|
1
registreret Arne Thomsen
484
gæster og
268
søgemaskiner online. |
|
Key:
Admin,
Global Mod,
Mod
|
|
|
Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
|
Hej RM..
Også februar med januarudsalg oppefra, en lugt våd hund under spredte solstråler frem til april, hvor nisseligt – isblomster nægter kategorisk at gro på alle de bilruder, de lever bedst på statslige sporvogne og buser til billigpriser, hvor røde næser trykker sig mod ruder og skutter sig på gåben efter ørmakaffe og økologisk hvad som helst, med små varme kinder i hånden …
Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profis and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was one handsome and tall as you.
- T.S. Eliot.
Forleden drog så den fine forfatterinde Jane Aamund vesten for månen, som overskriften et sted så smukt lød, efter ikke så få slag og på kant med livet; hvilken imponerende kvinde! …
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent.
Once at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odours bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
Sje is used to this sort of things.
Her blacks crackle and drag
- Sylvia Plath.
Åh ja …
Fathom the wavy caverns of all stars,
Know every side of every sand on earth,
And hold in little all the lore of man
As a dew’s drop doth miniature the sun.
But never hope to learn the alphabet,
In which the hieroglypic human soul
Most changeably is painted, than the rainbow
Upon the cloudy pages of a shower,
Whose hinges a wild wind doth turn.
Know all of each! when each doth shift his thought
More often in a minute, than the air
Dust on a summer path.
mvh
Simon
|
|
|
|
