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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
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På rejsefod i blæk, pt. eneste måde at lægge grænser bag sig:
Colum Cille Cecinit
I Is scith mo shrob ón scríbainn
My hand is cramped from penwork,
My quill has a tapered point.
Its bird-mouth issues a blue-dark
Beetle-sparkle of ink.
Wisdom keeps welling in streams
From my fine-drawn sallow hand:
Riverrun on the vellum
Of ink from green-skinned holly.
My small runny keeps going
Through books, through thick and thin,
To enrich the scholar’s holdings –
Penwork that cramps my hand.
II Is aire charaim Doire
Derry I cherish ever.
It is calm, it is clear.
Crowds of white angels on their rounds
At every corner.
III Fil Súil nglais
Towards Ireland a grey eye
Will look back but not see
Ever again
The men of Ireland and her woman
11th -12th Century.
*
Derry-Derry Down
I
The lush
Sunset blush
On a big ripe
Gooseberry:
T scratched my hand
Reaching in
To gather it
Off the bush,
Unforbidden,
In Annie Devlin’s
Overgrown
Back garden.
II
In the storybook
Back kitchen
Of The Lodge
The full of a white
Enamel Bucket
Of little pears:
Still life
On the red tiles
Of that floor.
Sleeping beauty
I came on
By the scullion’s door.
- Seamus Heaney.
mvh
Simon
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