The Poetry of the Somnatists
Celestial Rope
A rope leading up towards the heavens,
A rope leading up to the skies.
The world is hanging off it
And is anchored fast in the dreams
Of all the creatures, all the men
That ever glanced up to the sun.
High you climb and ever higher,
And never you pull on the rope.
It is strong enough to lead you
But a fall it will never hold.
Forgetting everything and the all,
Sneer at the footrest and the hold;
A new life comes to pass by  this
But forfeit you must the one before.
A rope leading up the heavens -
And the world hangs on us all.
(Moritz v. Bamselle 1946)
Bertrand Russell’s Table
A very long fish
A very long table
In a very long dream
A set of all thoughts
Would be a thought
A set of all tables
Ever dreamed of
Would be a dream
A very long dream
Everybody eating with knife and fork
At Bertrand Russell’s table
(Georges Latour, no date)
The Trail
A madman on a strange island
For him everything is just like it is
No metaphors
Everything is a wonder
His trail is an imaginary labyrinth
His trail follows the streets
Of a dream city
He blazes a new trail
Through the undergrowth of thought
Looking at it from above
We see his path meandering aimlessly
His city lies in a jungle
Right next to ours
He laughs out loud when our paths cross
And rightly so
(Georges Latours, no date)
Love (for Mia)
An image not to be described
But from the scribbles form emerges
A sound that‘s neither note nor drone
But still harmonious and round
A scent for which there are no words
But fills the head like summer‘s breeze
At first we thought it was delusion
But now it is our liturgy
(Georges Latours, 1945)
and if you were to ask me
what might be dignity?
I would say to you
it is a stone tablet bare of engraving
in the middle of a desert
the sunlight reflects off it
so intensely
that one sees nothing but its splendour.
(Esther Weinstein, 1947)
Runs down as time
A burden that suffocates
Polishes the dry skin
Down to the bone
Across the sands into the surf
Until the head goes under
And the waves
Wash away the footprints  
(George Latours, 1947)
The image is unfocussed now
The fringe has gotten fuzzy
The image dissolves in grainy texture
The circle turns infinite line
The instruments get ever subtler
And penetrate to depths unknown
But once they gain the inbetween
There is no core no essence
Which hold together
What is on the surface seen  
(Georges Latours, no date)
Esther Weinstein, Puddles of The World. Photographic Prints, 1946-1947