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| Bilduppslag ur Winter Bees & Other Poems of the Cold Text: Joyce Sidman, Illustrationer: Rick Allen Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014 |
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Jag har laddat ned en unik bok till min dator. Jag hoppas så småningom få råd att köpa in den i pappersformat. Det finns ingen liknande bok på svenska överhuvudtaget och frågan är om det någonsin kommer att tryckas en sådan. Antologin "Over the river and through the wood : an anthology of nineteenth-century American children's poetry" innehåller ett enormt urval av högkvalitativa dikter för barn, skrivna av väletablerade författare (ex. Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman) under 1800-talet. Den innehåller också ett litet antal dikter skrivna av barn.
Dikterna är sedan sammanförda i olika sjok med var sitt tema. Kvällens två dikter, som jag presenterar, är hämtade från "Landscapes and seasons".
Jag börjar med en dikt av Emily Pauline Johnson (1861-1913), eller Tekahionwake, som hon också kallades. Det var hennes Mohawk-namn.
Hon föddes och växte upp på Six Nations Reserve nära Brantford, Ontario. Hon var dotter till en Mohawkhövding och hans engelska hustru. Hon utbildades i huvudsak hemma, hon studerade både engelsk litteratur och Mohawk-kulturens historia och legender. Källa: Poetry Foundation
Lady Icicle (3 verses), by Emily Pauline Johnson
(from The white wampum. Toronto : Copp Clark, 1895.)
Little Lady Icicle is dreaming in the north-land
And gleaming in the north-land, her pillow all a-glow;
For the frost has come and found her
With an ermine robe around her
Where little Lady Icicle lies dreaming in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is waking in the north-land,
And shaking in the north-land her pillow to and fro;
And the hurricane a-skirling
Sends the feathers all a-whirling
Where little Lady Icicle is waking in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is laughing in the north-land,
And quaffing in the north-land her wines that overflow;
All the lakes and rivers crusting
That her finger-tips are dusting,
Where little Lady Icicle is laughing in the snow.
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Susan Coolidge, pseudonym för Sarah Chauncey Woolsey (1835-1905). Hon var främst känd för sina flickböcker om Katy, utgivna under denna pseudonym.
How the Snow-man felt (4 verses), by Susan Coolidge
(from Rhymes and ballads for girls and boys. Boston : Roberts Brothers, 1892.)
The dear little hands are gone away,
The small soft hands so busy and kind,
Which have toiled so faithfully all the day,
And rounded and shaped me before, behind,
My head, my hat, and my wonderful clothes,
And the pipe in my mouth, and my queer long nose.
As long as the stayed I was almost warm,
I could feel a pulse that came and went,
A movement stirred in my frozen form;
Or was it the children who shook and bent,
Who shook med and pounded until I felt
As if I were real, and going to melt?
Now they are gone to their nursery tea;
Pray! What is tea? I wish that I knew!
And the cold white lawn is left for me,
And the cold round moon in the sky cold blue,
And the icicles hanging along the eaves,
And the crackling frost on the stiff, dead leaves.
If I could only move these useless feet,
Or open these heavy arms once more,
I would cross the brown grass, glazed with sleet,
And pop through the crack of the nursery door.
How the little ones would laugh with glee,
When they saw their snow-man coming to tea!
***
Kvällens tredje dikt är hämtad från bilderboken "Winter Bees & Other Poems of the Cold" av Joyce Sidman (text) och Rick Allen (bilder). Ibland i bilderböckerna, är bilderna vida överlägsna texten. Det här är en sådan bok. Fast jag gillade texten om älgen.
Big brown moose, by Joyce Sidman (f. 1956)
(from Winter Bees & Other Poems of the Cold. Ill. Rick Allen, f. 1964. Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014.)
I'm a big brown moose,
I'm a rascally moose,
I'm a moose with a tough, shaggy hide;
and I kick and I prance
in a long-legged dance
with my moose-mama close by my side.
I shrug off the cold
and I sneeze at the wind
and I swivel my ears in the snow;
and I tramp and I tromp
over forest and swamp,
'cause there's nowhere a moose cannot go.
I'm a big brown moose,
I'm a ravenous moose
as I hunt for the willow and yew;
with a snort and a crunch,
I rip off each bunch,
and I chew and I chew and I chew.
When together we slump
in a comfortable clump -
my mountainous mama and I -
I give her a nuzzle
of velvety muzzle.
Our frosty breath drifts to the sky.
I'm a big brown moose,
I'm a slumberous moose
I'm a moose with a warm, snuggly hide;
and I bask in the moon
as the coyotes croon,
with my moose-mama close by my side.
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