|
0
registrerede
707
gæster og
2138
søgemaskiner online. |
|
Key:
Admin,
Global Mod,
Mod
|
|
|
Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
|
Barndomslandet er en verden forskellig fra voksnes, alene øjenhøjden dirigerer den voksne væk. Cwmdonkin Park var Dylan Thomas' barndomsland, for de voksne en park Swansea, for børnene et fantastisk sted helt uden voksenkontakt - som turene langs med vandet, hvor man søgte vraggods, flaskepost, fårekranier, gamle guldure m.m. Man glemmer siden indtryk de dengang særlige steder indgød én. Dylan Thomas' notesbøger leverer denne specielle kontakt til barndomslandets indtryk, og havde man i sin barndom tilgang til samme oplevelsesverden, må det være en fryd at læse de mange digte skrevet dengang, en generobring af tabte horisonter, hvoraf en del siden brugtes som "råmateriale":
Where could I ever listen for the sound of seas asleep,
Or the cold and graceful sond of a swan that dies and
wakes,
Where could I ever hear the cypress speak in its
sleep,
And cling to a manhood of flowers, and sing the
unapproacable lakes?
*
I samme park:
The hunchback in the park,
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water,
Going daft for fifty seven years,
Is [getting] dafter,
A cripple children call at,
Half-laughing, by no other name than mister,
They shout hey mister
Running when he has heard them clearly
Past lake and rockery
On out of sight.
There is a thing he makes when quiet comes
To the young nurses with the chindren
And the three veteran swans,
Makes a thing inside the hanging head,
[A] figure without fault
And sees it on the gravel paths
Or walking on the water.
The figure's frozen all the winter,
Until the summer melts it down
To make a figure without fault.
[It is a poem and it is a woman figure.]
Mister, the children call, hey mister,
And the hunchback in the park
sees the figure on the water,
Misty, now mistier,
Hears it's woman's voice;
Mister, it calls, hey mister,
[And the hunchback smiles.]
*
I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggot's barren.
And boys are full and foreign in the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons og flint and pitch.
Oh see the poles are kissing as they cross.
- Dylan Thomas.
mvh
Simon
|
|
|
|
