AUTHOR BLOG: SATIS SHROFF

AUTHOR BLOG: SATIS SHROFF

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg and is a poet, humanist, lecturer and artist. He writes poems, fiction, non-fiction, and also on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. The German media describes him as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and he sees his future as a writer, singer (MGV-Kappel) and poet. He received the Pablo Neruda Award 2017 for Poetry in Crispiano (Italy, the Heimat Medaillie Baden-Württemberg for Literature and Heimatpflege 2018 and the DAAD-Prize.

Books by Satis Shroff HIMALAYA MICROPOEMS: Satis Shroff Lights flicker in Mahabharat mountains The air smells of rhododendrons The splendour of the Himalayas. * * * I stay in my tent Dream of cherry blossoms And a blonde in kimono. * * * The fishtailed one appears Gleaming in silvery moonshine Mirrored on placid Phewa lake. * * * Winter is here The magic of snowy landscape Out with the snowboots. * * * Snowflakes falling from Heaven Frau Holle is dusting blankets Gott sei Dank my heater works * * * Art by Satis Shroff Clouds waltz in the sky Men are out to conquer The holy Himalayan peaks. * * * Sudden monsoon rain Soaks the mountainside A landslide causes screams of agony. * * * Baptism of monsoon A landslide washed the road away Groping and cursing uphill as a child. The large ice chunks leap Crash upon the fragile tents The base camp’s a crevice. * * * Snow in my tent Earthquake Tremor in my heart * * * It’s April The air is getting thinner Avalanche growls. * * * The Alsatian’s muzzle Sniffs and buries deep A hand is uncovered. * * * The black cat prowls at night A long day of napping Lies ahead in Namchebazaar. * * * GE DIGITAL CAMERA Beneath my tree’s canopy I sit and sip My cuppa Ilam tea. * * *

A DREAM LED TO ANOTHER: SATIS SHROFF I was around twenty years old, My head full of dreams. I left the Himalayan foothills to win a dream: A dream to go to Europe, visit places I’d read about. The Bastille from Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, Where I spent time recalling the French Revolution. My friend’s Parisienne sister shook her head and said: ‘Monsieur Satish, there are other ways of spending an afternoon in Paris.’ The smell of sea food at a French harbour, Such as the peasants of Normandy built. La Rochelle and the German bunkers in the Ile d’ Oleron. I peered at sea fogs from the mighty Atlantic, Watched the ‘last oozing, hours by hours, From a cider-press’ in the Vosges, as John Keats aptly put it. *** In Blenhelm’s little tavern I saw murals of its famous son: Winston Leonhard Spencer Churchill. I stood in front of Churchill’s grave; Above his remains lay his mother. The words of James Shirley came to my mind: ‘Death lays his icy hands on kings, Sceptre and crown, Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made. With the poor crooked scythe and spade.’ I listened to the English ‘Country Sound,’ I’d read in William Cowper’s verses. An eighteenth century house, described by George Eliot. A pub akin to the one in John Burn’s ‘Tam o’ Shanter’: Even though ‘pleasures are like poppies spread.’ Took a swig of English ale in picturesque Burford, A Cotswold town in Southern England. Country scenarios depicted by John Milton in ‘The Poet’s Pleasure:’ ‘And the milkmaid swingeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe.’ To walk over the Thames Bridge between Waterloo Bridge and Chelsea, As in Stephen Gwynn’s ‘Decay of Sensibility:’ ‘The half-light when the lamps are first lit’ in London. Where the people are now confronted With the uncertainties of Brexit, And promises made by Trump to May. Peered at the Gurkha and Scottish Guards Doing their loyal duty near the Buckingham Palace. One dream led to another; I found myself in Stratford-upon-Avon, To be reminded of the Bard’s words: ‘Turning again toward childish treble, Pipes and whistles in his sound’ From The Seven Ages of Man. *** ‘In Denmark’ with Edmund Gosse, When he wrote about: ‘All the little memories of this last afternoon, How trifling they are, How indelible!’ At the German butcher’s in Oberried with my friend, Who died later of aneurisma of the aorta, The Metzer’s daughter was what he called an ‘Augenweide.’ Having read Mary Shelly’s ‘Frankenstein,’ I found myself in the apothecary in Heidelberg castle, And later in the Anatomy Museum in Basle, Fascinated by the deformed specimens, Preserved in formalin. Back in the lovely Schwarzwald town of Freiburg im Breisgau I dissecting an elderly German’s body, Under glaring white neon light. Did he fight the Russians in Stalingrad? He couldn’t tell me his story. *** The inner German border wall, Long lines of inhuman barbed wire, Meant to keep humans in, Not out. Hitler said: ‘The great masses of the people …will more easily fall victim to a great lie Than to a small one.’ *** Queen Aishwarya and Frau Marianne Weizsäcker in Bonn, King Birendra in the foreground at La Redoute. The British Gurkhas were also present on the occasion in civil. King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya came On a state visit to Bonn, With familiar faces from Nepal’s media. A reception at La Redoute and Graf Zeppelin, And a salute from the Bundesgrenzschutz In Echterdingen. A few years later the Royal family was massacred, By the crown prince so the tale goes. ‘Strange things happen in Nepal,’ said my Swabian physician. *** As if in reply to the 20th year of the Berlin Wall. A metal plate with these words of Konrad Adenauer Was hung on 13.8.1981 in Bayern-Thüringen: “The entire German folk Behind the iron Curtain call us, Not to forget them! We will not stand still, We will not rest, Till Germany Is united again In peace and freedom.” We’re fortunate to have lived to see the day. An invitation from President Gauck And Winfried Kretschmann Flattered to me one day from Stuttgart. A Spätzle lunch with the Landesvater And dinner with the President. *** My dreams lived in my head with fluid thoughts. Went to Venice and imagined the speech Of Portia to Shylock in The Merchant of Venice: ‘…in the course of justice, None of us should see salvation.’ A dream within a dream, Of a young man from the Himalayas, Now grown old with a shuffling gait. Goes to Crispano to be bestowed the Neruda Award 2017, For his verses And thereby hangs a tale. * * * A Schauinsländer Berggeist-Kappel visits the author (c) foto courtesy: stefanheinz, germany MOON OVER THE ARABIAN SEA (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel) Surrounded by the greyish clouds, I see a full moon Glowing in the Prussian blue sky. I walk to the Gateway of India, Look beyond, Where the breakers Thrash against Mumbai’s shore. Waves from the Arabian Sea, That have brought pirates, Islamic invaders, Warships of colonial powers From foreign shores. Goa, Pondicherry, Calcutta, Become household words, In Portugal, France and Britain. A warm reassuring breeze Whispers by. Gandhi’s dreams have come true, The British have come true, The British, French and Portugese Have left the shores Of Hindustan. Tourists now spend their money On sightseeing: Corpses smouldering At the ghats, Candlelight dinners In Rajput palaces, Armies of beggars Along the footpaths, Slumdogs Who won’t be millionaires. The rich dream of more dollars, At the cost of construction workers, Underpaid and exploited. The poor dalits cling To their dreams at night, For dreams are not forbidden And are as free, As the bad air you breathe. In my thoughts, A heavenly Apsara appears, Dances and sings, Her heavenly song. My reverie is broken By the hooting Of a white ocean liner, Streaking above The ripples of the sea. * * * THE POETRY OF EXISTENCE (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel) What a boon, A peaceful day Without human cries, Pent up emotions, Banging doors, Crashing cutlery, Loud stereo songs, Intrusive MP3s Belting out Sido, Bushido, 50 Cent. A tranquil day Means a lot to humans. To immerse oneself In a book, Is to take time From the bustle Of everyday life. Even though it’s Another person’s life You read about. Is the hero courageous, Or is he cowardly? Does he tell lies Or is he loyal? Does he carry a weapon Like Ian Flemming’s hero? Or are words his weapon? Time flies: A stack of dishes to clean, There’s dust on the floor, A meal to cook. What did you say? Time and tide, Waits for no one. * * * THE JOY OF DANCING (Satis Shroff) The first strokes of the music And your brain tells you What dance it belongs to. You’re already underway, With your beautiful partner, Even before the others awake, On the dance floor, Gliding gently in tact. That’s creativity for you. The more you dance The more you enjoy. You know there are people around you, In evening gowns and dinner jackets, Sipping their champagne, Sekt or red wine. Nodding, Doing minimal gyrations, Smiling and feeling good, Between morsels of caviar. As the evening advances, You feel ecstatic, In your mind You’re doing fine. Ah, there’s epinephrine Surging in your blood. Your heart is beating faster, Your legwork is not bad, You smile at your partner, Isn’t life delightful? * * * A Handkerchief (Satis Shroff) What is a handkerchief, But a piece of cloth, Meant to wipe A weeping widow’s tears, Or the fluid from the nose, When you’ve caught the cold. A handkerchief can mean, The loneliness of humans, At the face of loss, In cafes, Bahnhofs, Airports and bus-stations, Operas, theatres, Cinemas and plays Of this worldly stage. A handkerchief Brings people together, Empathy emanates Between strangers. We show we are humans, With emotions And not zombies. Sometimes, Even in public We tremble, Tears roll down Our cheeks, As we try to keep A stiff upper lip. Creative Writing, Freiburg About the Author: Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is the published author of three books on http://www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. Satis Shroff is a poet and writer based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize. MEHR MEER A translator and essayist Born in 1946 in Slovakia, Grew up in Switzerland, Living in Zürich, Won the Swiss Buch.09 award And 50,000 Swiss Franks. The jury was delighted With her ‘Mehr Meer,’ Written with a pen Dipped in beauty That fills the world With poetry. With her More Seas, She sailed past Peter Stamm With his novel Seven Years, Shortlisted contemporaries: Eleonore Frey, Jürg Laederach, Angelika Overath and Urs Widmer. A tale about memories Of a daughter, Of Hungarian And Slovenian descent, With sojourns in Budapest, Ljublijana, Triest, Zürich, Leningrad and Paris. The poetess of this passage Of memories Is Ilma Rakussa, A sincere lady with a haircut, Akin to Prince Valiant, With a soft voice. The atmosphere was sticky, The visitors stiff, Perspiring in their garments At the Basler Erlenmatten Street. What a pleasant surprise: Buch.09 is going Buch Basel again. * * * Satis Shroff sings ‘Speedy Gonzales’ at the Brauchtumsabend in Kappel Broadway Songs und Deutsche Lieder aus dem Dreisamtal (Satis Shroff) Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass ich alte Deutsche Lieder und Broadway-Songs mit den einheimischen Deutschen des Männergesangsverein (Männerchor) in Freiburg-Kappel singen würde. In den vergangenen Jahren wurde ich öfters von Alois aus Zähringen gefragt, ob ich nicht auch singen möchte. Aber ich hatte gezögert, weil ich zu beschäftigt mit meinen Vorträgen und Kinder gewesen war. Inzwischen ist der alte Alois an einer Herz-Attacke gestorben und ich vermisse sein freundliches Gesicht, wie er mich jedes Mal, wenn ich ihn in Zähringen traf mit einem Lächeln begrüßte. Hier in Kappel singe ich nun als zweiter Tenor und es ist wirklich spannend. 20 Euro für die Mitgliedschaft und weitere 100 Euro für den blauen Rock, und Sie sind Teil des Chores, bereit für das Singen bei eigenen Konzerten und als Gastchor bei Festen in den verschiedenen Teilen des Dreisamtals. Ich konnte es nicht glauben. Tatsächlich probten wir deutsche und englische Lieder in Hochdorf mit den Damen dort und sangen mit den anderen Chören aus dem Dreisamtal in Buchenbach mit 600 deutschen Zuhörern und Applaudierern. Das Dreisamtal besteht aus Kirchzarten, Oberried, Buchenbach und Stegen. Man hat einen herrlichen Ausblick auf das Dreisamtal, wenn man aus Buchenbach in Richtung Höllental über Himmelreich geht. Die angrenzenden Täler sind sehr romantisch mit grünen Wiesen, rauschenden Bächen und malerischen Schwarzwald Bauernhöfen, eine Mühle, die noch in Betrieb ist und die Ruinen der Burg Wiesneck. Da ist dann noch der Hansmeyerhof, ein Bauernhof Museum in der Nähe von Wagensteig. Unweit entfernt liegt Stegen, auf der sonnigen Seite des Dreisamtal. Das Schloss von Weiler wurde im Jahre 1663 erbaut und ist einen Besuch wert, ebenso wie die Schlangen-Kapelle in Wittental. Die barocken Kirche von Eschbach ist einer der schönsten in der Freiburger Gegend. Es gibt viele Schwarzwälder Bauernhöfe, die darauf warten von Ihnen entdeckt zu werden. Vom Lindenberg haben Sie einen ausgezeichneten Blick auf das Dreisamtal. Die Chor-Mitglieder trugen ihre traditionellen Kostüme. Was für ein wunderbares Gefühl. Man spührte wie das Adrenalin in den Blutkreislauf strömte als mit den Anderen gesungen wurde. “Ein Chor ist nichts für Individualisten. Man muss einen harmonischen Klang haben “, das war immer die Mahnung des jungen Dirigenten Felix Rosskopf, wenn wir probten. Es war das erste Mal seit dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, dass alle Dreisamtal Chöre kamen und zusammen sangen. Während des Krieges waren die Deutschen angehalten, Kriegs- und Vaterlandslieder zu singen. Buchenbach scheint ein Problem zu haben, das mittlerweile in den meisten Männer-gesangsvereinen in Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz deutlich wird. Die ältere Generation bricht wegen des Alters und aus Mangel an Mobilität weg und die jüngere “Love-Parade” Generation kümmert sich nicht um die Pflege der alten Tradition des Vaterland. Die Sänger von Buchenbach sangen: Sing mit mir, Oh Shenandoah, Mit Musik geht alles besser. Die Sängerinnen und Sänger von St. Peter aus den hohen Schwarzwald sangen: Freude am Leben, welches mehr gesprochen als gesungen war. O du schöner Rosengarten, das war eine Liebeserklärung und ein anderes lyrisches Lied, welches Rot sind die Rosen hiess. Liebe ist immer ein beliebtes Thema. Die Sängerinnen und Sänger aus Ebnet traten als gemischter Chor auf. “weil viele Männer verstorben sind oder den Verein verlassen haben.”, so Klaus. Die Ebneter Sänger sangen: Capri Fisher, Ich brech die Herzen der stolzesten Frauen, ein lady-killer song in deutscher Sprache und ein Walzer für dich und mich. Der Männerchor aus Kirchzarten sang: Die Sonne erwacht, ein traditionelles deutsches Lied, Hymne, O Iris komponiert