Hej RM…

Sådan midt i efterårsstilheden er der jo basis for brusende lykke over kakaoskæg og ædende gode boller, og så en gåtur med kig på træer og tanken om hvad vinteren mon har at tilbyde, og ka’ her godt få det lidt som Benny, der i mindets afkrog blir et lykkeligt forår..

Forøvrigt må du da næsten læse »På besøg hos bedstefar«, som er én af flere herlige fortællinger i Dylan Thomas’ novelle- eller prosasamling: Rejsen Tilbage – en nydelse for enhver glad i det blomstrende sprog, der så har den fordel kun at sku’ vandes med glæden.

Til efteråret

Det blæser op
træerne dunker hinanden i ryggen
og hoster rustne blade op.
Sokkerne blir længere og tykkere.
Det varme vand blir hurtigere koldt.
Fugle samles for at vise hvad de dur til
og undgå gigt.
Nogle folk graver stadig kartofler op
andre gifttromler.
Hvis skovlen ikke eksisterede
måtte man opfinde den.
Det siges
vi er for mange mennesker på jorden
men har man spurgt hver enkelt?
Hun siger af og til:
˶Jeg ku æde dig!˝
men svarer ikke når jeg spør:
˶Er det sandt?˝

*

AFKROGE ER IKKE HVAD DE
HAR VÆRET

Man leder efter et ord
og finder et sprog

Man kysser en mund
og blir gift med et folk

Man graver i haven
og støder på en planet

Man ser forundret op
og man er forår

- Benny Andersen

mvh
Simon

P.s.: Ja så er der altså 69 dage igen!
http://www.everythingmixed.com/wp-content/uploads/santa-claus-fails-02.jpg

mvh
Nissen

Her en af de smukke fra herren med pennen, der i øjeblikket burde sidde på en lyserød sky med sin Caitlin og synge: whack for my daddy, oh…there’s whiskey in the Jar:

FERN HILL

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the
calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it
was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the night-
jars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and the maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking
warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

- Dylan Thomas.

mvh
Simon

Fra en anden nobelprisvinder (1995), jakobiner fra barnsben grundet »Kidnapped« og som følte sig som en lille Atlas i den marvagtige gamle træstamme i hjørnet af gården, med gevirerne strakt mod himlen på sine små skuldre, her erindringspunktet der nok har fået drenge flest til at drømme sig ud på havet med kursen ret mod skatteøen, en historie heller ingen andre glemmer, ligesom man ikke glemmer digteren, fortælleren og jakobineren Seamus Heaney:

In the Attic

I
Like Jim Hawkins aloft in the cross-trees
Of Hispaniola, nothing underneath him
But still green water and clean bottom sand,

The ship aground, the canted mast far out
Above a sea-floor where striped fish pass in shoals –
And then they’ve passed, the face of Israel Hands

That rose in the shrouds before Jim shot him dead
Appears to rise again … ‘But he was dead enough,’
The story says, ‘being both shot and drowned.’

II
A birch tree planted twenty years ago
Comes between the Irish Sea and me
At the attic skylight, a man marooned

In his own loft, a boy
Shipshaped in the crow’s nest of a life,
Airbrushed to and fro, wind-drunk, braced

By all that’s thrumming up from keel to masthead,
Rubbing his eyes to believe them and this most
Buoyant, billowy, topgallant birch.

III
Ghost-footing what was then the terra firma
Of hallway linoleum, grandfather now appears,
His voice a-waver like the draught-prone screen

They’d set up in the Club Rooms earlier
For the matinee I’ve just come back from.
‘And Isaac Hands’, he asks, ‘Was Isaac in it?’

His memory of the name a-waver too,
His mistake perpetual, once and for all,
Like the single splash when Israel’s body fell.

IV
As I age and blank on names,
As my uncertainty on stairs
Is more and more the lightheadedness

Of a cabin boy’s first time on the rigging,
As the memorable bottoms out
Into the irretrievable,

It’s not that I can’t imagine still
That slight untoward rupture and world-tilt
As a wind freshened and the anchor weighed.

- Seamus Heaney, Human Chain, 2010.

mvh
Simon

Det er lige på nippet, det nisser til:

Novemberdag

Nøgne kviste strikker i vinden.
Blade smuldrer som gamle breve
solen har læst og brændt.

De første snefnug falder ned
i min varme hånd og fordamper.

Nu synker vi ned i rummet.
Vil vi falde i levende hænder?

- Benny Andersen.

mvh
Simon
P.s.: En vits der ikke bør læses af den overtroiske:

En ung kvinde skal krydse en kirkegård en mørk aften. Pludselig hører hun en uhyggelig lyd. Hun bliver meget forskrækket, men får så øje på en gammel mand, der sidder og slår med hammer og mejsel på en gravsten.

- Der skræmte du mig godt nok. Jeg troede det var et spøgelse jeg hørte. Men hvad laver du her midt om natten?
- Fjolserne har stavet mit navn forkert!