Dagstidningen The Guardian (min fjärde inspirationskälla) behöver väl ingen närmare presentation. Den grundades 1821 i Manchester, England. Jag läser deras recensioner av ny litteratur när jag har tid. Frågan är hur Rumens dikttips står sig mot de andra kandidaterna.
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| The Manchester Guardian, May 5, 1821. |
***
Carol Rumens, född Lumley, föddes i Forest Hill, South London. Hon fick ett stipendium till läroverket, och studerade senare filosofi vid London University, men lämnade innan hon slutförde sin examen. Hon tog senare en magisterexamen i Writing for the stage.
Hon har undervisat vid University of Kent i Canterbury, Queens University Belfast, University College Cork, Stockholms universitet, och University of Hull. Hon är för närvarande gästprofessor i kreativt skrivande vid universiteten i Hull och Bangor. Hon har haft befattningen som poesiredaktör för förlaget Quarto och för the Literary Review. Hon valdes in som medlem av Royal Society of Literature 1984.
Hennes arbeten har regelbundet publicerats i publikationer som The Guardian och Harper's, och hon skriver nu den enormt populära spalten "Poem of the week" för The Guardian.
Nu över till exemplen för vecka 18.
***
Casida of the Dead Sun, by Rebecca Perry
(from Beauty/Beauty. Northumberland : Bloodaxe Books, 2015.)
The world is in the process of ending.
The insects have dropped from the air.
The last wasp is sinking through
the gloopy green water of a garden pond,
the most melancholy diver.
The sun is on its back at the very top
of the sky, floating bleakly, jelly-eyed.
A toad’s heart is blinking inside
its nobbly body as it contemplates
the infinite civilisations of the world,
the disappointment of having
only ever truly known this one.
(Not: Qasida, eller 'casida', är en klassisk islamsk diktform, oftast bestående av mellan 20 och 150 tvåradiga verser i en och samma rytm, med rimschemat aa, ab, ac, ad osv.)
***
Kid, this is October / Jeffrey Bean
(from 2016)
you can make the maples blaze
just by stopping to look,
you can set your clock to the barks
of geese.
Somewhere the grandfathers
who own this town lean down to iron
crisp blue shirts, their faces bathing
in steam, and blackbirds
clamor in packs,
make plans behind corn.
You know this,
you were born whistling
at crackling stars, you snap
your fingers and big turtles
slide out of rivers to answer.
You can swim one more time
in the puddle of sun
in your water glass, taste icicles
already in the white crunch
of your lunch apple. Go
to sleep. I’ll put on my silver suit
and chase the sky into the moon.
***
The way down, by Jean Sprackland (f. 1962)
(from Tilt. London : Jonathan Cape, 2007.)
Forget the path.
Hack through gorse and blackthorn
and walk into the stream.
The thing about a stream is
it knows where it’s going, has a gift
for finding the shortest route.
A path can lose its nerve,
peter out into a bog or bracken, divide
inscrutably in two. I’ve stood at that place
and weighed the choices, weighed
and checked again, while mist crawls
over the mountain like sleep.
When the stream divides
both streamlets are equally sure.
Each plays its own game – the slick of moss,
the sudden race over a sill of rock –
and each, if you let it,
will carry you down.
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