|
0
registrerede
915
gæster og
136
søgemaskiner online. |
|
Key:
Admin,
Global Mod,
Mod
|
|
|
Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
|
Fra letters of Samuel Beckett 1929-1940:
DORTMUNDER
In the magic the Homer dusk
past the red spire of sanctuary
I null and she royal hulk
hasten to the violet lamp to the thin K'in music of the bawd.
She stands stands before me in the bright stall
sustaining the jade splinters
the scarred signaculum of purity quiet
the eyes the eyes black till the plagal east
shall resolve the long night phrase.
Then as a scroll, folded,
and the glory of her dissolution enlarged
in me. Habbakuk, mard of all sinners.
Schopenhauer is dead and the bawd
puts her lute away.
*
MOLY
The lips of her desire are grey
and parted like a silk loop
threatening
a slight wanton wound.
She preys wearily
on sensitive wild things
proud to be torn
by the grave crouch of her beauty.
But she will die and her snare
tendered så patiently
to my vigilant sorrow
will break and hang
in a pitiful crescent.
*
ECHO's BONES
asylum under my tread all this day
their muffled revels as the flesh breaks
breaking without fear or favour wind
the gantelope of sense and nonsense run
taken by the worms for what they are.
- Samuel Beckett, 1934.
Sluttelig - måske i mellemtiden: Waiting for Godot af Samuel Beckett:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FqpjddXaw4E
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiTr7n8kPac
mvh
Simon
|
|
|
|
