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Notes04/25/2021
Isolani
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Isolani
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18
...light-star-born...
Like when
the corvette captain
called for you
and you knew right away
and it's clear to you
that this call
would be overdue,
long overdue,
after all, you've been waiting
for it for a few days now and you feel
in a way: caught
and wished
you were
better prepared,
not so
so frivolous again,
at least
this once;
on all the seas
of this world
you
been on the road,
have seen everything,
doubted very little
and yet
every sunset
found too easy,
most of the time,
as hard as he
as he tried for you,
whatever colours he
drew for you,
Shopkeeper's soul,
that thou art,
alas,
your critical eye,
never laid aside,
never to lay aside,
the lot of the
Light-star-born,
whose gaze
goes out,
longingly,
somewhere,
towards the horizon,
so direction
thirty-nine-point-four degrees
Fever
and no
special
Occurrences
notes:
there is nothing,
except the singing
of sirens
and mermaids
and once again
you remained
strangely
uninvolved
and you just
with the shoulders: "so what..."
and instead of.. get involved -
"What do you have to
actually
do,
so that you
'go out of yourself',
hey, speak up! hello?
i'm talking to you !?" -
did you have
Cannons
with your guns,
with
not really
live ammunition,
to make a statement
in case,
because someone else
would get cocky,
like yourself:
hardly to tame
this inner tremor now
( owing to the spring?)
especially as of late
is delicately mutinied,
below deck -
and above also
at all times,
in the morning,
at half past four,
( no,
not at half past six -
Gaylord is still asleep...)
the day
can still
be quite fresh
and young,
the air cold silver,
all animals sluggish
like yourself
and your mood,
still half asleep,
as it is on some days
sometimes
so it is
and you go through
life,
and you
were,
are
and
remain
young at heart
and watched the shipwrecks
out in front of Cuxhaven,
whether they move
or wander in the quicksand, they,
stranded,
eternities ago,
they no longer expect
anything and know everything,
that there was to know,
in those days,
in those days,
when in the bay
still of the shell-shaped
Stage
of wood
charming songs could be heard
and resounded over the sea
and still every
Beacon
delighted
and all the world believed
that,
if it is possible
to go to the moon,
then
everything
other
also
possible
would be
would...
...well,
so you can
see both sides
and when it's like "come on, let's go,
it's getting a little chilly"
you take your light circus jacket
and be happy
about another,
looming star on your lapel,
shaking off the
fine gold sand off
and look smilingly
one last time
for today
out to sea.
----------------
A picture of lush, languid
and languid days by the water,
where in the evening the beach empties
and the surface of the water
is as smooth
like a mirror
and hardly moves,
and it smells of life,
of softness,
Spice
and warm sand,
the call of the blossoms
from the borders,
the fragrance
and sun-drenched murmur
of all living things for which this day
so great
was,
as it was for you,
the shivering of all those
who pass by
and who, like you,
the hand to the sun salute
to the sun.
----------------
And so you
once again
deservedly
and were a part,
and as you
enter the cool rooms,
evening,
shortly after eighteen o'clock,
and the faint sun
one last time
falls on the wooden floor,
you see on the little table
a mail to you,
an envelope,
on which
with delicate, light blue writing
your
Name
is written.
Even that
was
to be expected.
the corvette captain
called for you
and you knew right away
and it's clear to you
that this call
would be overdue,
long overdue,
after all, you've been waiting
for it for a few days now and you feel
in a way: caught
and wished
you were
better prepared,
not so
so frivolous again,
at least
this once;
on all the seas
of this world
you
been on the road,
have seen everything,
doubted very little
and yet
every sunset
found too easy,
most of the time,
as hard as he
as he tried for you,
whatever colours he
drew for you,
Shopkeeper's soul,
that thou art,
alas,
your critical eye,
never laid aside,
never to lay aside,
the lot of the
Light-star-born,
whose gaze
goes out,
longingly,
somewhere,
towards the horizon,
so direction
thirty-nine-point-four degrees
Fever
and no
special
Occurrences
notes:
there is nothing,
except the singing
of sirens
and mermaids
and once again
you remained
strangely
uninvolved
and you just
with the shoulders: "so what..."
and instead of.. get involved -
"What do you have to
actually
do,
so that you
'go out of yourself',
hey, speak up! hello?
i'm talking to you !?" -
did you have
Cannons
with your guns,
with
not really
live ammunition,
to make a statement
in case,
because someone else
would get cocky,
like yourself:
hardly to tame
this inner tremor now
( owing to the spring?)
especially as of late
is delicately mutinied,
below deck -
and above also
at all times,
in the morning,
at half past four,
( no,
not at half past six -
Gaylord is still asleep...)
the day
can still
be quite fresh
and young,
the air cold silver,
all animals sluggish
like yourself
and your mood,
still half asleep,
as it is on some days
sometimes
so it is
and you go through
life,
and you
were,
are
and
remain
young at heart
and watched the shipwrecks
out in front of Cuxhaven,
whether they move
or wander in the quicksand, they,
stranded,
eternities ago,
they no longer expect
anything and know everything,
that there was to know,
in those days,
in those days,
when in the bay
still of the shell-shaped
Stage
of wood
charming songs could be heard
and resounded over the sea
and still every
Beacon
delighted
and all the world believed
that,
if it is possible
to go to the moon,
then
everything
other
also
possible
would be
would...
...well,
so you can
see both sides
and when it's like "come on, let's go,
it's getting a little chilly"
you take your light circus jacket
and be happy
about another,
looming star on your lapel,
shaking off the
fine gold sand off
and look smilingly
one last time
for today
out to sea.
----------------
A picture of lush, languid
and languid days by the water,
where in the evening the beach empties
and the surface of the water
is as smooth
like a mirror
and hardly moves,
and it smells of life,
of softness,
Spice
and warm sand,
the call of the blossoms
from the borders,
the fragrance
and sun-drenched murmur
of all living things for which this day
so great
was,
as it was for you,
the shivering of all those
who pass by
and who, like you,
the hand to the sun salute
to the sun.
----------------
And so you
once again
deservedly
and were a part,
and as you
enter the cool rooms,
evening,
shortly after eighteen o'clock,
and the faint sun
one last time
falls on the wooden floor,
you see on the little table
a mail to you,
an envelope,
on which
with delicate, light blue writing
your
Name
is written.
Even that
was
to be expected.
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