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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
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Højsi RM..
Herlige tanker fra og om, ja engang imellem tænker man jo lidt på hvordan han har det, og synes vel det er lidt trist sådan at se skyggerne stå parat, men kan jo så tilsidesætte dem ved netop at trække slige tanker i forgrunden, og faktisk finder man næppe noget bedre lyspunkt end netop Storm P, hvor jeg hvad humoren angår, stadig ser for mig Slaget om Asgårdsvej sætte Reden lidt i baggrunden; nåja, det hjælper måske lidt at ligge dér med sår hals og opvartes af en sygeplejeattitude fra Krimkrigen, i al fald har en sår hals sjældent leet sig så øm. For han var jo mageløs, hvad man bestemt også må sige om Møllehave, som har bistået utroligt mange mennesker i deres kvide, med netop en forståelse der stikker dybt, for i tragiske situationer at kunne fremmane humørets bedre udkigspost. Nu ka’ man selvfølgelig ikke le eller elske alt ubehageligt ihjel, hvor det at få flyttet blikket og se situationer fra andre synsvinkler ligefrem kan være helsefrembringende, og det er nok dér at begge d’herrer, Storm og Møllehave, begge har gjort så mange mennesker rigere.
Så jeg kvitterer for det fine stykke, ja på sådan mælkehvid lørdag eftermiddag hvor Storm og Alstrup sikkert havde stået ved Sokkelund med hunden i mente, og hvor Møllehave lige så sikkert var stokket rundt som kun Søren ville ha’ forstået nødvendigheden af, med to smukke stykker af Mathew Arnold – ikke fordi jeg ka’ ventes at gro mig ældre, sikkert blot gamlere og med et fandens humør i vente:
Growing old
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The luster of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
—Yes, but not this alone.
Is it to feel our strength—
Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more loosely strung?
Yes, this, and more; but not
Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be!
’Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow,
A golden day’s decline.
’Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fullness of the past,
The years that are no more.
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young;
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion—none.
It is—last stage of all—
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
*
Dover beach
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
- Mathew Arnold.
mvh & god weekend
Simon
P.s.: mit mas med dine grønne riter, fik som set ikke gjort kål på Gyldendals, men forsøget var smukt, hi! ;)
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