Dinner for eight

Guests invited*

1. Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor (1194-1250), to ask him what the mysterious Castel del Monte was all about, question him about his irreverent religious beliefs and many other things.
2. Saint Francis of Assisi, who lived at about the same time (1181-1226). I assume he did not appreciate Frederick very much (and vice-versa perhaps), but it might be fun having these two facing each other at the table.
3. Plato (428 BC-347 BC), to ask him what he really knew about Atlantis.
4. Sylvia Plath (1932-1963), just to have her back for a while.
5. Frank O’Hara (1926-1966). He, Sylvia, Plato and I could talk poetry, for example. I would imagine Frank to be the cheerful soul of the evening.
6. Kamala Das (1934-2009), to have somebody outspoken from another continent.
7. Léo Ferré (1916-1993), another one unlikely to bite his tongue.
8. I myself, meek and mild, trying to balance the mixture of egos big and small around the dinner table.

I might do the cooking myself – a 5-course south Indian meal, for example, to have these older folks taste something different. I’d serve the best of drinks – Italian table water, red and white wines from Germany, Italy and France, and Calva as a digestif. Should make for an interesting and amusing evening.

– Len “He Loves His Food” Blumfeld

* upon instigation by Sunday Scribblings (task description: Do you ever play the game where you decide who you would invite to your fantasy dinner party?

The rules are:
- you can invite anyone, living or dead
- you have a table that seats eight, but as you are one, you can invite seven people
- you have to explain why you'd invite them

And for bonus points:
- what would you serve them for dinner?)

You are more than spring

Sweet lilac flowers appear on the tree but once a year;
Your breasts bloom for me every day; you are more than spring.

My desires shone brightly like chestnut shoots;
You brought them out into the sun. We sit under a roof of foliage,
Smiling at each other in the luscious shade.

Longing has scarred me like a tree struck by lightning;
Now your bees are with me, and my eyes overflow from your honey.

Max Dauthendey (1867-1918)

From: The Eternal Wedding. Love Songs (1905)

Copyright © of translation by Johannes Beilharz 2009.

The original German is here.

Posted for Totally Optional Prompts and Color – this poem is full of colors, even though none are mentioned.

Cipation

I’m at a curious stage now, where there’s a lull induced by a two-week vacation. Everything’s on hold, sort of, and, apart from a framework of some planned work and engagements, I do not know what will happen afterwards regarding a certain person. Make that two. Nothing might happen. Things might go on as suspended and stop-and-go as they have been. “Keep on patiently, like you have been,” the Italian tarot lady said, “trust your feeling and do not listen to anyone else.” So I keep it up, more or less, wavering, just like anybody else, between hope and disillusionment. Some sort of cipation. Not quite anti.

– Leonard “Antipicator” Blumfeld

Written for Sunday Scribblings and Anticipate.

Personal weather situation

How's your personal weather today?
I'm a bit under the weather. Quite a bit under the weather, actually.
So what happened to cloud your skies?
There's an uncomfortable draft in my face, but also some stillness that isolates me.
Oh my! Whereabouts are you?
Stuck in the desert of my own mind and feelings as usual.

– Len "Mind Desert" Blumfeld

And they said to each other ...

And they said to each other, "We need
glasses so we can see. Because, as it is
now, we have no vision."
And one of them continued, "We have
been self-indulgent way too
long. This has got to stop."
But where to go in this land
without opticians, and how to slim
down on indulgence?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2009)

The painting is gouache on paper and dates from 2002

Posted for Inspire Me Thursday and Glasses as well as Sunday Scribblings #171, Indulgence.

Owl

Owl
Gouache and oil crayon
on wrapping paper, 2008
(detail of a larger painting)

Posted for Inspire Me Thursday's Owl.

Human

For A.B. as usual

She had on a smile occasionally
and sang a little bit.
Maybe she's in love with somebody.
But me it would be not.

– Len "Takes Her Home" Blumfeld

Posted for 'human' at Sunday Scribblings.

Written in a somewhat epigonal vein running from Amaru to about Rabindranath Tagore.

Blumfeld interviewed by Psychotic News

PN: Thanks for the opportunity to interview you, Mr. B.
LB: Call me Len, please.
PN: Mr. B., you told us that you have a history of being invisible...
LB: Yes, that happens sometimes.
PN: What happens exactly?
LB: I'm among people and say something, and it's as if I wasn't even there, or in a different time slot.
PN: That sounds quite speculative. What about the other people – do you see them?
LB: Yes, they seem quite normal to me.
PN: And you consider yourself the abnormal one?
LB: Yes.
PN: Like you're not fit to be around the human race?
LB: Yes.
PN: Has it occurred to you that you might be an alien?
LB: Alien, yes, but not an alien.
PN: ...
LB: You were saying?
PN: ...
LB: Yes?
PN: Mr. Blumfeld, where are you? Are you there? Hello?
LB: (can obviously no longer be seen or heard)
PN: This, dear audience, was the interview with Leonard Blumfeld – a man who said he had illusions of invisibility and who indeed has become invisible.

– Len "No See" Blumfeld

Up the creek without a paddle

Has that ever happened to you?
You were paddling along just fine downriver, with one useful but unloved paddle in one hand and about half of another paddle somewhere in between hand and bush, when that unloved paddle became too unloved and the longing for the half-paddle became more important?
Eventually, you got disgruntled enough to discard the unloved albeit useful paddle, suddenly found yourself going upriver, and the half-paddle turned out to be entirely elusive?
OK, so I'm talking in riddles here, but the situation is pretty clear: up shit creek without a paddle.
Scared shitless and almost willing to turn around again to grasp for what might remain of the unloved paddle...

– Len "Master of Self-Inflicted Riddles" Blumfeld

In honor of Ali Akbar Khan

Ali Akbar Khan, one of the most celebrated Indian musicians and great master of the sarod, passed away on June 18, 2009, in California, aged 87. Hear and see him perform raag Marwa on Youtube: