jump to navigation

Nevermind Rain Drops in Colour apríl 26, 2008

Posted by herraheri in Herra the Heri, M. L'éléphant, Mr. J. Squirrel Phd..
Tags: , ,
add a comment

Yes. I considered it.
considered it, to be good, to be full of sparkling
thought of glowing ice during the day
and singing happy tunes at night.

Yes. Whatever it ist.
Anywhere. I dared to think of it as miracle
friendly and exciting but never to hurtful
shanty at clouds pouring concrete

Nevermind rain drops in colour.
Yes. But care for the changes they imply.
Run for inspiration that is not only covered
by mere sonnets and skilful pentameters

Yes. Coffee is steaming, while green is dampling in it
the window is open
singing sweeps away the murmuring rain.
What remains is colour.

Auglýsingar

Spin a Wheel for Creativity apríl 22, 2008

Posted by herraheri in Herra the Heri, M. L'éléphant, Mr. J. Squirrel Phd..
Tags: , , , , , ,
add a comment

Plug in. Imagine yourself in a tiny little room. Not to small – there will be enough space for a few instruments, some people and something to drink. And a drumkit. It might be a little loud if a band played in the room. But for now there will be no band playing. There will be nothing more than reading. Calm reading. Slowly turning the pages following the story of Nabokov’s Lolita or maybe even the adventures of Oedipa Maas in Pynchon’s Crying of Lot 49. Nothing but calm reading. AHHHH.

Plug out. Turn on. How did those people manage to enter the room. Yes! It’s the ill-famed Herra Héri Orchestra, packed with instruments, playing as if they dared to give noise a new definition. But somehow you like it. Vibe. And suddenly, a squirrel comes out of a bottle of vodka and whispers into your ear: Eat a tune, and follow it carefully. Starlight and forrest multiplied by peas with six electrons on their premium gas atoms. Watch for the sun. Care for positron and Gauss with his equations. Never mind the harmony. Silence. You leave the room – enter the wood – a coocoo is blowing his tune. You take out your wallet and shake it. Fortune.

Easter Is so Special Squirrels Write Poetry mars 24, 2008

Posted by herraheri in Mr. J. Squirrel Phd..
Tags: , , , ,
add a comment

My dear friends, first of all je vous souhaite a very pleasent, nice and colour-loving Easter celebration. It is Easter – yes. Easter with snow as it is quite cold and snowy in the country I live in. Whatever. I am not writing this post to bore you, but to share the magic of Easter: Coloured eggs hidden in the garden, young rabbits jumping around and a brewery near my place shows this special play called Hamlet.

It was that synesthetic mixture of easterly impression that made me write this little but I hope utterly squirrelicious poem. Watch it:

March is the cruellest month, breeding
snow-like-colours in egg shape
out of the perma-frost-soil

nuts are not growing as it’s almost spring
murmuring of old n dry martinis in the sky
j’ai l’air de joie et j’ai faim
I want to have a chocolate thing hidden in purple satin

M.L’éléphant says the poem is crap – it completely lacked poetry, he says. But he is an Elephant – what does he know about the poetics of Squirrels. Heh!

Anything Blueberry febrúar 17, 2008

Posted by herraheri in Mr. J. Squirrel Phd..
Tags: , ,
add a comment

Yesterday, the weather was quite bad for cracking nut. And I also could not find the inspiration necessary to work on my thesis on nuts (as you know). So I jumped around in the park, had a few Martinis (and maybe one or two dry gins) and wrote a little poem. Although, it might sound desperate to some readers it is a twinkling monster full of lust. But read yourselves. Sincerly yours, Dr.Squirrel Phd.
………………..

Nothing is as anything seems, scare,
voice pondering through the nasty trees,
hurt wood, rotten despair,
hope bleeds and its hair is sprinkled with tears of the wind.

Nevermind, cheer up, some cake?
Blueberry, maybe some plums?
Did you ever read Williams? Elliot? I show you fear!
Screaming and Edward Munch is reluctant to preparing hot milk with honey.

Whatever. Any ever. Snow is silent,
a prism of perception, anticipated by rain.
Shift perspective and run the engine.
Whatever they say, stay
away from Blueberry cake.

For the time of the season apríl 30, 2006

Posted by herraheri in Herra the Heri, Mr. J. Squirrel Phd..
2 comments

Hello,

Today, I "typed" for you the Nobel-price winning poet T.S. Eliot with his poem "The Waste Land". Originally, I wanted Dr.J.Squirrel to edit it, so I could offer you the best sections of this grim and impressive piece of poetry. But he denied to do it. He said: "You bloody idiot! You want me to MANGLE this masterpiece? May your soul be damned and burn in hell!"

So. Here is the first of four parts of "The Waste Land", uncutted and unedited, like his squirrelness claimed.

If you have the desire to read the other three parts let me highly recommend this site, where the whole poem can be read, or this site, where you can hear T.S. Eliot reading his poem, which is really impressive. And now, have fun, folks. Shanti, shanti, shanti!

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,                            10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,                                  20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                              30
     Frisch weht der Wind
     Der Heimat zu
     Mein Irisch Kind,
     Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
- Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,                                    40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.                                                 50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,                                                            60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson!
"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!                            70
"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

"Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!"

[source: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext98/wslnd11.txt%5D

Unique preview: Zorc’s and Dr.Squirrel’s „The nut conspiracy“ mars 12, 2006

Posted by herraheri in Herra the Heri, Mr. J. Squirrel Phd., Zorc Wotan.
3 comments

Bitch! What a day!

Sir Zorc Wotan and Dr. Squirrel just informed me: On the ooccasion of my birthday, they accord me a top-secret picture of their first movie „The nut conspiracy“, attacking cinemas out off cold icelands mysterious holes in October 2006. Of course, they don’t act, actually. They preferred to stay unrecognised by the outer world. In fact, Sir Zorc Wotans visage would make everyone go blind. So they selected two genius actors, who could represent them the best (at least they thought so).

Well, take a brave look at it…

DSC00001.JPG

I am not quite convinced that they were the best choice. Sir Zorc Wotan looks like he coulnd’t make people go blind but is blind himself. And Dr.Squirrel….well, he looks like a squirrel,anyway.

First doubts about the genre of the film grow…

HerraHeri janúar 28, 2006

Posted by herraheri in Herra the Heri, Mr. J. Squirrel Phd., Zorc Wotan.
3 comments

Herr Heri