|
1
registreret
(1 usynlig),
28
gæster og
1453
søgemaskiner online. |
|
Key:
Admin,
Global Mod,
Mod
|
|
|
Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
|
Hej RM..
Håber du hæs af salmesang, ja måske gode cigaretter, nu har slået rod i nydelsen af rester fra gårsdagen and, dog med en anelse samvittighedsnag over den ellers så smukke rappe gang; ja egentlig burde man jo nøjes med at spise deres mad, hvis ikke også dét var galt. Så lad os blive ved nydelsen, her på årets vippe, og med en røst nogle år forinden – og helt uden stemningen af ord der står og græder, som man næsten hører i en nyere biografi; ja der burde ha’ været et tredje digt, men Ingeborg Bachmann var på tur med farmand i Klagenfurt, så du må altså nøjes med disse – desuden ved jeg jo hvor glad du blir, når jeg vifter lidt med Gyldendals lille røde, så, here we go, som nissen sagde:
New Year on Dartmoor
This is newness : every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.
*
Ode for Ted
From under the crunch of my man's boot
green oat-sprouts jut;
he names a lapwing, starts rabbits in a rout
legging it most nimble
to sprigged hedge of bramble,
stalks red fox, shrewd stoat.
Loam-humps, he says, moles shunt
up from delved worm-haunt;
blue fur, moles have; hefting chalk-hulled flint
he with rock splits open
knobbed quartz; flayed colors ripen
rich, brown, sudden in sunlight.
For his least look, scant acres yield:
each finger-furrowed field
heaves forth stalk, leaf, fruit-nubbed emerald;
bright grain sprung so rarely
he hauls to his will early;
at his hand's staunch hest, birds build.
Ringdoves roost well within his wood,
shirr songs to suit which mood
he saunters in; how but most glad
could be this adam's woman
when all earth his words do summon
leaps to laud such man's blood!
- Sylvia Plath.
Preludes
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
- T. S. Eliot.
mvh & fortsat glædelig jul! ;)
Simon
P.s.: faktisk kender jeg godt det med kasser der samler tid. Det er en meget underlig fornemmelse at åbne sådan en kasse og hive arkæologi op af tidens brønd, minder der pludselig får luft, følelsen af pludselig at få gaver man længe har ønsket sig, og pludselig at være langt væk i et andet land når man stikker næsen i gammelt tøj m.m. Jeg har en gammel klamys, som én engang ”bandt sammen” til mig i julegave, et kært gensyn åbenbaret fra en sådan kasse, der nu bare lugter af mig…;)
|
|
|
|
