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#23092 - 18/04/2017 22:34
Re: Poetisk fryd..
[Re: RoseMarie]
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veteran
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Registeret: 04/04/2008
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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
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#23099 - 20/04/2017 22:35
Re: Poetisk fryd..
[Re: Simon]
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bor her
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Registeret: 02/05/2009
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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/42793814Aftenhilsner RoseMarie
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#23103 - 21/04/2017 07:11
Re: Poetisk fryd..
[Re: RoseMarie]
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veteran
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Registeret: 04/04/2008
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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
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