…SUN FROM TODAY ON II
…FROM TODAY ON II
Tag Archives: CULTURE
THE ILLUSION OF THE GREAT WRITERS
Originally posted 6/1-13 on: http://thesolsticewell.com/
Stumbled upon a copy of “Faust” by Goethe some time ago. I had read parts and excerpts of it in German and Swedish before, so I already knew it was crap.
I had a volume of Goethe’s poetry before and liked some parts and pieces of that, so there is no denying from my part that he could write decent. Technically speaking.
This book is one among the two dozen books that have been typical for the intellectual crowd to walk around with a copy of. Found it so humouring that I walked down the streets with it in my pocket that I actually just had to take a picture of that.
JUNK CULTURE
The story of “Faust” is just dumb and poorly written.
There is the fiction figure called “God” in it that have no resemblance whatsoever with reality. It is really insulting that a fake “god” stole and still use the name God against God. (Not even mentioning the thousands of other things that parasite steal from The Gods). Furthermore, there are some characters in a nonsensical discussion that also come from fiction, all done with the deranged minds view. Etc. You get the picture.
As the case with all junk culture there is nothing of interest and it all lead down to nowhere land. It reminds me, not surprisingly, of how Strindberg later used to build up his plays.
I do not blame fiction for being non-fiction. I blame these silly illusions to enter and derange non-fiction and then affect fiction. I understand that this is fictional writing from a man that know very little about the realities of life. Still, when people like this spread their junk it affects the minds and continue to kill Culture. It is really depressing to know that junk culture like this have been promoted so well that it is currently called “fine literature”. Or any other cliché I might think of. There is, to no surprise, even worse books out there by other “great writers”. Burn them.
Do I write better than Goethe? If not, then I have no say, you say? That is completely beside the point. (It is not my personal goal to be a great writer. My goal is to give of my knowledge.) Everyone have to start facing the fact that most of what have been produced in literature and arts have been filthied, some of it is forged and is being used as tools for murder and much worse for hundreds of years. It will all be trashed as the new time enters. Be prepared for it.
Literature, music and other forms of entertainment must be cleaned. Junk culture can only inspire to shape more junk. I am against junk entering the mind, defiling and murdering all higher values. What freedom does the victimized, these insane and twisted have? To make this world a trash can for everyone?
I would rather be completely empty than full of that litter.
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I AM
Wanted a slumber down in the valley
close to almond trees in worthy bloom
Ring the always longed for lyre tones
But, became another
Wished to stand free in dark-green Autumn,
cleansed from all the living years hard grin
To live and die pretty as an Autumn leaf
But, are by mistakes wed
Became rainfall, cold, calling winds,
a brief scent before death,
as schythed nettle,
broken citrus leaves,
Autumn land after night rains
But, can undoubtly love
when there is something to love
It wishes to shatter here
between the gravel and the leaf-age
Finding worst love
the One, that can not be found
For me, betrayal is not good enough,
cleanest love violated,
the ruins clothes
or the own wills struggle slaughtered
I am laid opened, one aloned unrotten,
in the apple basket given to the sorrows
I am so strangely hard, so oddly grained,
to be carried away from abandoned mills
Knowing all waving wind-flowers Sun kissed
The beautifully crestfallen, already dulled,
laid there the heart worn almost was enough
and to your refusal never have been missed
I am entangled,
stricken down in quenching pettiness
I am hidden,
with an unreachable cold-hammered need
I am grieved,
filled with all the days nothingness
I am mist raised,
clouded, covered underneath weakened will
I am glowing snow on frozen stock
in memory’s burned down forests
I am incarcerated, left where blemishes are left
I am a still night cloud, uprising scent of leaves,
that never will find the Worlds again
I am my winnings pulled away,
taken and swept in a gulp
Holding the Tree you know holds your leaves
while we break off the branches
I am this.
I am what you never can feel
I AM
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CYPRESS TREE SPECIAL
CYPRESS TREE 1
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ON SKY 27 IIIIIIIII
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CLOUDS FROM YESTERDAY
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IN YET ANOTHER AUTUMNFALL
(I am bored with my attempts to translate this poem into proper English. I will just publish it as it is for now and hope for help… I am fully aware that it is more or less word by word translations that I do of my own work, which others might find “wrong”, but I do work with higher set goals.)
Dream me in rowanwreathed Autumnforest days
there shimmering cling near the sleeping fields
meanwhile a broken mist stumbles, lifts ― Rises
And a silent rain sweeps ― The bonfire hisses
Travelling mist covered
And soon it dawns again ― Again
Watching wilderness, playing with dry leaves,
eating my thistles carefully and gifting smiles
beneath days of past grayish skies mirrored
And have alone been stuck ― Where Time stopped
The almost unnoticed waves in the mountain creek
listens near by to the pleasing small drops of rain,
watching the forest thin in slow pace with Autumn
and knew that the leaves would fall here ― Again
Travelling mist covered ― Traceless
Soon it dawns again ― Again
Reached an early marsh in its slow leaf falling,
herein may serenity caress and milden
You, Autumnland, are Death´s lost portent
And soon a Winternightwind was heard calling
IN YET ANOTHER AUTUMNFALL
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