Arkiv för februari 2011

T.S. Eliot – The Fire Sermon   Leave a comment

T.S. Eliot reads his poem ”The Fire Sermon” from ”The Waste Land”

The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I sat fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
[‘And oh, the voices of the children singing in the dome!’]

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest–
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with a bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses;
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired.
Endeavors to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defense.;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
”Well now that’s done, and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.
”The music crept by me upon the waters”,
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendor of Ionian white and gold.

The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.

Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers

Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

”Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”
”My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised `a new start.’
I made no comment. What should I resent?”
”On Margate Sands
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.”

la la

To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord thou pluckest me out
O Lord thou pluckest
burning

Postat februari 18, 2011 av estraden i poets from English-speaking regions

Dylan Thomas – Do not go gentle into that good night   Leave a comment

Dylan Thomas reads his poem

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas Reading His Poetry

Postat februari 17, 2011 av estraden i poets from English-speaking regions

Rolf Zandén – Tid och otid   Leave a comment

Rolf Zandén läser egna dikter till egen musik.
Köp hela CD:n ”Tid och otid” här:
TID OCH OTID – Rolf Zandén läser egna dikter till egen musik

Postat februari 17, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

Wallace Stevens – Vacancy in the park   Leave a comment

Wallace Stevens reads his poem Vacancy in the park

March . . . Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for he knows not what.

It is like a boat that has pulled away
From a shore at night and disappeared.

It is like a guitar left on a table
By a woman, who has forgotten it.

It is like the feeling of a man
Come back to see a certain house.

The four winds blow through the rustic arbor,
Under its mattresses of vines.

from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens

wallace_stevens

Postat februari 16, 2011 av estraden i poets from English-speaking regions

Magnus William-Olsson – Ingersonetterna   Leave a comment

Magnus William-Olsson läser ur “Ingersonetterna”, Växjö februari 2010.
Lyssna på fler sonetter här: podpoesi

Postat februari 15, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

NILS FERLIN – gick jag allena   Leave a comment

Nils Ferlin läser dikten ”Gick jag allena”

Digitaliserat material från Nils Ferlins egen stålbandskälla, se
www.ferlin.se/Ljudinspelningar

Postat februari 15, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

Göran Ahlberg – Riddarna av sorgen   Leave a comment

Riddarna av sorgen
Göran Ahlberg

Han var inte hemlös,
inte i den bemärkelsen
men slog han sig ner någonstans
var det snart något som skavde:
inrättandet av sig själv i ledan och tvånget.
Och han såg inget annat sätt att borsta av sig olusten
än att gå vidare.

Så småningom fann han även andra som likt honom själv
tycktes tillhöra en sällsam art av utanförvarande.
Ett onyttans lösaktiga brödraskap,
luffare och sagoberättare
som levde sin exil i tillvarons utmarker.

Man började kalla sig själva för
”Riddarna av sorgen och den behärskade vreden”
och blev upprorsmän som föll an mot städer och byar,
beväpnade endast med enklare gester av avståndstagande,
hotandes endast med sin avsaknad av girighet.

______________________________________________________________________

Göran Ahlberg arbetar som svetsare på en industri i Vadstena.
I september 2010 gav han ut sin första diktsamling, ”Mjukt faller min blick i det gulnande gräset”.
Boken kan beställas direkt av författaren på adressen goran.klucka@hotmail.com och kostar 150 kr + porto.

Postat februari 2, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare