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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
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Hej i natten RM..
Da pludselig Seamus Heaney atter jublede for mine øjne på dine linjer her i aftningen, kom jeg igen til at tænke på hans læsning i drengeårene, ja på mine vandringer i hans aldrende øjnes barndomsgenkaldelser, eller gendigtninger, som han muligvis selv ville have kaldt det, og da ikke mindst på hans barndomsoplevelse af at føle et særligt træs kolossale gevirer på sine skuldre, som strakte han armene mod himlen i en speciel gestus, og dermed på mine tanker derom, da jeg stod dér med min kaffekop og så ret ind i en glasrude af sollys i lindetræet herudenfor, som mine tanker der spejlede sig i hans hukommelse. Mine tanker strakte sig bl.a. mod det utal af barneøjne der gennem tiden må ha rejst i Robert Luis Stevensons fortællerøjne, og nu mod det digt han selv skabte i Human Chain, som vist desværre blev en af hans sidste digtsamlinger, hvis ikke den sidste. Så det får du her, som respons på og tak for dit eget – alt mens kulden myldrer rundt herudenfor, for det er jo som bekendt nissetid:
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 when 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 trees planted twenty years ago
Comes between the Irish Sea and me
At the attic skylight, a man marooned
In 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 ask, ‘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.
mvh & godnat..
Simon
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