tirsdag 22. september 2009
Billy Collins leser “Consolation” (“Trøst”)
Consolation
How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car
as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.
Litt om Billy Collins fins her! Og litt til på denne bloggen under juni, juli og november (alle i 2008).
(Stor takk til Kjersti Bjørkmo som gjorde oppmerksom!)
*
søndag 6. september 2009
Patricia Smith - "34"
Her er Patricia Smith´s UPI-innledning og skriftlige versjon av diktet hvor hun gir stemme til 34 av ofrene for orkanen Katrina:
34
ST. BERNARD PARISH, La., Sept. 7 (UPI) – Thirty-four bodies were found drowned in a nursing home where people did not evacuate. The more than half of the residents of St. Rita’s nursing home, 20 miles southeast from downtown New Orleans, died Aug. 29 when floodwaters from Hurricane Katrina reached the home’s roof.
1.
I believe Jesus is hugely who He says he is: The crook of an arm, a shadow threatening my hair. a hellish glare beneath the moonwash, the slapping storm that wakes me, the washing clean.
2.
The Reaper has touched his lips to my days, blessing me with gray fragrance and awkward new skin. What makes the dust of me smell like a dashed miracle, the underside of everything? What requires me to hear the bones?
3.
Before the rain stung like silver, I had forgotten me. My name was a rude visitor, arriving unannounced, without a gift, always leaving too soon.
4.
If you knew my alley, its stink and blue, if you knew dirt-gritted collard greens that are salt-pork slick and doused with Tabasco, then you knew me. I know that you’ve come with my engine, and the rest of my skin. You will rise me.
5.
Son don’t rise, daughter don’t know enough to dial a phone. Gets harder to remember how my womb folded because of them, how all of me lumbered with their foolish weight. See what they have done, how hard and sweet they done dropped me here?
6.
Clumps of earth in the rising and me too weathered to birth a howl. I sleep in small shatters. I climb the bitten left wall of my heart. In all the places I fall, it is dry.
7.
We knew we had been bred for sacrifice, our overflow of yesterdays too wretched a nudge, our tired hearts borderless and already mapped for the Motherland. We reach for the past like it is food and we are starving. They scour our surfaces, prepare us, wrap us in white.
8.
When help comes, it will be young men smelling like cigarettes and Chevys, muscled boys with autumn breath and steel baskets just the right size for our souls. To save us, they will rub our gums with hard bread. They will offer us
water.
9.
To cool fever, rub the sickness with wet earth. For swelling, boil a just plucked chicken and douse the hurt in the steam. Always from the position of the knees, create the savior you need. Then wait.
Wait.
Jesus…both faith and magic have failed.
10.
There is no light, no thin food moving through my arms. Even without machines, I feel my numbers have soared. I am a sudden second of soft leaving. I’m cold and I’m strapped to this country.
11.
Daughter, son, I am bursting with this. I am straining to celebrate the links of blood. I am wide aloud craving something shaped like you.
12.
There are no bridges.
13.
We are stunned on our scabbed backs. There is the sound of whispered splashing, and then this:
Leave them.
14.
Our father…
15.
The walls are slithering with Bayou spit, tears, the badness that muddies rivers. We flail in that sin, alive and bended beneath a wretched Southern rain. We sip our breath from that filthy ocean. Only some things float.
16.
I ain’t scared of no wet, no wave. I done seen more than this. God is in all houses. Just balance the huge noun of Him on your tongue.
17.
Wait with me. Watch me sleep in this room that looks so much like night. I’m gon’ wake up, I swear it, to some kind of sun.
18.
Which art in heaven…
19.
My name Earline and I’m gon’ say you my life-- sugar in my veins, a single cloudy eye, and blood when I pee. Half dead, I used to say, I used to tell ‘em Hell, I’m already half dead.
20.
I have forgotten how to pray, cannot find my knees.
I want the man with my needles. I want that sting, those silver holes in my body, I want my needles, I want my sleep for days, I wanna cheat the Reaper.
I want somebody’s hand.
21.
Hallowed be thy name
22.
Hollow be our names. Call us running boards, the ice man, big band, hogshead, possum in stewing pots. Twist our heads on our snapping necks back to where we danced from. Call us names that are barely necessary. Call us those who do not need these days.
23.
