Charles Baudelaire-Parfum Exotique

Quand, les deux yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d’automne,
Je respire l’odeur de ton sein chaleureux,
Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux
Qu’éblouissent les feux d’un soleil monotone ;

Une île paresseuse où la nature donne
Des arbres singuliers et des fruits savoureux ;
Des hommes dont le corps est mince et vigoureux,
Et des femmes dont l’œil par sa franchise étonne.

Guidé par ton odeur vers de charmants climats,
Je vois un port rempli de voiles et de mâts
Encor tout fatigués par la vague marine,

Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers,
Qui circule dans l’air et m’enfle la narine,
Se mêle dans mon âme au chant des mariniers.

Translation on

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Simone Weil on Education

Although people seem to be unaware of it today, the development of the faculty of attention forms the real object and almost the sole interest of studies. Most school tasks have a certain intrinsic interest as well, but such an interest is secondary. All tasks that really call upon the power of attention are interesting for the same reason and to an almost equal degree. ( On the right use of School Studies with a view to the Love of God)

Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.

Le Pont Mirabeau

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Et nos amours

Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne

La joie venait toujours après la peine.

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure

Les jours s’en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face

Tandis que sousLe pont de nos bras passe

Des éternels regards l’onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure

Les jours s’en vont je demeure

L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante

L’amour s’en va Comme la vie est lente

Et comme l’Espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure

Les jours s’en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines

Ni temps passé

Ni les amours reviennent

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Guillaume Apollinaire (1912)

There is a translation at

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Russian Trolleybus Poem

I was recently looking at the poetic association of trams and have just come across this poem about a trolley bus from

My place is on the left and I must go to my seat
I don’t get why they never turn on the heat
Don’t know my neighbor, though it’s now been a year
And we’re sinking, although shallow water is near
And we stare at the ceiling, with a hopeful unease,
On the old trolley-bus that is traveling east
On the old trolley-bus  that is traveling east
On the old trolley-bus…

All people are brothers, we’re all six degrees…
And nobody knows why we’re traveling east
My neighbor can’t take it, he wants to break free
But he cannot escape, he doesn’t know where to flee
So we sit and we wonder if we’ll find our peace
On the old trolley-bus that is traveling east

The bus keeps on driving through the driver has fled
And the engine is rusty but we’re moving ahead
And we’re holding our breath, as we stare at the night
Where, for a moment, a star was lit bright
We stay silent, we know that the reason for this
Is the old trolley-bus that is traveling east…

By Victor Tsoi
Translation by Andrey Kneller

In the original Russian:-

Мое место слева, и я должен там сесть,
Не пойму, почему мне так холодно здесь,
Я не знаком с соседом, хоть мы вместе уж год.
И мы тонем, хотя каждый знает, где брод.
И каждый с надеждой глядит в потолок
Троллейбуса, который идет на восток.
Троллейбуса, который идет на восток.
Троллейбуса, который…

Все люди – братья, мы – седьмая вода,
И мы едем, не знаю, зачем и куда.
Мой сосед не может, он хочет уйти,
Но он не может уйти, он не знает пути,
И вот мы гадаем, какой может быть прок
В троллейбусе, который идет на восток.

В кабине нет шофера, но троллейбус идет,
И мотор заржавел, но мы едем вперед,
Мы сидим не дыша, смотрим туда,
Где на долю секунды показалась звезда,
Мы молчим, но мы знаем, нам в этом помог,
Троллейбус, который идет на восток.

Viktor Robertovich Tsoi was a Soviet-Korean singer and songwriter who co-founded Kino, one of the most popular and musically influential bands in the history of Russian music. Born and raised in Leningrad, Tsoi started writing songs as a teenager.

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Joachim Ringelnatz und Strassenbahnen

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Strassenbahn 23 und 13


Was nur in Frankfurt sich begibt:

Die Trambahn hielt auf offner Strecke.

Sie sah am Wege eine Schnecke

Und sagte gähnend: »Steigen Sie ein, wenn es Ihnen beliebt.«

Die Schnecke wehrte: »Danke, mir pressiert es.«

Da gab die Bahn ein Abfahrtssignal und noch eins und

ein drittes und viertes.

