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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
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Hej i natten, RM..
Her er der natkaffe og røg på bordet, det er Sylvia-time and you could call it a honey trap! – røgen holder dog hverken bier eller begejstringen væk over “The Restored Edition Ariel, A facsimile of Plat’s manuscript, reinstating her original selection and arrangement” med forord af datteren Frieda Hughes, ja man får næsten lidt…bzzzzz! Om ikke længe klumper jeg selv som en lille bi, lige så snart digtet herunder står i Mellemrummet…
Mange af hendes digte er skrevet uden barnegråd, på tidspunkter hvor eneste lyde var skrivemaskinens klapren og pennens kradsen nedover papiret, eller som hun selv skriver, i tiden før mælkemandens glasmusik starter med flaskers anbringelse.
Hun var en vældig dygtig arrangør af de fineste stemningsbilleder, interessant er det også at stikke næsen i processen, rettelserne m.v. Igrunden findes der vel heller ingen bedre indføring i sprogets hemmeligheder end gennem poesi, trods ørers træthed over det engelske sprog udsat for dårlig amerikansk slang. Men den slags var flittig-bien Sylvia nærmest klinisk renset for, gennem nætters arbejde der jo endte i dette umådeligt smukke håndværk, hvor så mange sublime sanse- og naturindtryk simpelthen står i kø for vore øjne, og ikke mindst dette, gonat-gonat…eller morgen! ;)
The Arrival of the Bee Box
I ordered this, this clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can’t keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can’t see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appals me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!
I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately
In the moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be a sweet God, I will set them free.
The box is only temporary.
- Sylvia Plath.
mvh
Simon
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