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4.5 AVERAGE
4.5 AVERAGE
I don't think we should talk of soup
-the cabbage stock is neither here nor there-
for hunger is mere pretext for a beer,
and glut licks large and small spoons out of shape
and sits and counts the paces to the door.
The Maestro knows my soul. The late Herr Grass stirs me from beyond. His poems as recipes provoke my fond recollection of The Flounder. They are a windbreak against the controversy, Schutzstaffel, and the sway which ensued.
There's sufficient self-awareness this morning to posit an observation. My review yesterday may possibly be construed as against the Intifada: it wasn't mean to be. Here I am before the sunrise, heralding yet another clouded figure. I recognize the significance of Ezra Pound, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, and Martin Heidegger. I also know their crimes. I love Günter Grass while holding his decisions in judgement.
His poem Ehe (translates here as marriage) is astonishing.
But after eleven years the thing is still fun.
To be one flesh when prices fluctuate.
We think thriftily in small coin.
In the dark you believe all I say.
That is a measured grasp of the moment. I feel that tender need. Despite the missteps, the bounty of such is a joy to embrace.
Now, I will read a possibly unreformed sympathizer of Lost Causes and (sometimes) parenthetical white supremacy.
-the cabbage stock is neither here nor there-
for hunger is mere pretext for a beer,
and glut licks large and small spoons out of shape
and sits and counts the paces to the door.
The Maestro knows my soul. The late Herr Grass stirs me from beyond. His poems as recipes provoke my fond recollection of The Flounder. They are a windbreak against the controversy, Schutzstaffel, and the sway which ensued.
There's sufficient self-awareness this morning to posit an observation. My review yesterday may possibly be construed as against the Intifada: it wasn't mean to be. Here I am before the sunrise, heralding yet another clouded figure. I recognize the significance of Ezra Pound, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, and Martin Heidegger. I also know their crimes. I love Günter Grass while holding his decisions in judgement.
His poem Ehe (translates here as marriage) is astonishing.
But after eleven years the thing is still fun.
To be one flesh when prices fluctuate.
We think thriftily in small coin.
In the dark you believe all I say.
That is a measured grasp of the moment. I feel that tender need. Despite the missteps, the bounty of such is a joy to embrace.
Now, I will read a possibly unreformed sympathizer of Lost Causes and (sometimes) parenthetical white supremacy.