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#21684 - 16/10/2016 23:53
Re: Mellemrummet
[Re: RoseMarie]
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Registeret: 04/04/2008
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Her en af de smukke fra herren med pennen, der i øjeblikket burde sidde på en lyserød sky med sin Caitlin og synge: whack for my daddy, oh…there’s whiskey in the Jar:
FERN HILL
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the night- jars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and the maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
- Dylan Thomas.
mvh Simon
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#21685 - 17/10/2016 01:03
Re: Mellemrummet
[Re: RoseMarie]
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veteran
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Registeret: 04/04/2008
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Fra en anden nobelprisvinder (1995), jakobiner fra barnsben grundet »Kidnapped« og som følte sig som en lille Atlas i den marvagtige gamle træstamme i hjørnet af gården, med gevirerne strakt mod himlen på sine små skuldre, her erindringspunktet der nok har fået drenge flest til at drømme sig ud på havet med kursen ret mod skatteøen, en historie heller ingen andre glemmer, ligesom man ikke glemmer digteren, fortælleren og jakobineren Seamus Heaney:
In the Attic
I Like Jim Hawkins aloft in the cross-trees Of Hispaniola, nothing underneath him But still green water and clean bottom sand,
The ship aground, the canted mast far out Above a sea-floor where striped fish pass in shoals – And then they’ve passed, the face of Israel Hands
That rose in the shrouds before Jim shot him dead Appears to rise again … ‘But he was dead enough,’ The story says, ‘being both shot and drowned.’
II A birch tree planted twenty years ago Comes between the Irish Sea and me At the attic skylight, a man marooned
In his own loft, a boy Shipshaped in the crow’s nest of a life, Airbrushed to and fro, wind-drunk, braced
By all that’s thrumming up from keel to masthead, Rubbing his eyes to believe them and this most Buoyant, billowy, topgallant birch.
III Ghost-footing what was then the terra firma Of hallway linoleum, grandfather now appears, His voice a-waver like the draught-prone screen
They’d set up in the Club Rooms earlier For the matinee I’ve just come back from. ‘And Isaac Hands’, he asks, ‘Was Isaac in it?’
His memory of the name a-waver too, His mistake perpetual, once and for all, Like the single splash when Israel’s body fell.
IV As I age and blank on names, As my uncertainty on stairs Is more and more the lightheadedness
Of a cabin boy’s first time on the rigging, As the memorable bottoms out Into the irretrievable,
It’s not that I can’t imagine still That slight untoward rupture and world-tilt As a wind freshened and the anchor weighed.
- Seamus Heaney, Human Chain, 2010.
mvh Simon
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