Hej RM..

Du ved jo hvor pjattet jeg tænker, når jeg barnligt hæver øjenbrynet med dumme kommentarer til dit fravær, snart med fjollede billeder om sneglene og snart om snarkens snorken; jamen der er jo ingen ende på de pjankede morsomheder, der løber som en strøm fra pennen, lidt som poesien, også når den af nødvendighed tegner skyggebilleder fra grusomme hændelser i sindets afkroge, for som du sir, er den temmelig stemningsfuld, måske ligefrem lunefuld, ja man får jo næsten indtrykket af den som en helt igennem menneskelig syssel..;)

Foråret har nok altid fået det til at klø i mennesker flest, og hvis bønder og hårdarbejdende mennesker ude i landet ikke var dødtrætte ved dagens slutning, havde de sikkert fyldt træerne og stedlige fugle med sangværker om indre strømme – hvad nogen af dem jo altså også gjorde. Jeg blir helt salig når netop Seamus Heaney i Digging starter…

Between my finger and my thump
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Til his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging…

Alt sammen drengebilleder der hænger til tørre i eftertiden, og hvor det hele blir til liv i øjnene på os igen, når landskabet læser sig ind i os som en kantate af Bach; jeg tror virkelig han havde ret, når han så det hele som musik, for der ér vitterlig fantastiske komponister til blandt dem der graver drømme frem i øjne med umuligt få pennestrøg, men de skriver for selv at se, at genkalde sig:

Personal Helicon
For Michael Longley

As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top,
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare big-eyed Narcissus, into som spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

- Seamus Heaney, Death of a Naturalist, 1966.

Jeg har såvidt husket intet læst af E.E. Cummings, der m.a.o. er et nyt blomsterbed, her i eftertiden, lige til at høre…;)

mvh
Simon

Lidt fra Stig Dalager, der i 2013 bl.a. fortalte lidt om Øjeblikkets Evighed: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42Bf3APOq2w

mvh
Simon

Hej Simon

Mere Seamus Heaney, jeg er faldet i armene på hans poesi og hviler godt i den :))


The Rain Stick

for Beth and Rand

Upend the rain stick and what happens next
Is a music that you never would have known
To listen for. In a cactus stalk

Downpour, sluice–rush, spillage and backwash
Come flowing through. You stand there like a pipe
Being played by water, you shake it again lightly

And diminuendo runs through all its scales
Like a gutter stopping trickling. And now here comes
A sprinkle of drops out of the freshened leaves,

Then subtle little wets off grass and daisies;
Then glitter–drizzle, almost breaths of air.
Upend the stick again. What happens next

Is undiminished for having happened once,
Twice, ten, a thousand times before.
Who cares if all the music that transpires

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus?
You are like a rich man entering heaven
Through the ear of a raindrop. Listen now again.


PÃ¥ min vej faldt jeg over hende her ...


Living things

Our poems
Are like the wart-hogs
In the zoo
It's hard to say
Why there should be such creatures

But once our life gets into them
As sometimes happens
Our poems
Turn into living things
And there's no arguing
With living things
They are
The way they are

Our poems
May be rough
Or delicate
Little
Or great

But always
They have inside them
A confluence of cries
And secret languages

And always
They are improvident
And free
They keep
A kind of Sabbath

They play
On sooty fire escapes
And window ledges

They wander in and out
Of jails and gardens
They sparkle
In the deep mines
They sing
In breaking waves
And rock like wooden cradles.

Anne Porter

... og her er hun, næsten 100 år gammel og med masser af liv i øjnene :))

https://vimeo.com/42793814


Aftenhilsner
RoseMarie

P.s.

Lidt mere poetisk fryd her i natten ...


Music

When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother's piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold

And when I was asked
Why I was crying
I had no words for it
I only shook my head
And went on crying

Why is it that music
At its most beautiful
Opens a wound in us
An ache a desolation
Deep as a homesickness
For some far-off
And half-forgotten country

I've never understood
Why this is so

Bur there's an ancient legend
From the other side of the world
That gives away the secret
Of this mysterious sorrow

For centuries on centuries
We have been wandering
But we were made for Paradise
As deer for the forest

And when music comes to us
With its heavenly beauty
It brings us desolation
For when we hear it
We half remember
That lost native country

We dimly remember the fields
Their fragrant windswept clover
The birdsongs in the orchards
The wild white violets in the moss
By the transparent streams

And shining at the heart of it
Is the longed-for beauty
Of the One who waits for us
Who will always wait for us
In those radiant meadows

Yet also came to live with us
And wanders where we wander.

Anne Porter

https://vimeo.com/93832

Morn' RM...

Ja sikke en kvinde; bag de brilleglas befandt sig lige et par verdenskrige samt det løse, antallet af morgensmøger over teskeen frit stående i kaffen har muligvis været til at overse, men 64 år var hun, da poesien for alvor løb ud i bækken - måske en lille engel sad bag ørerne og sang, her et par strofer til morgenkaffen:

An Altogether Different Language

There was a church in Umbria, Little Portion,
Already old eight hundred years ago.
It was abandoned and in disrepair
But it was called St. Mary of the Angels
For it was known to be the haunt of angels,
Often at night the country people
Could hear them singing there.
What was it like, to listen to the angels,
To hear those mountain-fresh, those simple voices
Poured out on the bare stones of Little Portion
In hymns of joy?
No one has told us.
Perhaps it needs another language
That we have still to learn,
An altogether different language.

- Anne Porter.

Og ja, Seamus Heaney er godt for øjne, og har, apropos musikken-i-bækken, sikkert været noget af en inspirationskilde for litteraturstud. - for ikke at tale om anerkendelsen han fik fra den irske befolkning. Så vi er i godt selskab RM, ja også Joyce ligger sgu' og synger med! ;)

Go' dag dér
Simon