To Life

The Other Dancing Song (Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Pt III)

Into your eyes I looked recently, 0 life: I saw gold blinking in your night-eye; my heart stopped in delight: a golden boat I saw blinking on nocturnal waters, a golden rocking-boat, sinking, drinking, and winking again.
At my foot, frantic to dance, you cast a glance, a laughing, questioning, melting rocking-glance: twice only you stirred your rattle with your small hands, and my foot was already rocking with dancing frenzy. My heels twitched, then my toes hearkened to understand you, and rose: for the dancer has his ear in his toes. I leaped toward you, but you fled back from my leap, and the tongue of your fleeing, flying hair licked me in its sweep. Away from you I leaped, and from your serpents’ ire; and already you stood there, half turned, your eyes full of desire. With crooked glances you teach me—crooked ways; on crooked ways my foot learns treachery. I fear you near, I love you far; your flight lures me, your seeking cures me: I suffer, but what would I not gladly suffer for you? You, whose coldness fires, whose hatred seduces, whose flight binds, whose scorn inspires: Who would not hate you, you great binder, entwiner, temptress, seeker, and finder? Who would not love you, you innocent, impatient, wind-swift, child-eyed sinner? Whereto are you luring me now, you never-tame extreme? And now you are fleeing from me again, you sweet wildcat and ingrate! I dance after you, I follow wherever your traces linger. Where are you? Give me your hand! Or only one finger! Here are caves and thickets; we shall get lost. Stop! Stand still! Don’t you see owls and bats whirring past? You owl! You bat! Intent to confound! Where are we? Such howling and yelping you have learned from a hound. Your lovely little white teeth are gnashing at me; out of a curly little mane your evil eyes are flashing at me. That is a dance up high and down low: I am the hunter; would you be my dog or my doe? Alongside me now! And swift, you malicious leaping belle! Now up and over there! Alas, as I leaped I fell. Oh, see me lying there, you prankster, suing for grace. I should like to walk with you in a lovelier place. Love’s paths through silent bushes, past many-hued plants. Or there along that lake: there goldflsh swim and dance. You are weary now? Over there are sunsets and sheep: when shepherds play on their flutes—is it not lovely to sleep? You are so terribly weary? I’ll carry you there; just let your arms sink. And if you are thirsty-! I have got something, but your mouth does not want it to drink. Oh, this damned nimble, supple snake and slippery witch! Where are you? In my face two red blotches from your hand itch. I am verily weary of always being your sheepish shepherd. You witch, if I have so far sung to you, now you shall cry. Keeping time with my whip, you shall dance and cry! Or have I forgotten the whip? Not I!

Walter Kaufmann translation from evankozierachi.com

Lying Poets (pt. 4)

Jun23

oyster

Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these have as yet been their best contemplation. Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seems to me all the jinglejangling of their harps; what have they known thus far of the fervour of tones!- They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that it may seem deep. And rather would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries and mixers are they to me, and half-and-half, and impure! Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish; but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God. Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may well originate from the sea. Certainly, one finds pearls in them: thereby they are the more like hard molluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime. They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the peacock of peacocks? Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes does it spread out its tail; never does it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk. Disdainfully does the buffalo glance thereat, close to the sand with its soul, closer still to the thicket, closest, however, to the swamp. What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak to the poets. Truly, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity! Spectators seeks the spirit of the poet – should they even be buffaloes!- But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it will become weary of itself. Yes, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards themselves. Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the poets. – Thus spoke Zarathustra.

from: Thus Spoke Zarathustra by F. Nietzsche (Ed: Bill Chapko)

The Lying Poets (Pt. 3)

Jun23

Zarathustra Cloud

Ah, there are so many things between heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed! And especially above the heavens: for all gods are poet-symbolisations, poet-sophistications! Truly, ever are we drawn aloft – that is, to the realm of the clouds: on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them gods and Supermen: Are not they light enough for those chairs! – all these gods and Supermen? Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! Ah, how I am weary of the poets! When Zarathustra so spoke, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath. I am of today and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter. I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are they all to me, and shallow seas. They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling did not reach to the bottom.

from: Thus Spoke Zarathustra by F. Nietzsche (Ed: Bill Chapko)

The Lying Poets (Pt. 2)

Jun21

The Fool

We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie. And which of us poets has not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous hotchpotch has evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing has there been done. And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women! And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us. And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which chokes up for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in their “wisdom.” This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricks up his ears when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learns something of the things that are between heaven and earth. And if there come to them tender emotions, then do the poets always think that nature herself is in love with them: And that she steals to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before all mortals!