der Wolf fragte: "Kannst Du mir etwas davon abgeben?"

"Nein. Sonst ist es für ein Geschenk zu wenig."
So lehnte sie die Bitte des Wolfes ab.

Der Wolf fragte das Mädchen, welchen Weg es von den beiden nehmen
würde, den Weg aus Stecknadeln oder den Weg aus Reiszwecken.

"Ich nehme den Weg aus Reiszwecken."

So eilte der Wolf auf dem Weg aus Stecknadeln zum Haus der Mutter und
fraß diese auf.

Bald darauf kam auch das Mädchen zum Hause der Mutter.

"Mutter! Ich bin es, mach mir auf!"

"Ich bin zu schwach. Drück einfach die Tür auf, sie ist nicht
abgeschlossen", antwortete der Wolf.

Aber die Tür ging nicht auf. Sie war fest verschlossen und das Mädchen
musste sich durch ein enges Loch zwängen, um in das Haus zu gelangen.

"Mutter, ich habe solch einen Hunger!"

"Im Küchenschrank ist noch etwas Fleisch."

Im Küchenschrank war aber nur das Fleisch von der Mutter, die der Wolf
vorher getötet hatte.

Auf dem Schrank saß eine große Katze. Das Tier sprach zu dem Mädchen:
"Das Fleisch das Du isst, ist das Fleisch Deiner Mutter."

"Mutter! Da sitzt eine Katze auf dem Schrank und sie sagt zu mir, dass
ich Dein Fleisch esse. Wie kann das nur sein?"

"Das ist eine unerhörte Lüge. Wirf mit dem Holzschuh nach ihr und setze
sie vor die Tür."

Ein wenig später bekam das Mädchen, das vom Fleisch gegessen hatte,
großen Durst.

"Mutter, ich habe Durst!"

"Geh in die Küche und trink von dem Wein, der dort im Krug ist."

Da kam ein kleiner Vogel geflogen. Er setzte sich auf den Schornstein
und sprach: "Was Du da trinkst, das ist das Blut Deiner Mutter. Du
trinkst gerade das Blut Deiner Mutter!"

"Mutter! Da ist ein kleiner Vogel auf dem Schornstein. Er sagt mir, das
ich hier Dein Blut trinken würde.

"Nimm Dein Käppchen und wirf es nach diesem unverschämten Vogel!"

Das kleine Mädchen, welches vom Fleisch gegessen und vom Wein getrunken
hatte, ging zu seiner Mutter und sagte: "Mutter, ich bin auf einmal so
furchtbar müde."

"Komm her Kleines und ruh Dich ein wenig aus."

Dann zog das Mädchen seine Kleider aus und als es an das Bett trat, lag
dort seine Mutter. Sie hatte ihre große Haube tief ins Gesicht gezogen.
Sie sah sehr merkwürdig aus.

"Mutter, was hast Du für große Ohren?"

"Damit ich Dich besser hören kann!"

"Mutter, was hast Du für große Augen?"

"Damit ich Dich besser sehen kann!"

"Mutter, was hast Du für große Hände?"

"Damit ich Dich besser packen kann!"

"Mutter, was hast Du für ein entsetzlich großes Maul?"

Und dann verschlang der Wolf das arme Rotkäppchen.

(Jin-Roh)

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Kadaverstern

Für euch bin ich gestorben
und muß in jedem Käfig wiederauferstehn
mein Auge hat geleuchtet
und keiner hat in dem Moment hineingesehn
Für euch bin ich gestorben
ganz langsam, doch der Schornstein hat nur kurz geraucht
kein Mond, um dran zu heulen
ich hab nur nackte Neonröhren angefaucht

Für mich ist täglich Treblinka, Soweto und My Lai
für mich ist täglich Golgatha
und nie der Krieg vorbei

Für euch bin ich gestorben
damit ihr euer krankes Leben überlebt
wie könnt ihr bloß ertragen
daß ihr mir von Geburt an keine Chance gebt

Für euch bin ich gestorben
und über euch hängt immer dieser Brandgeruch
ihr nennt das Weltgeschichte
ihr seid bis heute selber nur ein Tierversuch

Jetzt schnapp ich nach dem Abfall vom reichen Tisch des Herrn
da irgendwo weit oben
auf dem Kadaverstern

(Heinz Rudolf Kunze)

 

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O God of Earth and Altar

O God of earth and altar,
bow down and hear our cry,
our earthly rulers falter,
our people drift and die;
the walls of gold entomb us,
the swords of scorn divide,
take not thy thunder from us,
but take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,
from lies of tongue and pen,
from all the easy speeches
that comfort cruel men,
from sale and profanation
of honor, and the sword,
from sleep and from damnation,
deliver us, good Lord!

Tie in a living tether
the prince and priest and thrall,
bind all our lives together,
smite us and save us all;
in ire and exultation
aflame with faith, and free,
lift up a living nation,
a single sword to thee.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

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Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend";)

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band"--to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers--as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honour--there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.
Good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands
In to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

Which, while I forded,--good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
--It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that--a furlong on--why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains--with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts--you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--
"Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."

by Robert Browning

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The Raven

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 named 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 will he 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, 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!

by Edgar Allan Poe

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Der zweite Spruch

Erkennen alle in der Welt das Schöne als schön,
So ist damit auch das Häßliche gesetzt.
Erkennen alle in der Welt das Gute als gut,
So ist damit auch das Schlechte gesetzt.
Also:
Sein und Nichtsein einander erzeugen,
Schwierig und Leicht einander zustande bringen,
Lang und Kurz einander gestalten,
Hoch und Nieder einander verkehren,
Stimme und Klangspiel zueinander passen,
Vor und Nach auseinander folgen.
Darum der Berufene:
Er verweilt bei nichtgeschäftigem Tun,
Übt wortlose Lehre.
Alle Wesen treten heran, und er entzieht sich nicht,
Er schafft und behält nicht,
Er handelt und legt keinen Wert darauf.
Ist Verdienstliches vollbracht,
So verweilt er nicht dabei:
Eben weil er nicht dabei verweilt,
Darum verläßt es ihn nicht.

Lao-tse - Führung und Kraft aus der Ewigkeit

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Von Liebe

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Das Begräbnis der Toten

Was ist dies Wurzelwerk, das greift, der Ast, der sproßt
Aus diesem Steingeröll? O Menschensohn,
Du kannst nicht sagen, raten, denn du kennst nur
Gehäuf zerbrochner Bilder unter Sonnenbrand,
Der tote Baum gibt Obdach nicht, die Grille Trost nicht,
Der trockne Stein kein Wasserrauschen. Aber
Es schattet unter dem roten Stein
(Komm unter den Schatten des roten Steins),
Und ich will dir weisen ein Ding, das weder
Dein schatten am Morgen ist, der dir nachfolgt,
Noch dein Schatten am Abend, der dir begegnet;

Ich zeige dir die Angst in einer Handvoll Staub.

Auszug aus T.S. Eliot - Das wüste Land - 1. Das Begräbnis der Toten

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