Going Public - The Art of Narration

GOING PUBLIC 24.01. 2014

Nähe des Geliebten
von J.W. von Goethe

Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer
Vom Meere strahlt;
Ich denke dein, wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer
In Quellen malt.
Ich sehe dich, wenn auf dem fernen Wege
Der Staub sich hebt;
In tiefer Nacht, wenn auf dem schmalen Stege
Der Wandrer bebt.
Ich höre dich, wenn dort mit dumpfem Rauschen
Die Welle steigt.
Im stillen Haine geh ich oft zu lauschen,
Wenn alles schweigt.
Ich bin bei dir, du seist auch noch so ferne.
Du bist mir nah!
Die Sonne sinkt, bald leuchten mir die Sterne.
O wärst du da!

Source:http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/N%C3%A4he_des_Geliebten
Image by Peter Davey

Nähe des Geliebten by J.W. von  Goethe read by Sonia Vilim in German

GOING PUBLIC 24.01. 2014

LOVE'S NEARNESS
translated by Henry Van Dyke

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
          Across the sea;
And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer
          I think of thee.

I see thy form when down the distant highway
          The dust-clouds rise;
In darkest night, above the mountain by-way
          I see thine eyes.

I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning
          Aloud rejoice;
And on the lonely moor in silence yearning
          I hear thy voice.

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed,
          Yet thou art near.
The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—Beloved
          If thou wert here!

From the German of Goethe, 1898.

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/
Image: Peter Davey

Love´s Nearness by J.W. von Goethe read by Sonia Vilim in English

The Hawk
By William Henry Davies
 
 Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched,
     The air is all around:
    What is it that can keep thee set,
     From falling to the ground?
    The concentration of thy mind
     Supports thee in the air;
    As thou dost watch the small young birds,
     With such a deadly care.

    My mind has such a hawk as thou,
     It is an evil mood;
    It comes when there's no cause for grief,
     And on my joys doth brood.
    Then do I see my life in parts;
     The earth receives my bones,
    The common air absorbs my mind -
     It knows not flowers from stones.

Source: www.public-domain-poetry.com

The Hawk by W. H. Davies  read by Sonia Vilim

Bereft
By Robert Lee Frost

Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch's sagging floor,
leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.

Source: www.public-domain-poetry.com

Bereft by Robert Lee Frost read by Sonia Vilim

A Winter Eden
By Robert Lee Frost 

A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.

Source: www.public-domain-poetry.com
Image: Peter Davey



Sonia Vilim reads A Winter Eden by Robert Lee Frost

Windmill Hill, Winchelsea, East Sussex at two o' clock in the morning on a summer night. 

Windmill Hill 2 - 2

I am an artist, writer and poet living in Winchelsea on the coast of East Sussex, England. 

Windmill Hill 2 - 2

PETER DAVEY