tisdag 15 juli 2014

Long time ago

Det är tisdag och dags för bloggens tredje filminlägg. 

Jag börjar med en dikt av Edgar Allan Poe som skiljer sig rätt rejält från den produktion han är mest känd för, skräckromantiken. Dock är det en sorglig kärleksdikt.

Annabel Lee (vers 1-3), by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

(Förekommer i Holes från 2003. Regi: Andrew Davis.)

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.


Även nästa dikt förekommer i en rätt sorglig kärlekshistoria. Filmen "In the bedroom" handlar om en ung kille som har en relation med en äldre tvåbarnsmamma, och konsekvenserna det får för familjen och samhället.

My lost youth, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882).

(Förekommer i In the bedroom från 2001. Regi: Todd Field.)

There are things of which I may not speak;
      There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
      And a mist before the eye.
            And the words of that fatal song
            Come over me like a chill:
      "A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."


Dagens tredje text är ett utdrag ur den ganska långa dikten Spontaneous Me, av Walt Whitman, som förekommer i den älskvärda filmen "The Notebook".

Spontaneous Me (utdrag), by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

(Förekommer i The Notebook från 2004. Regi: Nick Cassavetes.)

The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)   The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,   
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry,
(Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty, lurking,
     masculine poems;)   
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap,   
Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb of love—breasts of
     love—bellies press’d and glued together with love,   
Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love,   
The body of my love—the body of the woman I love—the body of the man—the body of
     the earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,   
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down—that gripes the full-grown
     lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself 
     tremulous and tight till he is satisfied,   
The wet of woods through the early hours,   
Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down across
     and below the waist of the other,   
The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,
The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming,   
The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and content to the ground,   

Inga kommentarer:

Skicka en kommentar