torsdag 31 juli 2014

One sonnet out of many gave triumph to Raymond.

Det verkar som om fullpoängarna oftast lyser upp bloggen på den tredje tävlingsdagen. Jag vet inte vad det beror på.

Den här gången stämmer vi upp i körsång för Raymond Queneau, Lag Normandie. Hans sonett kan göras om till flera. Det är ett enastående och ambitiöst språkexperiment som han genomförde i början av 60-talet. Det fullständiga verket består alltså egentligen av 10 sonetter vars rader kan sättas ihop på valfritt sätt, helt slumpvis om man så vill. Det går att läsa mer om verket här.
Det var helt givet att ge honom fyra språkpoäng. Jag funderade faktiskt på att bryta normen och tilldela honom fem språkpoäng, men det stannade vid en tanke. Så här lät det i Sonett 8:

"he writes reviews that read like journalese
which freshens up the tribal rumbelow"

"Th' inspiréd poet isn't polyglot
in his brain one tongue is all he's got"

"O bard your solo readings make me mock
I nominate you as a gapingstock"

De elva poängen förde upp Lag Normandie i ledningen inför sista tävlingsdagen. Förra ledarlaget, Sachsen, föll till tredje plats.

École de Management

Team Content Language Day 3 Total
Normandie (Normandy, France) 7 4 11 22
Sussex (in England) 3 2 5 19
Sachsen (Saxony, Germany) 2 0 2 18
Rogaland (in Norway) 4 1 5 16
Yukon (in Canada) 1 0 1 14
Själland (Zealand, Denmark) 5 0 5 13
Jamaica 6 1 7 10


Dag 4: Vi belyser de återstående stroferna i ett - Historiskt perspektiv.

ROGALAND : Airborne / Öyvind Rimbereid

In the Lufthansa flight on her way home from Milan
seven thousand metres above the Alps
she rests her head against the window,
worried about her first assignment for Nortrade.
Soon she dozes, and half-dreaming
she is already over Skagerrak. 
But in the handbag under her seat
lies the rose
the Italian contact
bought for her at dinner the night before.
It lies protected
inside Monday’s Milano Finanza
she had hoped she would manage to read. 


SACHSEN : "Inner unrest as protection against clocks."
/ Durs Grünbein

What is childhood anyway, after years
Of running away, an extorted wish
Quivering on your lips, a nursery chant
Like home and belonging.
Spat over your shoulder the deadly look
Back was a poor exchange
For the shinking of both day and night.
The colors washed out, the pink idyll
Of lambskin. That was it: the whiff
Of regurgitated milk, the conspiracy
Among the growns to feed and stifle you,
Great clouds of hysteria
Where you learned to walk, and to fight back.


NORMANDIE : From Broken Line / André Breton

We are the bread and water in the prisons of the sky
We are the pavements of love all the stopped traffic lights
That personify the charms of this poem
Nothing speaks for us after death
In that hour when night puts on 
its shiny ankle­boots to go out
We take the weather as it comes
Like a wall adjoining one of our prisons
The spidery grapnels bring the boat into the road­stead
All you can do is touch there's nothing to see
Later on you'll find out who we are


YUKON : Learning Lorca / Erling Friis-Baastad

Too much history here
I cannot sleep

Cold lightning
to the west
over the Sierra Nevada
startles the centuries
awake and back
into hunger—


SJÄLLAND : from Arrival / Thomas Boberg

When you came the dream coincided with memory
and became reality
your name became your mouth, your face
and your face the moment
fused by the glow of your voice, your joy
that illuminated the whole house
and I knew that I had been here before


SUSSEX : from I cry out to the rock / Maureen Duffy

Thou has become a bulwark,
A symbol of fortitude,
An icon of stability,
The metaphor for firmness,
Those things which must BE.

I say unto thee now,
It is time to change that.
It is the time for you
To crumble, to become sand,
To give in to the vicissitudes
Of time, and wear, and growth.


JAMAICA : from “Morning Tableau” / Ishion Hutchinson
Intermittent drizzle on the orange roofs;
a barge slides russeting water, I awoke
and heard brass music from another century:
carriage tinkles and princes and parasols
the white of souls promenading by the river;
no tankers, no allies, just rows of lindens,
“without the broken crucifixes of swastikas,”
and a cortège of starred-arm people, clasped-hands,
shuffling to the prick of spires, by rote,
a voice terse script silting the sky.

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