|
0
registrerede
31
gæster og
1527
søgemaskiner online. |
|
Key:
Admin,
Global Mod,
Mod
|
|
|
Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
|
Aften’ RM..
Ja, det er et rent helvede, jeg med bare fire-fem små linjer har fået skabt for dig dér, og føler det faktisk lidt som da Sløk udsatte Ebbe Rode for nogenlunde samme behandling, du ved, bogen jeg tidligere henviste til – og som man med fryd kan læse adskillige gange – men det var nu ikke en kopi deraf, jeg der foretog, det var blot spørgsmålet om det var muligt…
Selv kan jeg ikke hekse, trylle er en anden ting, og er enig i at Tannes tryllerier – der snarere minder om hekserier – ikke skulle op i nærheden af skydækket, om ikke andet i nærheden af solen, der så kunne skinne på hendes lille kind. For øvrigt tror jeg nok at Bjørnvig ville ha sat pris på det. Noget andet er så Dylan Thomas, der har betaget mig til rødøjede morgenstunder og som fik mig til at se barndomslandskaber, skrive og genkende mig i dem – hvad der jo faktisk også var lidt af meningen med hans poesi – og stadig gør det, ind imellem. Han er i mine øjne en af de enestående, men putte ham ind over eller under andre der har udøvet næsten samme hekserier med mig, det ved jeg ikke om jeg selv kunne. Selvfølgelig skal du heller ikke slås med den slags, men det ved du naturligvis. Vi ka’ ha’ det sjovt med det, udfordre os selv med den slags, uden at forvente nogen form for retfærdig udmåling i noget system, mellem så mange storslåede poeter og forfattere i øvrigt. Apropos Dylan Thomas, så skal du næsten ha’ den her at sove på, det er vidunderligt, smukt, og med det et gonat herfra – med tak for generalens tale!...
Poem in October
A birthday is a time for a celebration, as well as a time for taking stock, for remembering the past and looking forward to the future. Dylan Thomas’s birthday was on 27th October, and the following poem is one of several that he wrote for his birthdays. In it he celebrates his birthday by taking an early morning walk in the countryside near Laugharne. As in ‘Fern Hill’, he feels that he belongs to the morning, and the morning belongs to him – that the birds were ‘flying my name’.
He sets out in ‘rainy Autumn’, but, in the distance, the October sun is ‘summery on the hill’s shoulder’. At the end of the fourth verse ‘the weather turned around’ and the ‘sky streamed again a wonder of summer’. This change in the weather suddenly makes him remember his childhood days, when ‘a boy in the listening summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide’. The flash of memory is so vivid that ‘his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine’. In the last verse another ‘turning around’ of the weather reminds him that it is his ‘thirtieth year to heaven’, and the poem ends with a prayer for his next birthday:
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbor and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In the rainy Autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.
- Dylan Thomas.
mvh
Simon
P.s.: Poem in October er tyvstjålet fra bogen: Living and Writing: Dylan Thomas - edited by Christopher Copeman.
|
|
|
|
