Hej Simon
Indrømmet, min mellemrumstast har været lidt rigelig træg på det
sidste ... ;))
Seamus Heaney skriver meget smukt og følsomt. Det samme gør E.E. Cummings, når han her begi'r sig på rejse ud i forårsfornemmelser og rosenbede. :))
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
... også Rilke skriver om forårsfornemmelsernes blomsterlandskab med kig til himlen.
Again and again, even though we know love’s landscape
and the little churchyard with its lamenting names
and the terrible reticent gorge in which the others
end: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lay ourselves down again and again
among the flowers, and look up into the sky.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Bedste hilsner
RoseMarie
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