Richard Minne Poems

The world is a many mouthed flute, and each single player
Blows his own tune, and their concert makes sad refrain,
In which I cannot find a note of my own flute's prayer.
...

It is an old hotel. There one rests among the beasts.
And in the guest book, all decked out with Elzevirs,


is still preserved the fame of many a foreigner
...

Oh they talk about me.
But what's there they can say?
Shall l dab on some scent
And twist my hair into ringlets, pray?
...

Act more stupid than you are,
but watch for snares that trip you;
both time and space ignore
but bustle just like hens do.
...

The new republic is strong.
Men write it on blank walls.
Schoolboys stare at it long
and sing an Anacreontic song.
...

Fame attained
by singing a song
is only a flower
that fades before long;
...

The bursting bud; the bee a-buzzing;
the wind that whispers foolishness:
what men know simply as the spring
...

A fool or a genius I wanted to be
Now I'm something in between.
Hence the eternal hopeful waiting
and the outcome: melancholy.
...

I'm reading Gogol. He's the best.
He talks of love and death,
and says people are small
and poison each to all
...

You are like a bourn
in the sun of the morn
on the highland of Pamir.
...