måndag 9 juni 2014

Från liv till lek i solnedgång

I dag publicerar jag bloggens äldsta textrader, så här långt. De skrevs i Japan under sent 900-tal.  Därefter blir det en dikt av nobelpristagaren från 1913, Rabindranath Tagore. Och sen föds vi på nytt.


The lower leaves of the trees, by Sone No Yoshitada (omkring 930-1010). Translation by Kenneth Rexroth.

The lower leaves of the trees
Tangle the sunset in dusk.
Awe spreads with
The summer twilight.


Seashore, by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
(From Gitanjali : (song offerings) : a collection of prose transl. made by the author from the original Bengali / with an introd. by W. B. Yeats. London : Macmillan, 1913.)

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead
and the restless water is boisterous.
On the seashore of endless worlds
the children meet with shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand
and they play with empty shells.
With withered leaves they weave their boats
and smilingly float them on the vast deep.
Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children,
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
Tempest roams in the pathless sky,
ships get wrecked in the trackless water,
death is abroad and children play.
On the seashore of endless worlds is the
great meeting of children.


En enkel men rätt vacker dikt av Thom Gunn (1929-2004) får avsluta dagens frasmöte. Den innehåller tvåradiga slutrim och handlar om en nyfödd bebis.

Baby Song, by Thom Gunn
(From Collected Poems. New York : Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994.)

From the private ease of Mother's womb
I fall into the lighted room.

Why don't they simply put me back
Where it is warm and wet and black?

But one thing follows on another.
Things were different inside Mother.

Padded and jolly I would ride
The perfect comfort of her inside.

They tuck me in a rustling bed
--I lie there, raging, small, and red.

I may sleep soon, I may forget,
But I won't forget that I regret.

A rain of blood poured round her womb,
But all time roars outside this room.

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