AC Benus

Thanks for reading and leaving your thoughts. They're always appreciated

Tanka: It must be summer – The flies press against the frame, For just like stained glass, Their wings flutter to escape The very presence of light. Tanka: My thoughts are worn out By how temporal is our plane; The things that we have In the world are all soon tossed, One tear always bringing more. Tanka: All the crowds are gone, And the street for once seems mine; These public buildings Left to their beauty alone – To me and the setting sun. _

Wonderful way to describe this poem, ReaderPaul! Much is dancing in the spirit and flow of these words, and this whole section (dealing with translations and Schwabe's four Sonnets) seems to be of the same nature. Thanks again!

Thanks, Parker. Naturally I agree with you on the marvelous nature of this poem. The image of fleeing is an interesting one, for perhaps the poet is setting up in our mind that the "flight" was also only in her head. Who knows?

. Aus „Les chansons de Bilitis“ (Freie Nachdichtung nach dem Französischen des Pierre Louis) I. Lied der Bilitis an Mnasidika Liebe mich, doch ohne Lächeln, Ohne Flöten, ohne Blumen – Nur mit deinem Herzen Und mit deinen Tränen So wie ich dich liebe Mit allen Seufzern. Wenn dein Busen sich an meinen drängt, Wenn mein Leben an das deine rührt, Deine Knie mich umschließen, Atmet wohl me

The poet leads us through the several seasons needed to achieve a wakening. Well-written, you won't want to miss this one; it's a great take on the 'Seasons' theme

This poem seems to be nostalgia-kissed. It had me running in the halls of my elementary school again, seeing the seasonal decorations taped on the walls, perceiving the floor wax, and feeling -- more like scenting -- the heat of my fellow school kids' bodies after we came in again from lunchtime play. Thanks for evoking this in me

An amazing, if challenging, set of four poems not to be missed!

The Columbine poem has left me contemplating it for days. You had me running to a five-min. google search for myths relating to the flower, which proved, yes, there is one relating to this type of flower, and no, I had not heard it because authors like Ovid and Robert Graves did not find it compelling enough to talk about (a point on which I can agree). So, that leaves us with Columbine as a national scar on the American psyche . . . perhaps this watershed moment is what readers are supposed to connect to. The high school massacre was a form of suicide for the murderers too . . . lest we forget, and perhaps I was meant to delay my comments all along, mulling over the poem, until today -- five days before the anniversary of event the NRA piggybacked extremist moneymaking on. Million and million of dollars, and countless lives lost since then because of them. However, a large part of me wishes I did not know your poem came out of an assignment/workshopping effort, because the results are truly amazing. I suppose -- and you should defo not comment on my mind-wanderings, because I'm not asking you to, nor am I in anyway 'expecting an explanation,' as so many out there are when they encounter challenging artistic works -- the poem is a modern exponent of Ovid after all. Transformation in his Metamorphoses is often the result of tragedy and unwanted transitioning from one state to another (usually due to violence as a forced agent of change). But just like many of the Roman's tales of transmogrify, the protagonist in your poem seems to unveil their true selves to us. Perhaps tearing at the veneer is for our eyes only, for the one "feeling different" knows there has been something growing underneath the whole time

It's shocking he died so young, and at the height of his powers as a writer too. A sad day indeed

. Sapphische Oden II. Langsam hob sich die Nacht aus Dämmerschleiern Und ein warmer Duft durchströmte den Garten Gleich wie Frauenglieder so fühlte ich plötzlich Die Nacktheit der Nacht. Mit den weißen liebespendenden Händen Streift das Mondlicht ihr die entblößten Brüste Und ihr Seufzen klang von den roten Blumen Als es sie küßte. Und ich floh verwundet und wirr den Garten Der mir alles Leben in Lust

Thanks for reading, Parker. These two odes (the other one to follow shortly) are very near the core of who Toni Schwabe was as a poet

Thanks, ReaderPaul. These are very sensual poems, and a part of sensuality is fear