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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
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Hej RM..
Ja, der var og er mange fine digtere, fx Tafdrup – men som parallel til beaten fra Strunges tromme, her ét fra Sylvia Plath – hentet fra Borums ’Det Amerikanske’, hvor han serverer begyndelsen af hendes digt Lady Lazarus med vægt på linjerne: ”My skin / bright as Nazi Lampshade” som et beundrings-vær-digt (billede) på hendes grundtemaer: kunsten, naturen, kærligheden og døden, hvor der både inkorporeres rædselsvækkende historiske erfaringer og trækkes fine tråde gennem hendes historie i kap. Stilhedens Stilhed (Sylvia Plath-syndromet m.m.):
Lady Lazarus
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
- Sylvia Plath
*
Og se lidt til tidens ømme tandhalse, med…
Snemanden
Man må ha et vintersind
for at betragte frosten og grenene
på fyrretræet skorpede af sne:
og ha været kold længe
for at se enebær filtrede af is
og grove graner i fjern glitren
af januarsolen; og for ikke at tænke
på nogen elendighed i vindens lyd,
i lyden af de få blade,
som er landets lyd
fuldt af den samme vind
som blæser på samme nøgne sted
for den lyttende der lytter i sneen
og, selv intet, ser
intet som ikke er der og det intet som er.
- Wallace Stevens.
mvh & god weekend..
Simon
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