De ontrouwe knecht, tekening door Rembrandt van Rijn
Kleines Beispiel
Auch ungelebtes Leben geht zu Ende zwar vielleicht langsamer wie eine Batterie in einer Taschenlampe die keiner benutzt
Aber das nutzt nicht viel: Wenn man (sagen wir einmal) diese Taschenlampe nach so- und so vielen Jahren anknipsen will kommt kein Atemzug Licht mehr heraus und wenn du sie aufmachst findest du nur noch Knochen und falls du Pech hast auch diese schon ganz zerfressen
Da hättest du genauso gut leuchten können
Erich Fried (6 mei 1921 – 22 november 1988) Pfarrkirche hl. Franz von Assisi in Wenen, de geboorteplaats van Erich Fried
I heard him call you his beloved son And saw his Spirit lighten like a dove, I thought his words must be for you alone, Knowing myself unworthy of his love. You pray in close communion with your Father, So close you say the two of you are one, I feel myself to be receding further, Fallen away and outcast and alone.
And so I come and ask you how to pray, Seeking a distant supplicant’s petition, Only to find you give your words away, As though I stood with you in your position, As though your Father were my Father too, As though I found his ‘welcome home’ in you.
Malcolm Guite (Ibanda, 12 november 1957) Oke Are Minor seminary compound, Ibanda
De barmhartige Samaritaan doorGiovanni Battista Langetti, 1670
The Good Samaritan
HE comes from out the ages dim— The good Samaritan; I somehow never pictured him A fat and jolly man; But one who’d little joy to glean, And little coin to give— A sad-faced man, and lank and lean, Who found it hard to live.
His eyes were haggard in the drought, His hair was iron-grey— His dusty gown was patched, no doubt, Where we patch pants to-day. His faded turban, too, was torn— But darned and folded neat, And leagues of desert sand had worn The sandals on his feet.
He’s been a fool, perhaps, and would Have prospered had he tried, But he was one who never could Pass by the other side. An honest man whom men called soft, While laughing in their sleeves— No doubt in business ways he oft Had fallen amongst thieves.
And, I suppose, by track and tent, And other ancient ways, He drank, and fought, and loved, and went The pace in his young days. And he had known the bitter year When love and friendship fail— I wouldn’t be surprised to hear That he had been in jail.
A silent man, whose passions slept, Who had no friends or foes— A quiet man, who always kept His hopes and sorrows close. A man who very seldom smiled, And one who could not weep Be it for death of wife or child Or sorrow still more deep.
But sometimes when a man would rave Of wrong, as sinners do, He’d say to cheer and make him brave ‘I’ve had my troubles too.’ (They might be twittered by the birds, And breathed high Heaven through, There’s beauty in those world-old words: ‘I’ve had my sorrows too.’)
And if he was a married man, As many are that roam, I guess that good Samaritan Was rather glum at home, Impatient when a child would fret, And strict at times and grim— A man whose kinsmen never yet Appreciated him.
Howbeit—in a study brown— He had for all we know, His own thoughts as he journeyed down The road to Jericho, And pondered, as we puzzle yet, On tragedies of life— And maybe he was deep in debt And parted from his wife.
(And so ‘by chance there came that way,’ It reads not like romance— The truest friends on earth to-day, They mostly come by chance.) He saw a stranger left by thieves Sore hurt and like to die— He also saw (my heart believes) The others pass him by.
(Perhaps that good Samaritan Knew Levite well, and priest) He lifted up the wounded man And sat him on his beast, And took him on towards the inn— All Christ-like unawares— Still pondering, perhaps, on sin And virtue—and his cares.
He bore him in and fixed him right (Helped by the local drunk), And wined and oiled him well all night, And thought beside his bunk. And on the morrow ere he went He left a quid and spoke Unto the host in terms which meant— ‘Look after that poor bloke.’
He must have known them at the inn, They must have known him too— Perhaps on that same track he’d seen Some other sick mate through; For ‘Whatsoe’er thou spendest more’ (The parable is plain) ‘I will repay,’ he told the host, ‘When I return again.’
He seemed to be a good sort, too, The boss of that old pub— (As even now there are a few At shanties in the scrub). The good Samaritan jogged on Through Canaan’s dust and heat, And pondered over various schemes And ways to make ends meet.
*****
He was no Christian, understand, For Christ had not been born— He journeyed later through the land To hold the priests to scorn; And tell the world of ‘certain men’ Like that Samaritan, And preach the simple creed again— Man’s duty! Man to man!
*****
‘Once on a time there lived a man,’ But he has lived alway, And that gaunt, good Samaritan Is with us here to-day; He passes through the city streets Unnoticed and unknown, He helps the sinner that he meets— His sorrows are his own.
He shares his tucker on the track When things are at their worst (And often shouts in bars outback For souls that are athirst). To-day I see him staggering down The blazing water-course, And making for the distant town With a sick man on his horse.
He’ll live while nations find their graves And mortals suffer pain— When colour rules and whites are slaves And savages again. And, after all is past and done, He’ll rise up, the Last Man, From tending to the last but one— The good Samaritan.
Henry Lawson (17 juni 1867 – 2 september 1922) De Anglicaanse Holy Trinity Church in Grenfell, New South Wales, de geboorteplaats van Henry Lawson
Jezus op weg naar Jeruzalem door James Tissot, ca. 1896
Let the Dead Bury their Dead
Let the dead go bury their dead don’t help them. Let the dead look after the dead leave them to one another, don’t serve them.
The dead in their nasty dead hands have heaps of money, don’t take it.
The dead in their seething minds have phosphorescent teeming white words of putrescent wisdom and sapience that subtly stinks; don’t ever believe them.
The dead are in myriads, they seem mighty. They make trains chuff, motor-cars titter, ships lurch, mills grind on and on, and keep you in millions at the mills, sightless pale slaves, pretending these are the mills of God.
It is the great lie of the dead. The mills of industry are not the mills of God. And the mills of God grind otherwise, with the winds of life for the mill-stones. Trust the mills of God, though they grind exceeding small. But as for the mills of men don’t be harnessed to them.
The dead give ships and engines, cinema, radio and gramophone, they send aeroplanes across the sky, and they say: Now, behold, you are living the great life! While you listen in, while you watch the film, while you drive the car, while you read about the air-ship crossing the wild Atlantic behold, you are living the great life, the stupendous life!
As you know, it is a complete lie. You are all going dead and corpse-pale listening in to the lie. Spit it out.
O cease to listen to the living dead. They are only greedy for your life! O cease to labour for the gold-toothed dead, they are so greedy, yet so helpless if not worked for. Don’t ever be kind to the smiling, tooth-mouthed dead don’t ever be kind to the dead it is pandering to corpses, the repulsive, living fat dead.
Bury a man gently if he has lain down and died. But with the walking and talking and conventionally persuasive dead with bank accounts and insurance policies don’t sympathise, or you taint the unborn babies.
D.H. Lawrence (11 september 1885 – 2 maart 1930) St Mary’s Church in Eastwood, de geboorteplaats van D.H. Lawrence
Thoughts of the pressed madman/pressed by burden of self truth/ atlast he howls prior death/ his howl mated with a nightingle's coo/ and a poetry is born
In The Beginning Man Tried Ascending To Heaven via The Tower Of Babel. Now He Tries To Elevate His Existence Using Hallucinogenic Drugs. And, Since The 20th Century, He Continually Voyages Into Outer Space Using Spacecrafts. Prayer Thru Christ Is The Only Way To Reach Heaven.