von Wolfgang Mozart. Ich sah eine Menge von Sängern, die eine fliehende Stirn, leuchtend unter den Lichtern der Bühne, hatten. Die meisten von ihnen trugen eine Brille und alle waren für diesen Anlass gekleidet. Die Damen tragen lange, fließende Abendkleider oder kamen in den traditionellen Dirndeln des Schwarzwaldes, und die Männer in Trachten oder tadellosen Anzügen. Kirchzarten liegt auf dem Weg zum Hirschsprung, Hinterzarten und Titisee, einem Gletschersee. In Kirchzarten können Nordic Walking machen, Golf spielen, entspannen im Kneipp-Zentrum mit Wassertherapie und man kann Französisch Boule spielen wie Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence). Die Sängerinnen und Sänger aus Zarten sangen: Heimat, deine Sterne, Strangers in the Night, Are You Lonesome Tonight (deutsche Version). Wir, von Kappel, sangen: “Ein Freund, ein guter Freund und La Le Lu ein Wiegenlied für Jung und Alt aus einem alten deutschen Film mit Heinz Rühmann in der Hauptrolle. Die Sänger aus Oberried sangen am besten. Oberried ist für die höchsten Gipfel des Schwarzwaldes bekannt: Feldberg und Schauinsland. Es gibt ein Heimatmuseum genannt Schniederlihof, einen Steinbruch auf einem Hügel, das in ein Museum umgewandelt wurde, und natürlich die Unterhaltungpark Steinwasen. Die Vegetation in diesem Teil ist sub-alpine. Im Sommer kann man jede Menge Bergsteigen, Spaziergänge genießen und Picknicks auf den saftigen grünen Wiesen. Im Winter ist Oberriede ein Skiparadies. Hier ist ebenso Deutschlands erster Bergnatur Friedhof. Zu einer anderen Gelegenheit wurden wir von den Hochdorfern als Gastsänger eingeladen. Das Thema war Filmmusik und wir sangen Lieder aus: Adiemus, Jungle Book, den Blauen Engel, Truxa, Gasparone, Lena’s song, Gabriella’s Song, Fünf Millionen suchen einen Erben, Frauen sind keine Engel (Frauen sind keine Engel), True Love, mein Heart Will auf (Titanic) Go, Nur nicht aus Liebe weinen, In mir klingt ein Lied, Für ein Nachtvoller Seligkeit (Kora Terry), Moon River (aus Breakfast at Tiffany’s), Midnight Blues und Conquest of Paradise. Ein großer Bildschirm in der Nähe der Bühne wurde benutzt, um Szenen aus den Filmen zu zeigen. Auch wir Sänger wurden digital aufgenommen. Das deutsche Publikum zeigte sich sehr empfänglich und Felix Rosskopf gab sein Bestes. Der Applaus in der Hochdorfer Halle war donnernden. Die Standing Ovations am Ende haben uns sehr gefreut. Das war ein tolles Gefühl, als wir alle Die Eroberung des Paradieses mit Begeisterung sangen. Der Text ist eigentlich albern und künstlich, aber die Wirkung auf das Publikum ist großartig. Man konnte fühlen, wie der Funke vom Dirigenten über die Sänger zum Publikum übersprang. Das Singen dieser Lieder war eine fantastisches Wellness-Erlebnis und extrem in seiner therapeutischen Wirkung. Das tut im Herzen gut. Nachdem das Singen beendet ist, ist es üblich zusammen zu sitzen und etwas deutsches Bier oder Wein vor Ort zu Trinken. Man spricht über das Konzert, reißt Witze oder diskutiert über private Angelegenheiten , wenn man Lust hat. Wenn man sich so einem Verein verpflichtet hat, lernt man alles über sein Dorf und dessen Leute kennen. Man sagt, wenn drei Deutsche zusammen kommen gründen sie einen Verein. Und so war es, als vor 75 Jahren ein Gesangverein versuchte die alten Lieder zu retten. In Buchenbach gründeten sie den Verein Edelweiss und ein Motto ist: “Wir amüsieren uns zu Tode.” Ein Gesangverein ist ein Ort, wo man unterhalten wird, in dem Sie über Ihre Probleme mit Ihrem Gesang Kameraden sprechen und sich gegenseitig helfen. So war es seit Generationen, und diese Tradition wurde fortgesetzt. Zum Beispiel, wenn mein Freund Klaus Sütterle einen Teil seines alten Haus renovieren will, fragt er nur jemand aus dem Verein in einem der sozialen Trinkgelage nach Hilfe und schon ist bereits alles im Gange, ganz ohne Bürokratie. Es ist eine Politik des Gebens und Nehmens, wie in den alten Tagen. Viele suchen nach einem Grund im Leben. Durch die Texte der Lieder und der Prozess des zusammen Singens im Chor hilft in der Gemeinde und dieses Handeln wiederum führt zu Begegnungen und Austausch von Ideen und Spaß am Leben. Die Texte tragen dazu bei, die Werte, die in dieser technischen Welt verloren gehen zu erhalten, wenn Arbeit entfällt, Plätze wegrationalisiert werden und die Angst vor dem Verlust des Arbeitsplatzes steigt. Das hängt über dem Kopf wie das Schwert des Damokles. In einem Gesangverein ist es üblich seine Sorgen und sein Glück zu teilen, mit einander zu reden und sich einzuladen. Es gibt sicherlich eine Menge Vorzüge und Vorteile Mitglied in einem Verein oder Club zu sein. Ich persönlich denke, es gibt nichts Besseres für die Seele, als laut zu singen, ein Gedicht laut zu rezitieren, weil wir alle mit einer Stimme ausgestattet sind, mit der wir eine Melodie erzeugen können. Wenn du mit anderen zusammen singst beginnst du zu realisieren, wie gut man singt, so verbessern Sie dann Ihre Stimme, Atmung und sozialen Fähigkeiten. In einem Chor können Sie Alltagsstress loswerden, kreativ sein und sich einen positiven Stress machen, anstatt einer negativen Stressbelastung zu erliegen. Man hat immer ein Gefühl der Hochstimmung, wenn der letzte Akkord erklingt. Ah, das Singen bereitet soviel Freude. Statt deprimierender, frustrierender Gedanken, haben Sie positive Bilder und Gefühle, und entwickeln die Kraft in Ihrer Stimme mit Elan und wachsen mit dem Lied. Sie machen Musik mit Ihren Stimmen. Man sieht nur lächelnde Gesichter und so lächelt man zurück. Dieses Gefühl ist ansteckend. Man knüpft Kontakte zu Anderen vor und hinter der Bühne. Wenn Sie allein und traurig sind, singen und jubeln Sie sich froh. Ihr Gesang erheitert auch andere und Sie sind sozial integriert, bevor Sie es realisieren. Plötzlich singen Sie bei Konzerten alte, deutsche und neue, englische Lieder die bei Jung und Alt bekannt sind. Singen hilft Hemmungen und soziale Barrieren abzubauen und führt zu einer Gemeinsamkeit unter den Menschen. Es gibt ein Miteinander, statt Vorurteile und Egoismus. Sie tun etwas für die Anderen und erwarten deshalb nicht, dass jemand etwas für sie tut. Sie teilen ihre Freude. Durch die Lieder bringen wir unsere Gefühle des Glücks und der Freude, der Trauer und des Leids zum Ausdruck. Wir erfreuen uns und finden Trost in den Texten der Lieder und lassen uns mitreissen von der überragenden Wirkung sakraler Musik. Durch das Singen werden Hormone wie Endorphine und Epinephrine (Adrenalin) freigesetzt. Das ist gut für den Kreislauf und fördert die Gesundheit. Unter den Sängern haben wir Sprichwort. Wo man singt da lass Dich nieder, böse Menschen kennen keine Lieder. Das ist genau das was ich gemacht habe. Ein wunderbarer Ort auf dieser Erde, dieser Schwarzwald. Herzlich Willkommen im Schwarzwald! Welcome to the Black Forest! Songs from the Schwarzwald, St. Peter#satisshroff CATMANDU, FREIBURG & OTHER POEMS (Satis Shroff) FREIBURG, CATMANDU & OTHER POEMS (SATIS SHROFF) SDC12726-002 7cfc8-gedc3769

FREIBURG AND CATMANDU (Satis Shroff) Freiburg: the finest spire in Christendom, Which bombs couldn’t destroy In two Great Wars. Old men pulled carts with their belongings, Along the cobbled Kaiser-Joseph-Strasse. Women were taken to dances, By African American GIs. Children received chocolates. ‘Hallo Fräulein!’ did the rounds, In poverty-stricken, ramshackled Germany. The GIs returned years later to admire The splendour of cities they’d bombed. The Fräuleins were elderly ladies now, Who frequented posh cafes, operas and lectures. Catmandu: the all-seeing-eyes Of the primordeal Buddha, Still welcomes visitors From around the globe. The hippies have long left This cannabis paradise of yore. Its hotels and trekking lodges offer Western food galore, And fast-climbs for dudes and nerds To Everest. The Gurkhas still die under foreign skies, For the Queen of England. The Sherpas and porters carry the sahib’s loads, Suffer from acute-mountain-sickness, Or still die as unsung heroes, As Tigers of the Snow. The children still beg in its strets Or work in shady backrooms, Of outsourced fashion firms. Cat Stevens sings as Yusuf even today. * * * * THE DANCE OF THE BIRCH TREES (Satis Shroff) The naked white birch trees Stand close to each other, Waiting for the music Of the Dreisam Valey wind To begin. A gust comes, Followed by another, Making the trees sway, Like a wise white woman’s long tresses, The thin, supple twigs That almost reach half the size of the trees, Have a faster rhythm of their own. The hurricane-like wind Gathers its energy for the finale. Ah, the upper branches With capillary-like twigs, As they anastomose, Developing into a canopy, Become intensive In their movements to and fro. In the background you see The blue Black Forest hills, With homesteads like dots On the snow-covered hillsides, That are lit now. The blueish-grey clouds which were on the move, Have taken a prussian blue hue. A weak yellowish light, Manages to break through, Above the snowy-clad peaks. A semblance of a sunset In the Schwarzwald. * * * A TRAIN JOURNEY (Satis Shroff) A screaming train, Billowing smoke and sparks, As it reaches Ghoom hill, Descends to Darjeeling Looping its way to lessen its speed. What unfurls is a memorable Bergblick: The majestic panorama of the snown peaks, The Kanchenjunga in all its splendour. The summits like a jeweled crown, Bathed in golden, yellow and orange light. A moment of revelation in life, Shared on a particular evening, As the sun goes down slowly, The mountain range is glowing, A Himalayan glow. A feast for the eyes of the beholder, The play of lights Evoked by the dying sun, Upon the massif. * * * MY MOM’S GARDEN (Satis Shroff) THERE’S a microcosmos In my Mom’s garden. I hear her calling my name. No, it isn’t the ‘sh’ of Sanskrit, Nor the ‘sch’ of the Alemannic tongue. It’s a Nepalese accent from the hills. A French lass prounced it With an Alsatian lash. My Mom loved and grew roses. In Summer the fragrant aroma Of the pink and red roses, Worked like aphrodiciacs. She grew cabbages, salads and lentils, Took delight in her abundance. Sparrows flew around busily in summer, Swallows flew low in winter. Between June till September, The torrential monsoon. A parrot ith red eyes whirrs by, Brings the day to an end. The trees, shrubs and flowers are thankful Towards Indra who has sent rain. After Dad’s tragic demise, She lives in an apartment in the capital. No garden, just salbei and a few flowers On the window sill, As she prays to the Gods In the Abode of the Snows. * * * WIN THE DAY (Satis Shroff) WHEN you withhold yourself You become weak, For it is you yourself, Who does this to yourself. Give in, Surrender to yourself And you have won the day. * * * STORM IN THE NIGHT (Satis Shoff) I walke up and peer from my cosy room. The trembling waves shatter noisily, With the ebb and the tide. The frowning cumuli gather in the vast sky. It’s raining and the waves become choppy, Trawlers are tossed like logs By the furious water. The waves thrash on the cliffs, Which stand to attention Like sentinels as the war rages, The krieg of the elements. Oblivious of the storm in the night, I take refuge under my warm blanket, At the seaside hotel Mon Bijou In the isle of Sylt. * * * Dreamcatcher Talisman Indian Federn Kultur MAN’S FOLLEY (Satis Shroff) Bloody colonial migrations in the West, Blood feuds between white settlers Versus the Native Sons of America. Greed-driven ranchers and gunslingers, Fighting for land and water rights. This was how the west was won. Rights? The rights of the native Americans? Or the rights of the invading European grabbers? The Spirit of the Wild West goes marching on. America is yet struggling with itself. The clash of haves and have-nots, The greed for power of the white mainstream, The conflict of skin and Social Darwinism Still spills over in Ferguson, Mother Earth watches over Man’s folley. * * * Image result for royalty free pics moth & candle THE ADMONITION (Satis Shroff) The motley mother moth Warns the young butterfly: ‘Beware of the candle’s Flickering flame.’ The frolicking butterfly replies: ‘It’s so warm and fascinating.’ Golder, flickering flame, Spending warmth, light and music. It enjoys the dance, As the circling wings sway, And the inaudible music Reaches its crescendo. Flying around the burning candle, In a trance like a Dervish dancer. In its merry ecstatic rounds It forgets the words, And is singed by the flame, When a boy opens the window. A frail frivolous butterfly That didn’t heed, The warning of an elderly moth. Wasn’t the admonition Of Daedalus the same? * * * Image result for royalty free pics autumn leaves THE UNKRAUT (Satis Shroff) On the fields are the traces Of harvested maize. Where the tender flowers were, There are now brown, russet leaves, Scattered by the wind, From the Vale of Hell. The leaves that gave joy In their autumnal gaiety, Now strewn upon the earth, To be thrashed by the rain, Trodden by feet in trekking boots. An elderly lady on high heels Wobbles and breaks her dainty femur, Over the treacherous unkraut. The lady is picked up By an ambulance from the Maltese Cross. The leaves remain to rot. No one bothers, As cars speed to and from The Black Forest. * * * Image result for royalty free happy couples MERRY TAVERNS (Satis Shroff) There are taverns in the hamlet, Where the wine and beer Make men merry, And women in deep decolltes, Cast glances; Moving their eyelashes. I leave them to themselves, As I flee and shun them. My heart wants Ruhe, I’m dying of pain, Of longing for you. * * * YEARNING (Satis Shroff) Women are like flowers: Jasmine, tulips, Rhododendrons and roses. But need you pluck everyone? How wonderful to admire them, Take delight at watching them, As they bloom and wilt. I see the Schwarzwald stream, With its refreshing cold water, Therein I see my countenance, A pale man with white sideburns. Then I see you, A peaceful mind overwhelms me. My heart begins to glow With yearning for you. * * * Image result for royalty free iceberg images ENDURING PAIN (Satis Shroff) Nights I wake up With terrible pain; Don’t know where to turn. Despite the potions from the apothecary, Capsules from novasulfon, tincture opii, Pancreas powder with amylase, Lipase, protease, Oxalis mixture, hyoscyamus, Valeriana cocktail, Depotspritze, Rounded up with Lormetazepam. I’m in Schmerz. I kept a stiff upper lip, When the chirurg solemnly said: ‘Your tumor is like an iceberg, We only see the top. Below it’s growing wantonly. I’m afraid I can’t operate. If we begin we’ll never end. Too many mines in this battlefield.’ I’d been brooding after the computer tomography. I didn’t wince. I was in shock. The realisation of the diagnosis Sank slowly in my mind. I decided to make the best of it. No use reeling under The shattering words. When will my anatomical ruin fall? That wasn’t my problem. Till then I had time to live, Every day to the full, With my senses, With my thoughts and words. To borrow a line from John Keats: ‘The poetry of earth is ceasing never.’ The beauty and delight of living Far exceeds the pain from a tumor, As big as a fist. * * * SNOW IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff) At 2 o’ clock in the morning, I look out of my window: It’s snowing in Kappel, In the Schwarzwald. I see the white snowflakes, Falling ceaselessly, silently, stealthily, Made visible by the dim yellowish treet lamp. A car comes crunching down the curve, Its red rear-lights glowing. The rooftops and house railings are covered, As with powder sugar. The clouds are veiled, And Heaven has become frosty. Ah, I sleep and wake up again, To find the lovely hamlet Ringed with hills and meadows, Covered with a thick mantle of snow. Dazzling whiteness where you look. On such a Sunday morning, I take my snowspade, To clear the winding stairs: For common courtesy demands That passersby shouldn’t slip and fall, On the street before your house. We all have to kehr, Lest others despair. The shepherd from the Molchhofsiedlung Has left the once-green meadows, His hundred sheep don’t bleat anymore, Below Maier’s Hill. With my snow-chores done, Followed by a hearty Black Forest breakfast, I take a brisk morning walk, Over the snow-clad landscape, Respire and enjoy the refreshing Bergluft. Posted on November 18, 2020 · Edit machhapuchare: the fish-tailed one (satis shroff) machapuchare,pokhara, nepal,pixabay the fish-tailed one (satisshroff, freiburg) your eyes never tire of watching the different moods of the fish-tailed one in pokhara. at dawn, noon and dusk. this majestic peak, this sacred mountain of the gurung folk, who live below it, and revere this towering peak. no foreign boots are allowed to trample this path, and climb to the peak. climbers have respected this wish of the gurung folk. Berge, Gipfel, Schnee, Spitze foto everest,nepal,pixabay but the khumbu sherpas, who are lured by dollars, offer incense sticks and tormas, to please, bribe and pacify the gods. tourism dictates and the locals follow. enabling global climbers to trudge over sacred mountains. no, these moneyed people don’t worship the mountains, they worship their egos. climbing is a conversation piece: look I climbed everest, it’s on youtube and facebook. i made it to the top of the world. ICH-ICH-ICH. I did it. others who weren’t so lucky, will turn up in a moraine, years later as stiff corpses. ©satisshroff, freiburg, germany Posted on October 4, 2019 · Edit SCHWARZWALD POEMS: SATIS SHROFF e7999-sdc16945 ALPINE GRATITUDE (Satis Shroff) The hamlets are scattered, Tucked away in the side valleys and spurs Of the Black Forest, Which was once dark and foreboding. A forest that once conjoured myths, legends And fairy tales. Under the hay and homesteads, You find men and mice, Good natured maids and children, Healthy and happy cows, goats, Sheep and swines. The Schwarzwald farmers paid low taxes, For Nature punished them enough. They couldn’t get rich on the craggy soil, The high elevation and the long, raw winter. Yet the Black Forest forced the soil, To yield millet in Summer, Wheat and barley, Buried beneath a thick mantle of snow. Ah, it’s already past the month of October, The young calves are in the stalls, After a colourful, traditional walk From the higher alpine meadows. There’s corn in the chamber, Feed for the animals in the barns. Around Freiburg the apple trees, Are laden heavily with apples. Your nostrils smell apple mixed with cinnamon and sugar: Applekompott, apple moos, apple pancakes and pies. * * * FEATHERED FRIENDS (Satis Shroff) A pair of binocs and patience Is all you need. Watching our feathered friends In the garden or the Black Forest. Hush! A steglitz with red and white feathers, Has just come by. Some pigeons have left Freiburg And roost on the pine trees, In the urban outskirts. The blaumeise is a frequent guest, With its black streak across the eyes, And the blue feathered cap it wears. Yesterday was sunny And a robin took a speedy bath, On the stone pool, Ever on guard, Lest it be surprised, By a curious jay or a prowling cat. Now and then you hear the zaunkönig, Europe’s smallest bird, Trilling out loud, Grabbing everyone’s attention. But in the evening, When the sun goes down, It’s time for the loveliest melodies, Sung by the blackbird, From my neighbour’s rooftop. (c)satisshroff Glossary: Steglitz: goldfinch Blaumeise: blue tit Zaunkönig: wren Blackbird: Amsel Image may contain: bird * * * CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff) Ach, To lie in bed And listen to the birds sing. I peer at the pine trees above, Heavily laden with fluffy snow, Like sentinels of the Black Forest. I espy something moving: Three deer with moist black noses, Sniffing the Kappler air, Strut among the low bushes In all their elegance, Only to vanish silently, Into the recesses of the Foret Noir. I hear the robin, Rotkehlchen, With its clear, loud, pearly tone, As it greets the day. Just before sunrise the black bird, Amsel, Which flies high on the tree tops, Delivers its early arias. The great titmouse stretches its wings And starts to sing. The brown sparrows turn up With their repertoire, Rap in the garden, Twitter and chirp aloud. All this noise makes the bullfinch alert, For it also wants to be heard. It starts its high pitched melody With gusto in the early hours. The starling clears its throat: What comes is whistles, Mingled with smacking sounds. The woodpecker, Specht, Isn’t an early bird, Starts its day late. Pecks with its beak, At a hurried tempo. If that doesn’t get you out of your bed, I’m sure you’re on holiday, Or thank God it’s Sunday. Other feathered friends Who frequent our Black Forest house, Are the green finch, the jay, Goldfinch which we call ‘Stieglitz,’ Larks, thrush and the oriole, The Bird of the Year, On rare occasions. Glossary: English, German, Latin names Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major Bullfinch (Rotfinke): Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris Starling: Sturnus vulgaris Woodpecker (Specht): Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis Oriole: Oriolus oriolus * * * pexels-photo-814938.jpeg SUMMER DELIGHTS IN THE SCHWARZWALD (Satis Shroff) I sat in the garden With Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure On my lap, And saw a small butterfly With dark spots on its frail wings, Violet patterns on its tail. It was Aglais utricae Flattering lightly Between the marigolds And chrysanthemums. The Potentilla nepalensis Was growing well Under the shade of the rhododendrons. The great pumpkin was spreading Its leafy tentacles everywhere. The tomatoes were fighting for light Hiding beneath its gigantic green leaves. I removed long, brown snails, A hobby-gardener of Nepalese descent, In a lovely white house With character in Freiburg-Kappel, An Allemanic stronghold. Once the subject of dispute Between Austria and France, Now a sleepy residential area Of Freiburg im Breisgau. * * * Bild Satish Shroff hat sechs Bücher geschrieben: Im Schatten des Himalaya (Gedichte und Prosa), Through Nepalese Eyes (Reisebericht), Katmandu, Katmandu (Gedichte und Prosa mit Nepali autoren) Glacial Whispers (Gedichtesammlung zwischen 1997-2010). Er hat zwei Sprachführer im Auftrag von Horlemannverlag und Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst (DSE) für Auslandsmitarbeiter der GTZ, sowie Goethe Institut, DAAD, Carl Duisburg Gesellschaft etc. geschrieben. Willkommen! Hardik Swagatam! Welcome to Satis Shroff’s Freiburger Literature which about the musings of the writer & poet, his sketches and drawings, his happiness in Freiburg-Kappel and his longing for the Alps, Himalayas and his musings about the Nature in our environment, which we have to preserve and fight for, lest it be destroyed by human encroachment like in other parts of the world. The writer has worked as a teacher and journalist in Catmandu (Nepal) for The Rising Nepal, a major English language daily. Having come all the way from the Himalayas, I have found a home in the Dreisamtal. The word ‘Tal’ means a Valley in German. I love the wonderful air (Landluft) here, have made good friends in Kappel, and have been living like Mr. Mathew Lobo, my English school teacher, wrote in an e-mail: ‘Satis, you are Omnia bene facere.’ He now lives down under in Perth, and is rather web-active, despite the fact that he’s an octogenarian bajay, a Nepalese word for grandpa. He was the handsomest guy in Darjeeling in the summer of his life, and now he’s a brilliant example of life-long-learning. You will never grow old as long there’s love and this craving for knowledge in your heart. I remember my Mom telling me when I was a school-kid: ‘Satis, vidya (knowledge) is something that no one can take away from you once you have acquired it.’ And at the University of Freiburg are written three words: Wissen ist Macht. Well, life is a long journey, as I see it, and we are all protagonists in each of our life stories. In this long journey we meet a good many people who in some way influence us, give us empathy, dignity, strength, show tolerance and we learn to love and admire these meaningful people in our lives, and there are those we shun, abhor and who have a negative influence and aura around them. In the school compound it’s the same thing. You can’t get along with all kids, all teachers, all parents, all colleagues and bosses. A lot of mobbing and bossing going on there. But the wonderful thing is you don’t have to fraternise with ‘em all. Just humour them, bear with them. You don’t have to spend all your life with ‘em. Find peace through prayer, meditation, autogenic training, yoga or whatever, and praise and nurture the child in you, and you will gain strength. Praise yourself for your achievements and delete the bad memories from your life. Tell yourself, you might not wake up tomorrow and live the day full to the brim. Care for your dear ones. If you don’t have one, find one. ‘Wer sucht, der findet’ runs the adage in German. Out there in the wide world there’s definitely someone with the same wavelength as you waiting to be contacted. Follow your heart, not your head. When you’ve grown older you realise that you cannot get along with everyone. There are people with whom you can only talk about the weather. Even in one’s own family. But there are others who love to talk and have a good time telling about themselves. A good listener and a cheerful attitude always has an advantage. Are you a good listener? In this epoch of computers, bits and bytes, most of us have no time like in Michael Ende’s Momo-story. We forget to take time, because we’re oh-so-busy. Perhaps we’ll realise it when it’s too late, when our Aufenthaltserlaubnis or stay permit on this planet is over, and our souls head for the cosmos at the speed of light. However, as long as we live we ought to indulge in a bit of enjoyment, fun, wellness and try to find the equilibrium with ourselves. Can you accept the way you are? Are you satisfied with yourself, with what you’ve done till now? Then you’ve lived a meaningful life. Weiter so. I find it so enriching to have Nature around us, the chirping of the birds in the dense, lush green bushes and trees, the beautiful blue range of hills of the Dreisam Valley, and in the evening the soothing Höllentäler wind after a sunny day. From the Rosskopf, which is now known for its four white windmill rotor blades, you can have a commanding view of the entire Dreisam Valley and the approach to the Elz Valley, as well as the distant Breisgau. It’s definitely worth a visit. Ah, the Black Forest was once to the French Forêt Noire, a dark, gloomy area, difficult to traverse and unpopulated forested hills. To the English the Black Forest conjured up images of the Black-Forest Man, who evoked fear in children, and was delpicted as being half-wild and a robber to boot. In Nepal the mothers also mention the yeti or sokpa when the children are not obedient to instill fear in them should they not refrain from their pranks and stubborness. Children are also told tales about the robber Hotzenplotz who is known to blast you with his pepper-pistole. Even Germans from other parts of the country have been known to bestow the Black Forest with negative compliments as a wild and sad place. However, when a traveller comes from the Rhine, Donau or Neckar Valleys to the heights of the Schwarzwald, they are delighted to find beauty, fresh air, spas (Bad Krozingen, Bad Bellingen, Alpirsbach), great wines and picturesque towns with cobbled streets, the Freiburger Bächele, cathedral and elite university flair, the young people at its Bermuda triangle, Thomas Rees’ wooden works of fantasy exhibited around Kappel and Freiburg. There’s a mingling of traditonal and modern lifestyles. It’s like another world surrounded by blue mountains from Rosskopf to Buchenbach, St.Peter, St.Märgen and beyond. You can hear the visitor from northern Germany and elsewhere say: ‘One can live here and be happy for the rest of your life.’ In every nook and corner of the Black Forest there are legends and stories waiting to be discovered and retold. In Feldberg you have the story about being visited by a ghost, the knight Peter von Stauffenberg and the Fairy from the Sea, the Hambacher Festival, the Witch’s Tower of Bühl, the German Farmer, the Ghost of Windbeck’s Castle Cook, the Water-sprite of Schlucksee to name a few. In Staufen even Mephistopheles is said to have visited Doctor Faustus. The people of the Black Forest still put on their traditional costumes and speak their dialects, despite the modernity and fast pace of everyday life where you have to plan everything. The village bands still play their traditonal tunes, and the male singers in the hamlets, town and cities still have their old collection of songs which they sing with gusto as they have done since generations. You hear the Allemanic dialect along the Rhine and Swabian along the Neckar Valleys. There’s still a lot of old tradition that is being nursed and developed even among the younger generation. And when the visitor has slept in the Black Forest huts, hotels or bread-and-breakfast accommodations, has talked with the people of the Schwarzwald, they go as friends, taking home wonderful memories of the walks in the wilderness, the mountain glades with mooing and chewing well-fed cows, the excellent Badische cuisine and wines, the tasty Black Forest Torte, the witch’s hole mill and the Vogtsbauern homesteads. You have to learn or re-learn to appreciate the small, good things in life and Nature is a big present for us all. There’s international poetry, culture: music, dances, theatre and in the wintry nights an endless world of books. Oh, life is just wonderful no matter where you live. It’s the mental attitude that makes or breaks you. Keeping good habits and eliminating bad ones helps you along this long journey called life. I like people who have a good and genuine smile on their faces. Death and separation are also a part of our journeys on this stage called life, where we are actors and have the daily chance to change ourselves and play new, constructive roles. If we prefer not to change our character roles and want to remain bitter, envious, jealous, depressed, frustrated, narrow-minded, then nobody can help us. We’re stopping ourselves. You are the director of your own lives and it’s up you to determine which role you prefer to play. The curtain goes up every morning when we get out of our beds. The birds seem to be twittering Carpe diem to us. Lyrik: The Symphony of the Morning (Satis Shroff) I discern the recurring chirps and whistles Of the birds in the vast foliage of an oak tree, A German Eiche. Whistles, chirps, hoots And melodious symphony, Like the incessant waves Slashing on the shores of the Atlantic. A single bird gives the tact, A strong monotonous chirp. The others follow suit, Not in unison But still in harmony. You notice so many melodies When you eavesdrop, In the quiet comfort of your bed. The natural symphony of the morning: Adagio, crescendo, It’s all there For your fine ears. CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff) I peer at the pine trees above, Heavily laden with fluffy snow, Like sentinels of the Black Forest. I espy something moving: Three deer with moist noses, Sniffing the Kappler air, Strut among the low bushes In all their elegance, Only to vanish silently, Into the recesses of the Foret Noir. I hear the robin, Rotkehlchen, With its clear, loud, pearly tone, As it greets the day. Just before sunrise the black bird, Amsel, Which flies high on the tree tops, Delivers its aries early. The great titmouse stretches its wings And starts to sing. The brown sparrows turn up With their repertoire, Rap in the garden, Twitter and chirp aloud. All this noise makes the bullfinch alert, For it also wants to be heard. It starts its high pitched melody With gusto in the early hours. The starling clears its throat. What comes is whistles, Mingled with smacking sounds. The woodpecker, Specht, Isn’t an early bird, Starts its day late. Pecks with its beak, At a hurried tempo. If that doesn’t get you out of your bed, I’m sure you’re on holiday, Or thank God it’s Sunday. Other feathered friends Who frequent our Black Forest house, Are the green finch, the jay, Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’ Larks, thrush and the oriole, The Bird of the Year, On rare occasions. Glossary: English, German, Latin names Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major Bullfinch (Rotfinke): Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris Starling: Sturnus vulgaris Woodpecker (Specht): Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis Oriole: Oriolus oriolus Thomas Rees: Soyez mysterieuse in the Black Forest (Satis Shroff) Thomas Rees is a middle aged jeans type, with greying hair at the sides, thin-lipped, blue eyed, married, two children and is a sculptor who likes to depict the powers that be in religion, fantasy and mythology. He has an individual view of sacral stories and objects. The birth of Jesus is depicted this time in his 6m work of art, and also associated with the murder of the children of Bethlehem, and posed with King Herodes with a crown, the symbol of power on earth. He begins with Adam and Eva at the top, a dragon head to signify a snake, the inferno, the castle of Herodes with a knife, Roman legionaires with lances, angels, the brothers Cain and Abel and the ten commandments. The open grave in Easter signifies Christian hope, and as the reason for Christian existence is a cross, symbolising a certain Friday (Karfreitag). One figure is shown screaming and the other shows sadness and is sunk in itself. Wonderful, sensitive wooden emotive art: biblical history carved in wood. But wood is Nature and given to withering and change through the negative onslaught of the scorching sun, wet and damp rain, wind, frost, snow and ice. When you go past the other wooden sculptures of Thomas near his home in Freiburg-Kappel figures you can discern the changes wrought by the four seasons. But it is this change that makes his wooden figures all the more fascinating. What a magical, fascinating place to live in, with all those magnificent works of art from history, mythology, pre-history, from far-off countries, and Thomas’ fantasy which never ceases to conjour new faces, figures and creatures. Need inspiration for your next fantasy novel? Just drop in at Freiburg-Kappel and you’ll certainly be flabbergasted if not astounded. In a winter-garden structure in his house is a figure with two lovers in ecstatic embrace which I find pure, fascinating with a hunk of eros, a symbol of what love can be in its sensual, romantic form. You can discover influences of the South Sea figures akin to Paul Gauguin, different styles, even a Givenchy bridge near his home, where a rivulet flows down to the maize and potato fields. Figures of forgotten Gods, strong, elegant women. Thomas combines in his sculpture lot of legends and motifs which remind you of the polytheistic character of old religions from the South Sea, monumental Germanic mythological figures or his studies of the female figures, lying prostrate on the ground, standing erect, hands at the sides and head turned to the side. The variations are endless. ‘Love each other and you’ll be happy’ is also his message to fellow humans, and his art has a certain ambiguity: there’s the good and the bad, positive and negative, happiness and sorrow, small and big, monumental at times, sinking or emerging figures., exotic fantasy worlds. Didn’t Gauguin insist on ‘soyez mysterieuse’? Be mysterious. That’s the feeling you have when you look at his creations. Thomas sees not only the beautiful world of religion but he points to, and emphasises, also the not-so-holy world: the banishment from Paradise, the building of the Tower of Babylon, murder of the brother, the flood and Noah’s Arch. He asks his fellow humans and theologists: why? He poses this question not only to Homo religiosus but also people who are in search of religion and rituals. You only have to open your eyes, interpret what they reveal and decide yourself in which direction you want to go. Perhaps all religions lead to the same goal: humans should be humans. Thomas Rees is the most productive person in Freiburg-Kappel and his works are impressionism it its purest form, the depiction of sensory feelings, which tend to be transitory under the changing conditions of light, colour, movement and form. Nature plays a big role in his creativeness, for his art objects are mostly displayed outdoors, without the protection allotted to works of art in art-galleries. He, himself, is a well-trained out-door guy, prefers to wear a bomber-jacket, jeans and a checked lumberjack’s shirt, a soft-spoken person wouldn’t notice in a crowd but endowed with an explosive creativity. What a fantastic neighbour I have. Do pay Kappel a visit: ask anyone and they’ll tell you where the sculptor lives. Tribute: Anzu Furukawa and The Rite of Spring (Satis Shroff) I’d often seen an outsized portrait of Anzu Furukawa in my friend Wolfgang Graf’s home, and when we talked about Anzu and he said, “My own experience with Anzu came in 1999, during the San Francisco Buto Festival. I participated in her workshop and found her to be a good teacher, able to communicate well to her students despite the fact the her English was somewhat limited. She used humour to break the tension that so often can hamper a student from learning. That same humour was communicated in her performance of one of her most famous works, Crocodile Time.” Anzu Furukawa was born in Tokyo in 1952. She studied in 1972-75 under professor Yoshiro Irino in the Toho-gakuen College of Music. She worked since 1973 as a choreographer, performer and scenarist in various groups in Japan and Europe on many international festivals. Among others she also worked in 1979 as a solo dancer in the Dairaku-kan buto group. An accomplished ballet dancer, modern dancer, studio pianist for ballet companies and a student of modern composition of music in addition to being both a teacher and performer of Buto dance. In this connection it is necessary to talk about the Buto. ‘What is ‘Buto?’ you might ask. Buto is a school of modern Japanese dance which was born at the turn of the fifties and sixties. Buto dance has also influenced the development of dance in Finland and in Europe in general. Buto was born amid the upheavals in Japan, in the atmosphere characterised by student revolts, performance acts and agitation prop. The founder of the school was Tatsumi Hijikata (1928-1986), who came from Northern Japan to Tokyo. He started with violent and anarchistic dance performances, after which his relations with the official school of Japanese dance were cut off. In his later work, he created a kind of basic technique for buto, which, however, differed from Western aesthetics. Another “first generation buto artist“ is Kazuo Ohno (1906-) who also visited Finland. Anzu gave her debut in 1973 as a director and choreographer with the first piece “grand conceptual opera” SALOME TALE at the German Cultural Centre in Tokyo. From 1974 till 79 she worked as a soloist in the dancer performance Dairaruda-kan directed by Akaji Maro. She also worked with Carlotta Ikeda, Ko Muroboshi, Ushio Amagatsu. In 1979-86 she founded and led, together with Tetsuro Tamuro, the Dance Love Machine group. Then she founded in 1987 the Anzu Dance School in Tokyo and began solo performances in Japan and Europe. In 1987 she created many successful works such as the Anzu´s Animal Atlas, Cells of Apple, Faust II, Rent-a-body, The Detective from China, and A Diamond as big as the Ritz. From 1991 till 1997 she held University Professorship in Hochschule fur Bildende Kunste Braunschweig, Germany (schwerpunkt Performance) . She received many grants and prizes from the Goethe Institut Tokyo Contemporary music series, The Japan Foundation, Nippon Geijutsu Bunka Shinko Kikin, Afred Kordelin Foundation, The Art Council of Province of Central Finland and the Astro-Labium prize, The International Electronic Cinema Festival-Montreux, Kolner Theatre Prize As a visiting instructor at a Finnish university, Anzu Furukawa concentrated on collaborative productions at the Helsinki City Theatre and staged works like the Rite of Spring in 1994 and the Buto works Bo (Keppi) and Shiroi mizu (Villi Vesi) in 1995 using mostly Finnish dancers. In Western Europe, most people believe that a dancer should stop performing at the top level sometime in their 40s. Due to the attitude of placing importance on the realities of the body mentioned earlier in regard to the interest in Buto, or perhaps the influence of Buto itself, many Finnish dancers still continue to perform into their 50s. It is the presence of cross-over type activities that transcend conventional category boundaries, like the works of Uotinen that give Finnish dance its contemporary strength. There is also active collaboration with artists from other genre, especially collaborations with media artists and lighting creators. This writer has personally feels that there is a lot of beautifully created light work in Finnish dance, and it seems as if the sensitivity of the lighting art is not unrelated to a dramatic element that originates in the Finnish natural environment with the shining brightness of the midnight sun in summer, the darkness that dominates the winter and the fact that its polar proximity makes the Aurora borealis a common sight. This light-effect is brought onto the stage by no other than Mikki Kunttu, Finland’s representative lighting designer. In the work of Saarinen mentioned at the beginning, the natural light effect designed by Mikki Kunttu helped to bring an abstract expression of the religious spirituality achieved through a life of denial of human desires that is the theme of the work. The solo Hunt that takes Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring as its motif, is an impressive solo that brings the theme to life within the burning energy of the dance. Beginning from silence and having the body spring to life with the music, the piece proceeds to the closing stage to build as images of Marita Liulia projected on the body in a way that created a visual expression of the human body in the information age. I personally like Igor Stravinsky’s “Der Feuervögel”, the firebird very much and it is performed in many German schools. There’s a strong interest in Buto in the Finnish dance world and there are many choreographers and dancers who have studied Buto or been influenced by it. This is the result of an expansive approach to the natural world and the physical implications of the fact that the distant roots of the Finnish people who make up most of the population live in Asia. I’d say “Pippis!” to that as a South Asian. For instance, the approach to nudity that has resulted from Finland’s sauna culture, which is an integral part of Finnish life, is completely different from that of other European countries and even its neighbour Sweden. For the Finnish, nudity is neither implicative of the taboos of sexuality or the diametrically opposed concepts of utopia but simply a natural state that is part of daily life. This fact further deepens the interest in Buto as a form of dance that examines the truths of the body, and the darker sides of life, and seeks to encompass expressions of ailment and death as a part of dance. Dance does not necessarily have to be artificial and aesthetic at all times. In contemporary times we have the Riverdance, Bollywood dancing, Bolshoi or Royal Ballet, in which the body plays a dominant role but the emphasis is on the footwork and a minimum of facial expressions that are used to display the emotions. Not so in Buto performances. The artistic director of the previously mentioned Kuopio Dance Festival from 1993 to 98, the Asian arts researcher Jukka O. Miettinen, was one of the first to take an interest in Buto and play an active role in introducing Buto artists Carlotta Ikeda, Ko Murobushi, Kazuo Ohno, Sankaijuku and Anzu Furukawa: The festival did help establish an audience for Buto in Finnland. Among the front-line dancers and choreographers in Finland are a number who have journeyed to Japan to study Buto. Tero Saarinen, who performed as a dancer for the Finland National Ballet Company, before forming his own Tero Saarinen & Company, studied Buto for a year in Tokyo at the Kazuo Ohno Dance Studio. And, Arja Raatikainen and Ari Tenhula also studied under Ohno and Anzu Furukawa. Other Buto artists who have visited and worked in Finland include Masaki Iwana, but the influence of the late Anzu Furukawa who visited Finnland numerous times. and gave many workshops, was especially strong. After performing with Dairakudakan, Furukawa formed Dance Love Machine with Tetsuro Tamura. Later she moved to Germany and continued her activities based in Europe, forming a multinational dance group called Dance Butter Tokio. The reason for her popularity was probably the wild dance theatre type composition of her works that made use of unexpected or comic twists and the exaggerated deformé type body movement that connected in some ways to German expressionist dance. In an e-mail posted by Chikashi Furukawa, Anzu’s ‘little boy’ brother dated October 23rd you could read: “I am sorry to inform you that Anzu passed away early this morning. She had been sleeping for more than 30 hours and stopped breathing in peace with her two lovely children holding her hands. She danced at Freiburg New Dance Festival only 20 days ago. In my memory, Anzu was and is always a ‘little girl in an oversized dress’. She ran through all of us in such a hurry.” ©Lyriktribute to Anzu & Pina by Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff) The sky was bathed In fantastic hues: Yellow, orange, scarlet Mauve and cobalt blue. Buto dancing, In this surreal light, On the stage, Was magnificent. Your heart pounds higher, Your feet become light, Your body sways To the rhythm And Nordic lights Of the Aurora borealis. Akin to the creation Of the planet we live in. And here was I, Anzu Furukawa. Once a small ballet dancer, Now a full grown woman: A choreographer, performer, Ballet and modern dancer, Studio pianist. ‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’ Wrote a German critic In Der Tagesspiegel. Success was my name, In Japan, Germany, Italy, Finnland and Ghana: Anzu’s Animal Atlas, Cells of Apple, Faust II, Rent-a-body, The Detective of China, A Diamond as big as the Ritz. I was a professor Of performing arts in Germany. But Buto became my passion. Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan, When students took to the streets, With performance acts and agit props. Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy, Cut off from the traditions Of Japanese dance. Ach, The Kuopio Music et Dance festival Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’ The Heart Snatcher. A touching praise To human imagination, And the human ability To feel even the most surprising emotions I lived my life with dignity, But the doctors said I was very, very sick. I had terminal tongue cancer. I’d been sleeping over thirty hours, And stopped breathing In peace, With my two lovely children Holding my hands. I’d danced At the Freiburg New Dance Festival Only twenty days ago. I saw the curtain falling, As we took our bows. I bow to you my audience, I hear your applause. The sound of your applause Accompanies me Where ever my soul goes. I’m still a little girl In an oversized dress. I ran through you all In such a hurry. * * * Poetry and Dance (Satis Shroff) Her images were unusual, Shocking to some. Dancers Jeering and tormenting Other dancers. Dancers Throwing ripe tomatoes At each other. Instead of the bastinado, Lighters held on the soles Of other dancers. Women were women And men were men, In Pina’s world. No melange Of oestrogens and testosterons, No X and Y Chromosomes. Her women wore scarlet lips, Her dancers were tormented with ballet: Adagio, flips and turns, Carried out rigorously. In the ‘Rite of Spring’ The dancers were covered with soil. In ‘1980’ there was a lawn. In ‘Carnations’ the Nelken were crushed On stage. In ‘Palermo, Palermo’ A tall wall fell apart. That was Pina Bausch live. We’ll miss the facial muscles Of her performers, Her own dance choreography, Warning us all To stop ruining the Umwelt Of this precious planet. A high priestess, A courageous stage poet, Who threw constantly Challenges, With her mute, energetic Choreography. The poetess is gone. What remains are her images, Long after the dancers With their flailing hands, Have vanished into oblivion. A numbness lingers At the Tanztheater Wuppertal. Exit Pina Bausch At the age of 68. Glossary: Umwelt: environment Tanz: dance Nelken: carnations Bastinado: beating the soles of the feet, an old punishment * * * THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff) On a hill in Kappel You feel free and elated. The stream that bubbles below, Like an incessant lyric, A monk’s chant in a monastery. The cherry tree hangs With bloom on its sagging boughs. Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour, In this Black Forest idyll. The blue Schwarzwald range, Makes poetry out of the dying sun Around the house, Like an arena in the Himalayas. The tulips in bright colours are everywhere, The lovely lilies are swaying, So are the gladiolas. As I walk along a mountain stream, I smell hyacinths. The marigolds are in full blossom, And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me, For marigolds and Tagetes grow When it’s Dasain and Tihar, Festival time, Far in the Himalayas. From the Himalayas to the Black Forest, What a long journey. The evening wind whispers gently From the Vale of Hell, Der Höllentäler, As we fondly call it. The birds are coming home to roost. I discern the attentuated tone Of my little daughter Elena Playing on her violin. My feet take me home With tardy steps. I feel at peace With myself VAN GOGH: BETWEEN HEAVEN AND EARTH (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel) If you love Nature truly, you’ll find it beautiful everywhere (Vincent van Gogh) If you want to see Vincent van Gogh’s landscape paintings then Basle (Switzerland) is the place to go. The Kunstmuseum Basel has the world’s first showing of the landscape paintings, although in autumn-winter 2008-09 there was a major exhibition at Vienna’s Albertina on van Gogh’s paintings and drawings with 150 of the artist’s works, and his expressive use of the of the brush, prior to which the artist had done strong drawings with all the details. They were then coloured in his own distinctive way. The Harvest in Provence in oil was first drawn with brown and graphite sticks. Vincent van Gogh was one of the most productive artists. He painted 900 pictures and 1100 drawings and sketches on paper. He decided to be an artist when he was 27 years old. Ernest Hemingway and van Gogh have one thing in common: both used a gun to end their lives. Van Gogh lived only 37 years. He followed his brother Theo’s advice and went to live in Auvers near Paris, where he was medically treated by Dr. Paul Gachet, a neurologist with a penchant for art. Prior to that he had psychic disturbances and cut his ear, had himself treated at the hospital in Arles, and since 1889 moved to the psychiatric home at Saint Remy. Van Gogh was born in 1853 in Holland’s Groot-Zundert, and his father was a Protestant preacher. He was influenced by the countryside environment. He felt a deep love for Nature and also nostalgia for his village. He didn’t have a good time at school and as a result he began working in the Art and Graphic business Groupik & Cie. Since he wasn’t motivated in his job, he was fired and worked as a teacher and assistant preacher in England. But the University rejected his theological ambitions. After a crisis in the family his brother Theo recommended him to become an artist. Vincent van Gogh started learning to draw and paint the hard way as an autodidact. Good news for people who want to do it on their own. He loved to paint dark landscapes and farmers during their working hours. He got closer to a woman, who used to sew clothes and occasionally engaged in the oldest profession in the world. Her name was Sien but the relationship ended after one and a half years. Vincent van Gogh wanted to understand the contemporary art Impressionism, so he went to Paris in 1886. It was Paul Gauguin, Emile Bernard, Paul Signac and the bright outdoor paintings of the Impressionists that brought a great change in van Gogh’s paintings. He started using brighter colours and the city and the countryside became his motifs: gardens, parks, fields, olive groves and yineyards. The outcome was wonderful paintings daubed in yellows, blues, greens. He was on his way to discover his own artistic language. The Basler exhibition is a reconstruction of van Gogh’s cycles of Nature and forms, with which he experimented, that are to be seen in the expositions. Van Gogh celebrated the uniqueness and glory of creation, and his deep bond with Nature are revealed in his outstanding works. I love the cypresses tat appear in van Gogh’s paintings and the theme of the cycles of Nature. About his fascination for Cypresses, Vincent van Gogh said this: ‘The cypresses are in my mind again and again. It’s strange that no one has painted them, the way I see them. In the lines and proportions they’re as beautiful as an Egyptian obelisk. And the green has a such s fine tone. It is the dark spec on a sun basked landscape, but it’s one of the most interesting black tones, and I can’t think of anything that’s more difficult to paint.’ Even though he had psychic problems, he painted pictures that were reassuring with warm colours that create joy and optimism, if not exhilaration in the eyes of the viewer, friend, art-lover, connoisseur. How right he was when he said: ‘Art is man plus nature. The art historian Julius Meier-Graefe wrote his story of a seeker of God to help build a legend about Vincent van Gogh in1921. Irving Stone’s book ‘Lust for Life’ (1934) was filmed by Vincent Minelli in 1956. Don McLean’s song ‘Vincent’ is a wonderful homage to van Gogh’s painting ‘starry night’ in which the painter is depicted as a misunderstood, suffering soul who was too good for this world. The lyric goes: Now I understand, What you’re trying to say To me. Even though van Gogh did a lot of landscapes, for him art wasn’t imitating nature. It was the feelings and thoughts evoked by nature that an artist brings to the canvas. It isn’t perspective or anatomy that’s relevant but the authenticity of one’s artistic expression. Van Gogh did it personally with strong colour lines and drawings, making his works of art an expression of his inner feelings and of nature that he adored. Van Gogh’s essential period of work lasted only intensive years which were made eternal by his contemporaries. Like van Gogh aptly said: ‘Some people have a big fire in their soul, and nobody comes to warm himself or herself in it.’ © Copyright 2009 by Satis Shroff About the Author: Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of five books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff), and two language books on the Nepalese language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Academy for Medical Professions (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Center for Key Qualifications (University of Freiburg, where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize. What others have said about the author: „Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich). Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa). ‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany). “I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division – Noble House U.K. © Copyright 2009 by Satis Shroff. You may republish this article online provided you keep the byline, the author’s note, and the active hyperlinks. * * * FRIENDS (Satis Shroff) I sit on my chaiselonge, Serving Darjeeling to my friends, Strengthened with masala, And Sahne. There’s Murat from Turkey, Rosella from Italy, Stefan and Barbara from Rheinfelden, Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg. Rosella has brought North Italian flair And cakes that I relish, From Milano. Pannetone with Mascapone, Champagne and Tiramisu. A kiss to the right, A kiss to the left, Settles down and says: ‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satis?’ Hubby Samuel has expanded His aerospace factory. My friend Murat, The personification of Miteinander, Hands me a new novel, With his signature, Written despite the protests Of his family, Keeping late hours, To finish his Opus magnum, A story about the Allevite folk. A pleasure and honour, But I’m afraid, I can’t read it: It’s Turkish to me. But I’ll gladly view the seven films He’s written the script for. Barbara, And my poet friend Stefan, Have been to the Zermat And have tales to tell, Not only of Wilhelm, But about the beauty of Switzerland. Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady, Glows like the sun: An infectious smile Over her tanned face. No botox, only dentures, And tells of her adventures in Italy, Latin-lover inbegriffen, And of her Sudanese seduction. An elderly lady, A friend with style And aesthetic intelligence. Ain’t it wonderful To have dear friends? Home abroad, Abroad home. Shanti! Shanti! Peace Which passeth understanding. Glossary: Chaiselonge: long French sofa Inbegriffen: included Miteinander: together, togetherness Shanti: peace Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms Bahn: train Mumbai: Bombay Bueb: small male child Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany Goethe: A Writer of the First Rank (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel) Johann Wolfgang Goethe, who was lifted to nobility as J. W.von Goethe in 1782, was born on August 28, 1749 in the town of Frankfurt. The Goethes lived in a large, comfortable house in the Hirschgasse, now called Goethe Haus. Besides practical, scientific and autobiographical writings, he left behind more than 15,000 letters, diaries relating to the 52 years of his life and also countless conversational writings of people he’d met. Even though Goethe’s work is fragmentary in general, it reveals the essence of his literary genius. Goethe himself said: ‘Alle meine Werke sind Bruchstücke einer großen Konfession.’ He remains to date one of the most original and powerful German lyric poets and his Faust is no doubt a work of inexhaustible ambiguity and wonderful poetry. The atmosphere that was evident in his parent’s home was that of the educated and their lifestyle in those days, and through his writings we get an exact idea of the Zeitgeist of Goethe’s days. He held the town of his birth in high esteem for it was the environment and intellectual background of his youthful development. Young Goethe loved to lose himself in the crowd around the Dome or in the Roman hill (Römerberg), which he always remembered as a fine place to go for a walk. The closest relationship of his youth was his sister Cornelia, who sadly enough died at the age of 27. Asked about the influence of his parents on him, Goethe summed it this way: From father I have the stature, To lead an earnest life. From mother the good nature, And the joy of story-telling. Goethe was taught by house-teachers. After learning the old languages, he started learning French, English and Hebrew. At the age of 10 he read Aesop, Homer, Vergil, Ovid and also the German folks-books. Besides education in humanities and science, he was also taught religion, which was determined by the dominating explanatory issue of Lutherdom in Frankfurt. The big earthquake in Lissabon in 1755 was important for the development of Goethe’s mind, as it went into history as one of the greatest natural catastrophies of the century. Besides these natural calamities there were also religious and historical movements which left a deep impression in Goethe’s mind, for example the Seven-Years War between Prussia and Austria wherein he saw the consequences of the general political situation in his own life. Another important event during the occupation of Frankfurt by Napoleon’s troops was his fascination for a troupe of French actors, who’s shows he was allowed to visit regularly. That was the awakening in Goethe of his interest for theatre, and which had been sparked earlier in his life through a puppet-stage (Puppenbühne) and which can be seen in some scenes from ‘Wilhelm Meister’s Theaterical Shows.’ At the age of 16 Goethe was prepared for his academic studies. His father wanted him to study law in Leipzig. This was a city known for its trade, commerce, rich people in a wealthy epoche, and was filled with the spirit of Rokoko. Although Leipzig made a lasting impression on Goethe, he found the lectures on law rather boring. Nevertheless, the town of Leipzig brought to Goethe his passion for Anna Katherina, the daughter of a man who owned an inn, where he used to eat lunch since 1766. In his first completed play ‘The Whims of a Lover’ (Laune des Verliebten) which is based on the times of the Rokoko (Schäferstücke), he drew his own glowing passion. It was his inner desire to put into poetry the themes that were burning within him. In March 1770 Goethe arrived in Strassburg to complete his university studies in law. Like in Leipzig, Goethe found friends in Strassburg. One of the most important events was his meeting with Herder, who due to his eye-disease was obliged to stay in Strassburg for a couple of months. Here’s what Goethe said about Herder: “Since his conversations were important at all times, he used to ask, reply or express himself in another way, and in this manner I had to express myself in new ways and new views, almost every hour.” It was Herder who brought Goethe to the immeasureability of Shakespeare, told him about Ossian and Pindar, and opened his vision for Volkspoetry. Influenced by Herder’s appreciation of Shakespeare’s genius, he wrote at speed a pseudo-Shakespearean tragedy called: “Geschichte Gottfrieds von Berlichingen.” This was so ill-received by Herder that he put it aside. Shortly after his return from Strassburg, he turned 22 and started working as a lawyer at the Frankfurter Schöffengericht. Goethe couldn’t care less about the traditions of the citizens in Leipzig and his relatives, his parents’ home. As a lawyer in the courtrooms he had to suffer a bit due to his strange way of putting proceedings to paper, and gradually he began to write farces and parodies about well-known authors of his times and railed upon his own friends, took interest in Alchemy experiments and sought out open-minded literary circles of Frankfurt and in his neighbourhood. At 24 Goethe was already a well-known author of Germany. No other time in Goethe’s life was filled with prolific poetic works than in this period in Frankfurt. The time before and after his work ‘Werther’ was not only a time of multiple literary production, but also a period in which he spent a lot of time on seeking answers for questions on religion. The last Frankfurter year (1775) brought Goethe another year of passionate love in the form of Lili Schönemann, a 16 year old daughter of a Frankfurter trader. He experienced one of the most exciting and happiest times in his life. Alas, Goethe drifted between his love for Lili and the feeling that he’d settled for a happiness at home wouldn’t be enough for him. An episode from outside helped him to bear and make the separation from Lili possible. On November 7, 1775 Goethe came to Weimar, which was in those days a town with a population of 6000. In July 1776 Goethe joined the state service formally as its Secret Legislations Council. Goethe’s new position in the Geheim Konsil brought him soon enough in contact with almost all the pre-commissions of the state-administration. h In 1779 he was appointed the War Commissioner and was responsible for the 500 soldiers of the state. Three years later he had the Chamber under him and became the highest financial administrator. Through his participation in the reading-evenings, redouts and other functions at the court and its high and snobbish society, the events became rather extravagant. And through Goethe’s presence and mediation Weimar gained importance. However, it was the serene, tempered lady-in-waiting (Hofdame) Charlotte von Stein, a cold beauty, who was unhappily married, who gained more influence on Goethe. From the first moment they met, she reminded Goethe of his sister Cornelia, and he felt drawn to her. In the years to come Goethe couldn’t do without her clear, mature way of doing things. He called her ‘the serene,’ an angel, even a Madonna. A friendship of kindred souls began, which was a puzzle to Goethe himself. It was in these Weimar years that Goethe wrote poems such as: Harzreise im Winter, An den Mond, Gesang der Geister über den Wassern, Wanderer, Nachtlied and so forth. Moreover, many of his songs and poems were set to music by composers ranging from Mozart and Frederik Schubert to Othmar Schoeck (1886-1957). Under the influence of Charlotte von Stein began a decisive change within Goethe. It was during this period in the months of February and March 1779, when he had to go to different places of the Dukedom to recruit soldiers, to keep an eye on them, to inspect the conditions of the roads, that he wrote the first edition of ‘Iphigenie and Taurus.’ This drama became the mirror of his search for purity. The period after ‘Iphigenie’ was penned in 1779 was a phase in the inner development of Goethe’s life, till he travelled to Italy. Goethe became not only confident as an administrator but also improved the purity and quality of his verses. The more prosaic he became in his daily duties, the more he endeavoured to bring a sense of order and system in all what he did. In addition to the completion of Iphigenie, he also started ‘Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre,’ wrote the concept for ‘Tasso’ and some parts of his ‘Faust.’ These were the fruits of lyrical productions. And just before his Italian journey, he did extensive studies in the natural sciences. His activities at the University of Jena brought him in intensive contact with comparative anatomy. In those days there was a conception regarding the original form and relationship between all living beings, and he proved the existence of the ‘Zwischenkieferknochen’ in humans, which was thought to be known only in the animal world. Goethe showed the biological development of living beings almost 100 years ahead of Charles Darwin. Goethe’s interest in natural science showed him how his career in the state service brought him away from things he most cherished to do. So he decided on the tenth year of his period in Weimar that he had to break up his service. After arranging his farewell from the state service and personal matters, he asked the Duke for a prolonged leave. He left abruptly, like in 1772 in Wetzlar and 1775 in Frankfurt, as though he was fleeing from something. Even in the presence of Duke and Charlotte von Stein he didn’t utter a word about his concrete plans. He embarked upon the biggest journey to Italy after a short spa sojourn in Böhmen (Bohemia). After a week-long ride in a coach he reached bella Italia. The first stop was in Rome, where Goethe stayed for four months. It had always been the middle point of his life to study the works of art history in Rome He went to the theatre and attended court cases, watched processions, took part in church festivals, and towards February 1788 even visited the Carnival in Rome. He expanded his knowledge of art history systematically. Goethe found it difficult to say adieu to Rome. The return to Germany was disappointing for Goethe and he felt isolated. Goethe’s record of his journey to Italy (Italienische Reise) appeared in 1816-17. Instead of the Weimar politicians and administrators, Goethe sought to fraternise with professors of the Weimar University. He met Schiller often. Goethe found a new love: Christiane Vulpius, a handsome woman of lower rank who became his mistress, and with whom he had five children, but only one survived, his first son August, born in 1789. Goethe put his energy in the Weimar Court Theatre, founded in 1791, and developed it within a few years to one of the most famous German stages. Goethe’s loss of Rome was compensated to some extent by his meetings with Schiller, which did him good. Out of the first meeting with Schiller developed an intensive exchange of thoughts in spoken word and writing that was of mutual benefit for both. It was based on their common classicism and on their conviction of the central function of art in human affairs. Goethe’s epic poem ‘Hermann und Dorothea’ (1779) was well received. Goethe was instrumental in changing Schiller’s tendency to go to extremes, and his habit of indulging in philosophical speculations. On the other hand, Schiller brought back Goethe from his scientific studies to literature and poetic production. In 1797 Schiller stimulated Goethe to carry on with Faust and it preoccupied him for the next nine years. Part One appeared in 1808, Part Two in 1832. Goethe didn’t stand near Schiller since 1794 and two long journeys to Weimar took him away from his intellectual friend, and in the year 1805 Schiller passed away. Schiller’s death in 1805 coincided with the end of Goethe’s classical phase. After Schiller’s demise, Goethe saw an epoche of his life disappearing. He tried to struggle against the uncertainty of time by concentrating and delving into his own work. Without the regular intellectual argumentation that the company of Schiller brought to Goethe, he felt politically isolated through his distance towards the anti-Napoleon attitude of the public and started living like a recluse. I In 1806 war broke out between France and Prussia and the decisive battle was fought at Jena and French soldiers who occupied Weimar broke into Goethe’s house. Goethe believed tristiane had saved his life from the French marauders. He married her a few days later. Goethe met Napoeon at Erfurt and Weimar in 1808. The Bastille was stormed when Goethe was 39. In 1809 he wrote the subtle and problematic novel: Die Wahlverwandschaften in which the interrelations of two couples are described. Besides working for the hat Chance. Soldiers who occupied b Science Institutes of the University, he also carried forth botanical studies. The last two decades in Goethe’s life were devoted not to outer happenings but daily routine work. A key towards understanding Goethe’s various interests was his conception of human existence as a ceaseless struggle to make use of time at one’s disposal. Despite such intensive devotion to his writings, the ageing Goethe didn’t remain so isolated from his environment as he’d done in his younger years. Since he was seldom out of Weimar, he opened his house for the world. It is interesting to note that among his many visitors were not many poets and writers but more Nature researchers and art historians, discoverers who travelled, educators and politicians. The innermost circle around Goethe was his own family. In order to avoid the pompous celebration of his 82nd birthday, Goethe left Weimar in August 1831 for the last time. The most meaningful work of poetry in the German language, Goethe’s tragedy Faust, took a long time to develop. Goethe wrote his Faust almost a life long, and before him were writers who worked on the material. According to his own memories Goethe played with the thought of writing a Faust-drama even during his Strassburger student days. Perhaps the most important aspect of tragedy of Goethe is that these twists and turns took place not only in the outside world but also in the soul of Doctor Faustus. Despite the colourful scenes and the manifold happenings, Goethe’s Faust remains a drama of the soul, with a chain of inner experiences, struggles and doubts. Among his best works was Novelle, started thirty years ago. Goethe worked away at the last volume of Dichtung und Wahrheit and at Faust II which he finished before his death. On March 22,1832 at 11:30 in the morning Goethe died at the age of 82, the last universal man and the most documented creative writer. . Johann Peter Eckmann saw the deceased on the following day and said: “Stretched on his back, lay he like someone sleeping. Profound peace and fastness were to be seen in the eyes of his noble face. The mightiest forehead seemed still to be thinking…” * * * BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff) Music has left its cultural confines. You hear the strings of a sitar Mingling with big band sounds. Percussions from Africa Accompanying ragas from Nepal. A never-ending performance of musicians From all over the world. Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach, Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn. A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums At the Zeltmusik festival. Tabla and tanpura Involved in a musical dialogue, With trumpet and saxaphone, Argentinian tango and Carribian salsa, Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly With classical Bharta Natyam dancers, Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied By a Tibetan monastery orchestra, Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes And masked drummers. As I walk past the Café, the Metzgerei, The St. Barbara church bells begin to chime. I see Annette’s tiny garden With red, yellow and white tulips, ‘Hallochen!’ she says With a broad, blonde smile, Her slender cat stretches itself, Emits a miao and goes by. I walk on and admire Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree, Her pensioned husband nods back at me. And in the distance, A view of the Black Forest, With whispering wind-rotors, And the trees in the vicinity, Full of birds Coming home to roost. Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff) The sky was bathed In fantastic hues: Yellow, orange, scarlet Mauve and cobalt blue. Buto dancing, In this surreal light, On the stage, Was magnificent. Your heart pounds higher, Your feet become light, Your body sways To the rhythm And Nordic lights Of the Aurora borealis. Akin to the creation Of the planet we live in. And here was I, Anzu Furukawa. Once a small ballet dancer, Now a full grown woman: A choreographer, performer, Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist. ‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’ Wrote a German critic In Der Tagesspiegel. Success was my name, In Japan, Germany, Italy, Finnland and Ghana: Anzu’s Animal Atlas, Cells of Apple, Faust II, Rent-a-body, The Detective of China, A Diamond as big as the Ritz. I was a professor Of performing arts in Germany. But Buto became my passion. Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan, When students took to the streets, With performance acts and agit props. Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy, Cut off from the traditions Of Japanese dance. Ach, The Kuopio Music et Dance festival Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’ The Heart Snatcher. A touching praise To human imagination, And the human ability To feel even the most surprising emotions I lived my life with dignity, But the doctors said I was very, very sick. I had terminal tongue cancer. I’d been sleeping over thirty hours, And stopped breathing In peace, With my two lovely children Holding my hands. I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival Only twenty days ago. I saw the curtain falling, As we took our bows. I bow to you my audience, I hear your applause. The sound of your applause Accompanies me Where ever my soul goes. I’m still a little girl In an oversized dress. I ran through you all In such a hurry. Katmandu, Katmandu von Editor: Satis Shroff http://www.Lulu.com/spotlight/satisle Satis Shroff’s anthology is about a poet caught between upheavals in two countries, Nepal and Germany, where maoists and skin-heads are trying to undermine democratic values, religious and cultural life. Satis Shroff writes political poetry, in German and English, about the war in Nepal (My Nepal, Quo vadis?), the sad fate of the Nepalese people (My Nightmare, Only Sagarmatha Knows), the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany (Mental Molotovs, The Last Tram to Littenweiler) and love (The Broken Poet, Without Words, About You), women’s woes (Nirmala, Bombay Brothel). His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political and social terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry. (187 Seiten) Paperback: €13.84 Download: €6.25 KATHMANDU, KATMANDU, an Anthology of Poems & Prose from the Himalayas (Editor: Satis Shroff) ‘Katmandu, Katmandu’ is aimed at all readers and seeks to contribute towards appreciating the innermost thoughts, fears, delights, hopes and frustrations of the caste-bound, caste-ridden, purity and pollution obsessed high-caste Indo-aryan Nepalis, and the nonchalant but handicapped tribal Nepalis from different parts and walks of life. This collection of Nepali poems and prose is a step in the direction of opening Nepal’s literature to the German-speaking world in Germany, Austria, South Tirol and Switzerland. If this book creates sympathy and understanding of the Nepali psyche, culture, religion, living conditions and human problems in the Himalayan urban and rural environment in daily life, then it has achieved its goal. This book is about the Nepali people and the environment they live in, with characters and themes pertaining to the agrarian, soldier, teaching and other milieus. This collection does not profess to represent Nepali literature as a whole, but lays emphasis on certain themes that crop up in the daily lives of the Nepalis. The Nepali world that the Nepali poets and writers describe and create is a different one, compared to the western one. It is true that modern technology and globalisation have reached Kathmandu Valley and the bigger towns of the Himalayan Kingdom, but the world outside Kathmandu Valley still remains rural and untouched by modernity. The trekking tourism has been booming along the much-treaded trails but village-life has changed little. The traditional caste-system prevails. Nepal still has immense problems in the socio-cultural, religious, economic sectors. The rampant corruption in all sectors, with special emphasis in politics, commercial and economic sectors has shaken the beliefs of generations of Nepalis. The much-proclaimed democracy initiated in 1990 hasn’t been able to fulfil its promises, and maoistic communism is on the rise in the western part of Nepal, where the Nepalis of tibeto-burman origin live, as though it were a panacea for all of this ailing nation’s malady. In Solokhumbu, known for its Everest-trekking route, 300 maoists were killed by the police. According to some organisations at least 200,000 Nepalese have left their homes and another 1,8 million have sought refuge in other countries. Among them are Nepal’s intellectuals: politicians, civil servants, teachers, medical doctors, male and female nurses. Between 1996 and 2005 the Maoists killed 4,500 Nepalese and the Royal Nepalese Army and police killed 8,200 Nepalese. As time has shown us in the past, there is no genuine cure for all the problems of this country. Nepal’s democracy has to learn to crawl before it can walk and after a decade of constitutional democracy, the nation is still in its infancy. The incessant changes of governments and the rise of communism is irritating not only to the people within, but also the comity of aid-giving nations without. Despite the 40,000 NGOs and aid-giving agencies, Nepal still belongs to the Least Developed Countries. There’s definitely something wrong in this nature paradise. This book cries to be written because there are hardly any books written by Nepali authors. It’s always the travelling tourist, geologist, geographer, biologist, climber and ethnologist who writes about Nepal and its people, environment, flora and fauna. The Nepalis are mostly statists in these visit-Nepal-scenarios published in New York, Paris, Munich and Sydney and they are described through western eyes. But there have been generations of thinking and writing Nepalis, who were either educated in old Benares (Varanasi), in British Public Schools in Darjeeling and government schools and colleges in Nepal and India, who have written and published hundreds of books and magazines. In Patan’s Madan Puraskar Library alone, which Mr. Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan’s Man-of- Letters, describes as the “Temple of Nepali language,” there are 15,000 Nepali books and 3500 different magazines and periodicals about which the western world hasn’t heard or read. A start was made by Michael Hutt of the School of Oriental Studies London, in his English translation of contemporary Nepali prose and verse in Himalayan Voices and Modern Nepali Literature. Nepali literature is also represented in the electronic media and there are quite a number of websites that give Nepali writers the opportunity to have their short-stories and poems published in the web. http://www.nepalforum.com, http://www.wnso.org,www.sonog.com,www.insl.org,www.samudaya.com,www.nepalitimesand http://www.geocities.com are some of the most popular sites for publishing poems and prose. In the second part of the book Satis Shroff has translated Nepali literature (prose and poems) by Nepali writers such as: Laxmiprasad Devkota (Muna Madan), Bhupi Sherchan, Banira Giri (Kathmandu), Bhisma Upreti, Krishna Bhakta Shrestha, Bal Krishna Sama (Ich Hasse & Auf der Suche nach Poesie), Abhi Subedi, Toya Gurung, Dorjee Tschering Lepcha (Die Ameisenkönigin & Der Spinnenmensch), Guruprasad Mainali (Der Martyrer), Krishna Bam Malla (Der Pfluger), Lekhnach Paudyal (Der Himalaya), Hridaya Singh Pradhan (Die Tränen von Ujyali), Shiva Kumer Rai (Der Preis des Fisches), Toya Gurung (Mein Traum), Binaya Rawal (Phulmayas Dasainfest), Abhi Subedi (Am Abend mit dem Auto), Bimal Nibha (Jumla), Jiwan Acharya (Der Bildhauer & Muglin) etc. into German, a part of which can be read under the title ‘Kathmandu, Kathmandu’, which in Banira Giri’s poem ‘Kathmandu’ is a bird-cry. I’d like to thank Dada (Kamal Mani Dixit) for motivating me to translate Devkota’s Muna Madan, for this sad but wonderful poem has a message for all people living in the diaspora, far away from their homes and it brings the nostalgia, Sehnsuch and longing that one feels, even when one has found a place to call one’s home in a foreign shore. Muna Madan makes us sad, brings tears to one’s eyes and gives hope despite the distance, when one hears the refrain from the Himalayas. Some of the themes that have been dealt with in this collection are: money-lender (Der Märtyrer, Der Pflüger), struggle for democracy (Der Märtyrer, My Nepal: Quo vadis?), Transition (When the Soul Leaves), the position of women in the Nepalese society (Mutter, Märtyrer, Bombay Brothel, Nirmala: Between Terror and Ecstasy), the mountainous environment (Der Himalaya ), the struggle for existence (Der Preis des Fisches), living as emigrants abroad (Muna Madan, Gibt es Hexen in Deutschland?), ideology and poverty (Mutter), the life of a soldier (Der Verlust einer Mutter), rabies-infection and death (Fatale Entscheidung), fantasy (Der Spinnenmensch, Die Ameisenkönigin), separation and emancipation (Santa Fe), problems of migration abroad (Mental Molotovs), tourismus (My Nightmare), alcoholism (The Professor’s Wife), violence (Krieg), neighbours (The Summer Heat) und love (A Sighing Blonde Princess, Without Words). The likely readers are the increasing number of male and female trekking tourists, climbers seeking their own limits, peace and tranquillity, spiritual experience or a much-needed monologue in the rarefied heights of the Nepal Himalayas. The book has a glossary within the text information about the original Nepali authors from Nepal and the diaspora of Darjeeling. * * * https://www.kobo.com/ww/en/ebook/through-nepalese-eyes: a travelogue Through Nepalese Eyes ebook by Satis Shroff Through Nepalese Eyes by Satis Shroff Synopsis Expand/Collapse Synopsis ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ is about the journey of a young Nepalese woman to Germany to meet her brother, who lives with his German wife and daughter in an allemanic town named Freiburg. It is a travelogue written by a sensitive, modern British public-school educated man. He describes the two worlds: Asia and Europe and the people he meets. There is a touch of sadness when his sister returns to her home in the foothills of the Himalayas. It cries to be written because there are seldom books written by Nepalese writers about themselves. It’s always the casual foreign traveller, trekker or climber who writes about the people in the developing and least-developed countries of the so-called Third World. The likely readers are the increasing male and female tourists, trekkers, climbers from the whole world who make their way to the Himalayas, each seeking something indefinable, perhaps peace, tranquillity, spiritual experience or a much-needed monologue with oneself in the heights of the Himalayas. The book is aimed at all Nepalophile and South Asian readers irrespective of their origin, and seeks to contribute towards understanding the Nepalese psyche, the world that the Nepalese live in, and the fact that it has to catch up with the rest of the world in terms of modernisation and innovations from the western world, amid the thoughts and beliefs, cultures and religions of the Himalayan world. The book is divided according to the iterinary of the protagonist’s travels, her sojourn in Freiburg (Germany) and her excursions to Switzerland (Basle and Grindelwald) and France (Alsace and Paris-Versailles) and ends with the chapter ‘Return to the Himalayas’. It deals with the ‘Begegnungen’ or encounters with friendly Germans, the circle of her brother’s friends and the intercultural and inter-religious questions that she is confronted with during these conversations and the encouraging intercultural work being performed by Germans and foreigners specifically in Freiburg and Germany in general in creating a multicultural society, where a foreigner doesn’t have to fear deportation, persecution and xenophobia. Introduction: As my friend Satish Shroff requested me to write some introductory words to this book, I decided to start a very unusual way, by congratulating the author for the theme chosen: life, people, mentalities in East and West, with all inherent similarities (alas! few enough) and differences (quite a number). How right the late Rudyard Kipling was when expressing the essence of this subject: “East is East and West is West: Never the twins shall meet”! But by describing the two worlds as twins, he also hints at existing and possibly developing similarities. Today’s world and way of life shortens the physical and mental distances, tending towards globalisation. Let us hope that one day, the only remaining differences will be of the geographic, artistic and cultural kind. Because there are elements which are common to both worlds and, therefore, they bring them together. Human nature, with all its emotions, love, sympathy, sorrow, hatred and a multitude of other feelings, is the same and the common element of both Eastern and Western people. The writer successfully brings out these points, clearly delineating each character. This work is a window where from one can peep to the East from the West and vice-versa. One can make out the geographical distributions, the cultural distinctions and the historic development of East and West separately. But if someone ponders on it, he finds the same basic human sentiments and values that hold mankind together since times immemorial. Personally, I think that this and other works of this kind will prove instrumental in creating a good understanding between the two worlds, by describing the respective natures, cultures, traditions, art, social life and thus contributing towards a better knowledge and appreciation of each other, which will hopefully result into creating a new, more human world for the whole mankind sharing the same earth and sky. This world should be like a great family, and we, its members, should be constantly striving for maintaining its unity. image001 So, my friend Satish, as you see, I consider you one of the architects of this new world, this ideal, this Shangri-La of the whole mankind. In spite of many private and global setbacks, I am sure we are approaching it, with little steps, it is