Frank Corcoran

In einer eMail vom 16.01.2006 22:14:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

Your poor Sweeney, we now know, was impaled. He’d hunkered for drink
(fresh Corbianco sixty cows’ milkings, actually) out of the (actually a
servant-girl’s) heel-hollowed dinge in a saint’s cowshit. It doesn’t
matter now.

Will it? Happen to me in my microcosmic Paradise, the sun-crazed head’s
fluids babbling?

As I bend to whet? What dinge? An impaling Serpe, perfectly harmless,
is no laughing lunge, will it topple me, given in to hubris or guilt or the
drop of Corbianco golden milk? Or to my robust belief that I can restore the
rent mystical body of down-firmament-streaming Christ?

Have I not bought more than I’ll learn to chew? Ho, coraggio impale
thyself! Hah, don’t then be lowering the copper-head?

That’ll be Act Three. We began with the curtain-calls, let’m come and they
will, we bought the hearth and heart’s history, those Corbianco
cows’ stalls long shadows (- there was never a suicide in the best of families that
I can recall) in the winter, I’ll be comfy by late April, would explore
the ould eye-balls by the first week o’ July. Act Two consolidates, buys
wood-worms, flogged antiques from back Viterbo, ho-ho, delights.

Understandably. No saint’s dinge in sight. Ho-ho. Late love can mature, can heal
(before the impalement, that is), can dream and plan, allow delight over whinge:
and when shove comes to sixty cows’ push, well.

Take proprietor myself atop my proudly, recently purchased medlar-tree
( – too thin these wan, sun-baked branches); shall I juggle my delight and
the dinge? Cop myself on, mate?

Corbianco cows, I’ll be happy enough with that, have very little time for
Serpe or serpent babies. These my sixty beauties (half are as calving
gletchers; half just secrete) keep those at bay. Come down from my medlars?

Do I dare delight, great joy in just what?

We have, granted, just now impaled Augustine, we gored St. Paul, we done a
Dan Flyin’ Tipperary Old IRA rub-out job on the Rabbis and the Kill Joys and
on both unwashed armpits of Dopey Depressioni.

I flail, I sail, I hail my highest and freshly purchased medlars. Ho-ho.

In einer eMail vom 17.12.2005 16:59:17 Westeuropäische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

Roaring : “Eternal rest ; now I would like to change your nappies ONE LAST TIME.” Twould pull your pickled heart out. So it would.

And grant to him our perpetual light-bulbs. Indeed, may their mythic light shine upon our now long dead lad. Grammar, be gentle, gentle. WHERE IS our lad now? You can’t say, can’t even ask; language is not fitted out for this.

So many years, his molecules blowing in his wind. ‘Tis I’d changed his nappies plus drove him so often around our mountain. “NOT QUITE READY FOR YOUR GRAVE’S STEADY TEMPERATURE” is my roar. Is that it? The mystery of the pluperfect. An, at best, shaky hold on the supposed time and space of supposed common-sense. Yet it is this age-old November question I forgave myself at Samhain, when in is out and the other side, you’d imagine, might just show itself a shy little. Where IS his split molecules? Nobody’s monosyllablic: “dead” will fool this fool as November snow-flurries and mutinous waves slide towards whose Christmas? Towards whose well-attested break-down of
lingo, as I hereby remember, recall and call and roar my “NEIN!” into a bad night.

In einer eMail vom 29.11.2005 02:15:36 Westeuropäische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

for Mezzosoprano and Orchestra. 2005.

1. ( from John Scotus Eriugena PERI PHISEON ca. 857. A.D. Plus Irish “seanfhocal” from the common demotic usage up to, say, today )

Deus est. Non est. Super est. Aithníonn súil liath / Saol liath . Súil.
Saol. Liath. Super. Deus . Súil. Dé.

2. (from Henry Francis Lyte 1793 – 1847)

Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide. The darkness deepens. Lord, with me abide. When other helpers / Fail / And comforts flee, Help of the helpless, Abide with me.
Swift to its close / Ebbs out life´s little day. Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away.
Change and decay / In all around I see . O Thou Who changeth not / Abide with me.

I need Thy presence / Every passing hour. What but Thy grace can / Foil
the Tempter’s power? Who like Thyself / My guide and stay can be?
Through clouds and sun-shine, Abide with me.

I fear no foes / With Thee at hand to bless. Ills have no weight and tears
no bitterness. Where is death’s sting, where grave, thy victory ? I
triumph still / If Thou abiiiiiiiiiiiiide , abiiiiiiiiiiiiii, abi , bide, abide,
ab,

3. Text from an anonymous ( ? ) twin-liner over the 1792 lintel of English merchant , John Blacher, on his Late-Classical house at Goslar’s Park, Hamburg.

Wir bauen hier so feste / Und sind doch fremde Gäste! – We´re building
here so free / Our jolly building-spree! But where we should endure / There
we’re so unsure! / Und wo wir sollen ewig sein / Bauen wir so wenig ein!
– We´ve here no lasting city / We build like mad / A pity! / We’re
building here so free / Our jolly building-spree!!/ We build like mad, a pity / No lasting city ! /
Wir bauen hier so feste / Und sind doch fremde Gäste / Und wo wir sollen ewig sein / Bauen wir so wenig ein !

4. (Meister Eckhart. His irons blue-hot.)

As when a man has wine in his cellar / And has neither drunk nor nipped it
/ So he cannot know / That it is good.
It is eternal darkness of Eternal God / And is unknown. And was unknown.
And never will be known.

And God remains , in God’s Self, The Unknown.

Es ist die verborgen vinsterniser / der ewigen gotheit / Und ist unbekannt
/ Und wart nie bekannt / Und enwint niemer bekannt.

Got bliebet da / In im selber unbekannt.

It is the hidden darkness / Of the Eternal God / And is unknown / And
was unknown / And never will be known