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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
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Aften' i natningen, RM..
Ja, læse- og skrivelyst kommer jo og går, naturligvis, helt forsvinde vil den forhåbentlig aldrig, men helt sikker ka' ingen jo vide sig. Men det er nu godt at stimulere den med et lille bad i havet af vidunderlige forfattere/digtere, det ingen vel ka' få øjnene fra, når først de er plumpet i. Måske Vendepunktet bare ska' læses en anden god gang, at der er andet lysten hellere vil absorbere. Jeg ka' ha' så knagende lyst til en gammel krimi, at ellers langt foretrukne godt ka' pakke deres grej og rejse. Vendepunktet opdagede mig midt Heinrich Mann, og så er det jo ingen sag at se sig stimuleret. Desuden er jeg så umådelig glad i forf. fra den tid, så jeg er jo et let offer - der ofte kaster læserier i hovedet på fam., venner m.m. Det er noget med at måtte snage i andre værker af samme forf., så det ka' man jo bruge ufattelig meget tid på, hvis man fx havner i en rigtig flittig skribents suppedas. Bare badet gør godt...
Så med tak for IC & Hr. Andersen, her lidt fra ham det nærmest er en livstid siden vi sidst så - og måske ikke helt så tilfældigt et gensyn endda:
The Hollow Men
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
we arethe stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us – if at all – not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As hollow men
the stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do nok appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer –
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they recieve
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyea here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyws reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go around the prickly pear
prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go around the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Bewteen the emotion
And the response
Falls the shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the decent
Falls the shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
*
Whispers of Immortality
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward eith a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightning its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitude for sence,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonnette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does nok in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
- T.S. Eliot.
mvh & nat nat..
Simon
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