true, but we are coming nearer with every smile, with each gesture of tolerance and understanding between the two still different worlds. I congratulate you, my dear friend, on your efforts to close the gap. May everyone read your book with open eyes, mind and heart. (Dr. Novel K. Rai) Former Nepalese Ambassador to Germany Bonn, Germany * * * 70bb2-images-32 Review by Renate Mousseux. M.A. ED: Through Nepalese Eyes is a highly interesting, authentic story taking the reader through traditions and customs of 2 different countries. The stories are written through the Eyes of a Nepalese, hence the Title. We learn about the role of women, religious beliefs, political events, ethical and socio-economic situations in Nepal. We see comparisons of Europe and Asia and learn about the vast differences of life. This book is a must read, I recommend it highly. (Renate Mousseux. M.A. ED. Body Language Expert, Professor of English, French and German USA) * * * 20170201_133557_burst012 What others have said about the author: Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (ALICE GRÜNFELDER VON UNIONSVERLAG / LIMMAT VERLAG, ZÜRICH). Since 1974 I have been living on and off in Nepal, writing articles and publishing books about Nepal– this beautiful Himalayan country. Even before I knew Satis Shroff personally (later) I was deeply impressed by his articles, which helped me very much to deepen my knowledge about Nepal. Satis Shroff is one of the very few Nepalese writers being able to compare ecology, development and modernisation in the ‘Third’ and ‘First’ World. He is doing this with great enthusiasm, competence and intelligence, showing his great concern for the development of his own country. (LUDMILLA TÜTING, JOURNALIST AND PUBLISHER, BERLIN). Due to his very pleasant personality and in-depth experience in both South Asian, as well as Western workstyles and living, Satis Shroff brings with him a cultural sensitivity that is refined. His writings have always reflected the positive attributes of optimism, tolerance, and a need to explain and to describe without looking down on either his subject or his reader. (KANAK MANI DIXIT, HIMAL SOUTHASIA, KATHMANDU) Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (BRUCE DOBLER, SENIOR FULBRIGHT PROFESSOR IN CREATIVE WRITING, UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH). Schwarzwaldlyrik: ODE TO THE BLACK FOREST (Satis Shroff) ALPINE GRATITUDE (Satis Shroff) The hamlets are scattered, Tucked away in the side valleys and spurs Of the Black Forest, Which was once dark and foreboding. A forest that once conjoured myths, legends And fairy tales. Under the hay and homesteads, You find men and mice, Good natured maids and children, Healthy and happy cows, goats, Sheep and swines. The Schwarzwald farmers paid low taxes, For Nature punished them enough. They couldn’t get rich on the craggy soil, The high elevation and the long, raw winter. Yet the Black Forest forced the soil, To yield millet in Summer,Wheat and barley, Buried beneath a thick mantle of snow. Ah, it’s already past the month of October, The young calves are in the stalls, After a colourful, traditional walk From the higher alpine meadows. There’s corn in the chamber, Feed for the animals in the barns. Around Freiburg the apple trees, Are laden heavily with apples. Your nostrils smell apple mixed with cinnamon and sugar: Applekompott, apple moos, apple pancakes and pies. * * * THE HARVEST FESTIVAL (Satis Shroff) Erntedank is the harvest festival, The German Thanksgiving, Celebrated on the first Sunday of October. The richness of Nature is depictedBy bread, fruits and flowers. (A card from the Schwarzwald with damsels in their traditional attire ) The ladies wear lovely silk costumes, Displaying their exquisite stiching and sewing creations: Jewellery, pompom hats and headgear with pearls,Expressing their gratitudeTo the church, God and Mother Nature.The Alemannic bread of Kaiserstuhl is legendary,A procession of bakers and vereineEnds the Alemannic Bread Market in Endingen.Neighbouring France is known for cheese,Germany excels with 300 sorts of bread. It’s such a delight to watch the calves and cows,Mooing with their big collar bells,Moving languidly down to the Erlenbacher meadows,Over the golden, russet, brown fallen and withered leaves,Lain by the wind like a rich carpet.Around the Goldberg Hall and the cloister,The alpine air is filled with cow bells,The clash of beer glass and oompa musicOf the red-cheeked village musicians.A homeland that has grownWithe the centuries,Thanks to the word of farmers,Beautiful undulating landscapes,Shaped by dextrous human hands,From Erlenbach upto Feldberg. (Hues of yellow, pale and dark green and russet leaves on the boughs (c)satisshroff) (Hues of yellow, pale and dark green and rsset leaves on the boughs (c)satisshroff) Fresh air and lush green grass in the summer months,Followed by stacks of hay and tangled hedges in autumn and winter.In the vale below,The local Ganter brewery opensA keg of beer in the Goldenberg Hall,The Old Timer Bulldog parade begins,Followed by music of the brass band from Oberried.The visitors relish the Badische cuisine:Schweinebrated, würst, schnitzel, spätzle and salad,And round it up with self-baked Schwarzwäldertorte,Cheese cakes and wash it down with warm coffee. The country women and farmersShow and sell their creative wares,Mr. Müller gathers alms for the church and cloister.In the priest’s hall there’s a Kasperle theatre,A puppet show staged by the Kindergarden of Oberried.Frau Julia Lauby delivers a speechOn the assets and different races of the Black Forest cattle.The birch trees have golden leaves on their boughs.In the evening you sit,Swinging with your neighboursIn an Alemannic Schoof.The Goldberg Hall moves to and fro,To the sound of ‘Schwarzwald Sound.’ I take a swig of the brew,And head for Kappel in the Dreisam Valley below,Before the mirth and fun grow fast and furious,As Robert Burns adminishedIn Tam o’ Shanter. * * * The Alemmanic cows grazing in Kirchzarten, below Gierberg, a wonderful place to have coffe & cakes and enjoy the Schwarzwald scenery (c)satisshroff. ODE TO THE SCHWARZWALD (Satis Shroff) Ach, February you’ve left us As you came,With your cold breeze, Frosty and rich in snow. Many a morning we had to shovel, The tons of white mass,Which you left behindAs your wintry legacy. The wild boars and deer Were circled by the Black Forest, A sanctuary from the encroachment Of Man, But now the circle is disappearing, Leaving Nature’s children unprotected. The foresters drive the forest’s denizens together, And I warn the deer, With blasts from my vuvuzela. An unequal hunt, In which the unprotected animal’s shot by the armed forester. When they built the Schwarzwald Highway, Workers from here and elsewhere, Cut down proud trees,Used dynamite to create Tunnels and roads, Made incursions Into the fabled Black Forest. People came and became farmers In the valleys and spurs of the Schwarzwald. Now the young have education,And seek new jobs elsewhere in the towns,And have left the Schwarzwald homesteadsOf their ancestors. As the World War II generationBreathe their last,Can we blame the sons and daughters,Who seek work to suit their brains?Brain is victorious against brawn,As people acquire more knowledge,Multimedia whatsapps,And degrees from universities.The globe has become a village,And the whisper of fields unsown,Is drowned by the din and lure of modernity. Yet there is hope,For with a degree,You can workIn the tourism industry,When craggy mountains become assets.People pay to climb peaks,Or ski down the slopes,Of the Schwarzwald, the Alps and Dolomites. The wild mountains have been tamed,Ravished by Man,To serve his purpose.If it doesn’t snow,Why, just turn on the snow-machine.Wellness or adventure,When you’re preparedTo pay with plastic cards.The Black Forest farms, forests and fields,Are still coveredWith a white mantle of snow,.The tree silhouettes throw long shadowsOn the slopes,The misty shrouds rise above to the sky,Creating the impression of pines trees,Reigning over the clouds. The snow and ice gathered on the rooftopsCome down with a thunderous roar,In the middle of the night.We call it Dachlawine:A roof avalanche. It’s the month of March,The ice tries to defend itselfAgainst the smiling sun,That breaks through the clouds.The ponds and lakes show defiance,Only to give in after some time,For Surya’s rays are strong.The icy sentinels collapse in defeat.The frost on the twigs, branches and treesDwindle faster than they appeared.The pearly dew disappears. A light blue has descendedIn a hurry.The shepard from Kappel lights his pipe,To enjoy the sunshine amid bleats.He likes the harbinger of Spring,For Spring means hope,For the thrush, blackbird and his sheep. Eichelheer, blackbirds and crows,Hares and foxes appear in the meadows,To bask in the soothing warmth of the sun.This is the season of Brautschau,When pairing begins.Even the deer have come downFrom the otherwise dark pine forest,Now still laden with snow.Snow everywhere,In the forest and meadows. It’s slushy, slippery to trudge.When the sun laughs,Snow and ice melt away.The earth is not naked,Stubbles of green grassAre to be seen.Life is appearing,After the long, cold hibernation. Majestic and serene,The languidly moving cloudsChange their hues,As the peaks and the sky in the distanceAppear yellow, orange and crimson.The people walking along the high roadBecome silhouettes of caricatures,Held far away. Long shadows appearAs the sun goes down.The birds are settling for the night,The mice in the meadows are bolting gleefullyThrough the stubbly grass,In and around the forests of Lindenberg. * * * Dreisam Valley’s lovely Kappel on a sunny day (c)satisshroff Schwarzwaldlyrik: Silence of the Morning (Satis Shroff) The silence of the morningIs broken gently by the friendly Tweets and chirps of birds Hidden among the Schwarzwald foliage. An amsel lands on a branch And listens.A bumble bee dances by. And out in the distance, The blue Black Forest hills, Studded with myriads Of dark pine trees. Lush green meadows, Where the snows lay Only a week ago. I sit here on a ridge, Overlooking my house, The red baked rooftops Of my German neighbours, And watch a Mäusebussard Flying languidly with keen eyes, Swoop down to grab a field mouse In Meier’s meadow. The three rotors of the windmills Are moving in the distant hills. And below the bustle of Ebnet, A picturesque town Across the river Dreisam. Glossary: Amsel: blackbird Mäusebussard: buzzard that eats field mice. * * * * TOAD CROSSING (Satis Shroff) On my way to the men’s choir meeting,Along the airy hill of Grosstal,Past warbling brooks,Past the wooden Black Forest houses,I came across a toad crossing. Even children were there,Giving a helping hand,As they gathered the toads,In their plastic buckets,To help them to the other sideOf the Schwarzwald path. The toads creaked uneasily,The crickets made their presence felt,Night was falling.Schattered in the inverted bowl,We call the sky,There were glittering stars,Of an everlasting universe. * * * * TICKLING TONGUES (Satis Shroff) Singers have to be friends,Are the lyrics of an olde song.Raise your glasses,Be merry and rejoice. Tickle your tonguesWith Bacchus,Beer and badische wine,And your larynx: Erhebet das Glas,Gold’ne funken,der Wein.Sänger,Sänger müssen Freunde sein! * * * * (Aquarelle (c)satisshroff) GAIETY AND INNOCENCE (Satis Shroff) The moment he entered the bedroomAnd saw them entangled in embrace,The gaiety and innocenceOf a relationship,That had undergone hardships,Was gone. The kisses had become cold,And died out.They partedNever to meet again,As a pair. What followed was a kriegOf the roses.Wounded heartsThat couldn’t be restored.Insults, tirades,And accusations,Instead of smiles and kisses. A chapel in Oberried (c)satisshroff In court,Out of court,On the phone, smy, what’s app,Even twitter. You ask: ‘What’s up?How did the kids take it?’They took sides.Never wanting to see her,The Mom in who’s wombThey grew,In her amniotic ocean,Till they could breathe air. And now they despiseHer very breath,Behind their necks.Gone are the fond kisses and hugs.Wounds that run deep with disdain. Forgive and forget,Nein, never, nie!And so goes the conflict,Till a silly court decision is made,By a judge,Who cares a damnAbout yin and yang.Gone is the gaiety and innocence,Loss and pain,Is what remains. * * * * HERMANN HESSE: The Swiss Buddha (Satis Shroff) In Summer he walked through Tessin’s Villages and chestnut forests.Sat on his folding-chair,Tried to captureThe magic around him,With water-colours. In the warm nightsHe tried to sing with words,The song of the beautiful summer.A lonely man,Drunk in his loneliness,Was elated by NatureTo new heights. A year after World War I,He journeyed to Montagnola,A hamlet overlooking the Lugner lake,On the southern tip of Switzerland. Summer was for himA celebration,Triumph of the inner summer,To burn away his inner depression,That gnawed at him.He began to write:‘Klingsor’s last Summer,’‘Siddhartha,’ ‘Narcis and Goldmund.’ His health didn’t improve in Tessin,But it became a Heimat,Away from home,A much longed for refuge. He had a personal crisis in 1919,Like so often in his life.He left his wife Mia and three kids,The way Siddhartha Gautama did,On his search for truth.Unlike Siddhartha,He belonged to the literati,A suspected foreigner,Who lived on milk,Rice and macaroni.He donned his old, worn-out suits,Ate sweet chestnuts he’d gathered from the forest. As he stood in his garden,He saw Monte Bre,Beyond the palms and magnolias.By naughty Swiss farmer’s sons,Who threw stones his way.To the Swiss from the hamlet,He was miserly, aloof, not given to talk.One couldn’t get warm with him.They did bestow upon himA honorary citizenship,After he received the Nobel Prize in ‘46. The Make War, Not Peace Generation loved him,He was discovered by beat Poets.A rock band even called itself ‘Steppen Wolf.’He took a rucksack and wine.Trekked to Agra, Arasio,Certenago and Gentilino. Did you know they servedCats with polenta in those days?He was piqued when he came to know this.Across the Rhine,The Germans served prowling cats too,Albeit with another name: roof-rabbits.Hunger was widespread during and after the wars years. He took his psychiatrist by word, Devoted his life to colours. 3000 paintings were his passionate legacy. The deep green Luganer lake Fascinated him. What Algeria was to Albert Camus, Was Tessin to him. Although he was one with Tessin, He was unsentimental to his wife. His entire sympathy was reserved Only for his feline friend. A stroke in his brain Ended his solitary life On August 11, 1062 Was buried in Tessin, With a backdrop of San Abbondio, Lined with Cypresses: Hermann Hesse, The Swiss Buddha.