Und wirklich begann sie allmählich weiter zu fahren,

Um noch vor Sonntag die nächste Station zu erreichen.

Dort lagen an dreihundert Leichen,

Lauter Leute, die über dem Warten verhungert waren.


Joachim Ringelnatz wurde als jüngstes von drei Geschwistern in einem Wohn- und Geschäftshaus am Crostigall 14 in Wurzen bei Leipzig um „11 ¾ Uhr“ in einem Zimmer über dem Flur geboren, wie der Geburtsschein der Hebamme belegt. Seine Eltern waren beide künstlerisch tätig. Sein Vater Georg Bötticher, der einer thüringischen Gelehrtenfamilie entstammte, war ein Musterzeichner und später hauptberuflicher Verfasser von humoristischen Versen und Kinderbüchern. Er veröffentlichte vierzig Bücher, unter anderem in Reclams Universal-Bibliothek. Die Mutter Rosa Marie, Tochter eines Sägewerksbesitzers, zeichnete ebenfalls, entwarf Muster für Perlstickereien und stellte Puppenbekleidung her. Ringelnatz wuchs in bescheidenem Wohlstand auf: Die Familie beschäftigte zwei Dienstmädchen.


Time for Mediaeval Latin (MS of Benedictbeuern)

The woods are green with branches

And sweet with nightingales,

With gold and blue and scarlet

All flowered are the dales.

Sweet it is to wander

In a place of trees,

Sweeter to pluck roses

And the fleur-de-lys.

But dalliance with a lovely lass

Far surpasseth these.

White Lilies Stock Photo - 9232730

Fronde nemus induitur

iam canit philomena

cum variis coloribus

iam prata sunt amena,

spatiari dulce est

per loca nemorosa,

dulcius est carpere

lilia cum rosa,

dulcissimum est ludere

cum virgine formosa.

(Source- Mediaeval Latin Lyrics by Helen Waddell -Constable and Co-first published 1929)



The Old Lizard by Lorca

Federico García Lorca1898 – 1936

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In the parched path 
I have seen the good lizard 
(one drop of crocodile) 
With his green frock-coat 
of an abbot of the devil, 
his correct bearing 
and his stiff collar, 
he has the sad air 
of an old professor. 
Those faded eyes 
of a broken artist, 
how they watch the afternoon 
in dismay!

Is this, my friend, 
your twilight constitutional? 
Please use your cane, 
you are very old, Mr. Lizard, 
and the children of the village 
may startle you.
What are you seeking in the path, 
my near-sighted philosopher, 
if the wavering phantasm 
of the parched afternoon 
has broken the horizon? 

Are you seeking the blue alms 
of the moribund heaven? 
A penny of a star? 
Or perhaps 
you’ve been reading a volume 
of Lamartine, and you relish 
the plateresque trills 
of the birds? 

(You watch the setting sun, 
and your eyes shine, 
oh, dragon of the frogs, 
with a human radiance. 
Ideas, gondolas without oars, 
cross the shadowy 
waters of your 
burnt-out eyes.) 

Have you come looking 
for that lovely lady lizard, 
green as the wheatfields 
of May, 
as the long locks
of sleeping pools, 
who scorned you, and then 
left you in your field? 
Oh, sweet idyll, broken 
among the sweet sedges! 
But, live! What the devil! 
I like you. 
The motto “I oppose 
the serpent” triumphs 
in that grand double chin 
of a Christian archbishop. 

Now the sun has dissolved 
in the cup of the mountains, 
and the flocks 
cloud the roadway. 
It is the hour to depart: 
leave the dry path 
and your meditations. 
You will have time 
to look at the stars 
when the worms are eating you 
at their leisure.

Go home to your house 
by the village, of the crickets! 
Good night, my friend 
Mr. Lizard! 

Now the field is empty, 
the mountains dim, 
the roadway deserted. 
Only, now and again, 
a cuckoo sings in the darkness 
of the poplar trees.
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From the website