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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
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Trænger man til interessante grin, klukker de selv op fra puden midt i Dylan Thomas’ levende korrespondance med vennerne (evt. Constantine Fitzgibbon’s Selected letters of D.T.), man måske sku’ medbringe til Toscana, dersom konen/manden denne sommer har tænkt sig at bortføre garderobe og opsparing i samme dyre myggelandskab – om ikke andet, fortryllende selvmorskab…
Efter et par mdr. i dette berømte museum, kedede han sig bravt, trængte til at se venner over kolde øller, men ingen af dem kom anstigende. Mellem arbejde var der jo ikke andet at gøre end at løfte humøret med fornøjeligt brevskriveri; mon dog ikke ølhunden nød opholdet, trods savnet af venner, alt blir med tiden kedsommeligt, bortset fra så humoristisk et vid udført med så gylden en pen – og så er der adskillige breve af samme slags:
Villa del Beccaro
Mosciano
Scandicci,
Florence
July 11th 1947.
My dear Tommy,
In a shuttered room I roast
Like a pumpkin in a serra
And the sun like buttered toast
Drips upon the classic terra,
Upon swimming pool and pillar,
Loggia, lemon, pineclad pico,
And this quite enchanting villa
That isn’t worth a fico,
Upon terrace and frutteto
Of this almost a palazzo
Where the people talk potato
And the weather drives me pazzo –
I am awfully sick here, on the beautiful hills above Florence, drinking chianti in out marble shanty, sick of wine and contadini and lambini, and sicker still when I go, bumby with mosquito bites, to Florence itself, which is a gruelling museum. I loved it in Rome, felt like Oppenheim on the Riviera, but we have been here, in this villa, two months, and I can write only early in the morning, when I don’t get op, and in the evening, when I go out. I’ve wanted to write to you, and have longed for a letter from you. We’re coming back, some brown as shit, some bleached albino, one limp and carmine, all broke, early in August. Will you be in London, or visiting? I do hope we see each other often this autumn. I am told the bitter’s better, and I will be writing a filmscript to buy same. We really do have an enormous swimming pool, (into which I have been only once, by mistake), and our own vineyard, olives, mosquitoes, and small Italian mice with blue chins. I have written a longish poem which I’d like to send to you when it is typed by an Italian professor of English in Florence. I asked the professor about Elba, where we thought of going, and he said – it was the first remark I heard him make – ‘Plenty di fish-dog’. He translates Henry James and Virginia Woolf. Give my love to May and yourself. Write when you can, before August if possible, and tell me where, if you’re in London, as you said, last time we met, you might be, I can write. Now I am going out to the cicadas to shake my legs a bit.
In the very opposite of haste,
Dylan.
*
mvh
Simon
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