Big Easy. I ran your green, rolled in your red dust, and your sun turned the white of me red and the black of me blue. Funny how colored I got, how I absorbed your heat, and how you, without flinching, called me your child.
24.
God, we need your glitter, you know, those wacky miracles you do for no reason at all?
25.
I fight the rise with all the guitar left in my throat. Old folks got shit to say, ain’t got but a little time to say it. We don’t never die quiet.
26.
A sudden ocean of everyone’s shoulders.
27.
And this scripture: Leave them.
28.
And I am left, no deity hovering, no black hair on my head, all of me thinner than when I began.
Fingers of ice climb me, reach my dimming light, and choke my only angel.
29.
I had the rumble hips, I tell ya. I was slingback and press curl and big titties with necessary milk. I was somebody’s woman, I was the city where the city wasn’t. Louisiana, goddamn. You lied to me so lush.
30.
I lost my seeing in that war. But I ain’t gonna need these old eyes for that resurrection.
That’s gon’ be one hell of a line.
I’ll be the one slightly off center. I’ll be the one facing the wrong way.
31.
They left us. Me. Him. Our crinkled hands. They left our hard histories, our gone children and storytells. They left the porch creaking. They left us to our God, but our God was mesmerized elsewhere, watching his rain.
32.
Thy will be done.
33.
No more of us, stunned and silent on the skin of this sea, this thunderous wet. We bob and bounce and spin slow, draped in an odd sparkle.
34.
The underearth turns its face to us.
leave
them
*
*
tirsdag 1. september 2009
lørdag 15. august 2009
torsdag 6. august 2009
Joy Harjo
“A Poem To Get Rid Of Fear” fra She Had Some Horses 1983/2006
Mer om Joy Harjo her!
Og her er et annet dikt fra samme samling:
The Woman Hanging From The Thirteenth Floor Window
She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor
window. Her hands are pressed white against the
concrete moulding of the tenement building. She
hangs from the 13th floor window in east Chicago,
with a swirl of birds over her head. They could
be a halo, or a storm of glass waiting to crush her.
She thinks she will be set free.
The woman hanging from the 13th floor window
on the east side of Chicago is not alone.
She is a woman of children, of the baby, Carlos,
and of Margaret, and of Jimmy who is the oldest.
She is her mother's daughter and her father's son.
She is several pieces between the two husbands
she has had. She is all the women of the apartment
building who stand watching her, watching themselves.
When she was young she ate wild rice on scraped down
plates in warm wood rooms. It was in the farther
north and she was the baby then. They rocked her.
She sees Lake Michigan lapping at the shores of
herself. It is a dizzy hole of water and the rich
live in tall glass houses at the edge of it. In some
places Lake Michigan speaks softly, here, it just sputters
and butts itself against the asphalt. She sees
other buildings just like hers. She sees other
women hanging from many-floored windows
counting their lives in the palms of their hands
and in the palms of their children's hands.
She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window
on the Indian side of town. Her belly is soft from
her children's births, her worn levis swing down below
her waist, and then her feet, and then her heart.
She is dangling.
The woman hanging from the 13th floor hears voices.
They come to her in the night when the lights have gone
dim. Sometimes they are little cats mewing and scratching
at the door, sometimes they are her grandmother's voice,
and sometimes they are gigantic men of light whispering
to her to get up, to get up, to get up. That's when she wants
to have another child to hold onto in the night, to be able
to fall back into dreams.
And the woman hanging from the 13th floor window
hears other voices. Some of them scream out from below
for her to jump, they would push her over. Others cry softly
from the sidewalks, pull their children up like flowers and gather
them into their arms. They would help her, like themselves.
But she is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window,
and she knows she is hanging by her own fingers, her
own skin, her own thread of indecision.
She thinks of Carlos, of Margaret, of Jimmy.
She thinks of her father, and of her mother.
She thinks of all the women she has been, of all
the men. She thinks of the color of her skin, and
of Chicago streets, and of waterfalls and pines.
She thinks of moonlight nights, and of cool spring storms.
Her mind chatters like neon and northside bars.
She thinks of the 4 a.m. lonelinesses that have folded
her up like death, discordant, without logical and
beautiful conclusion. Her teeth break off at the edges.
She would speak.
The woman hangs from the 13th floor window crying for
the lost beauty of her own life. She sees the
sun falling west over the grey plane of Chicago.
She thinks she remembers listening to her own life
break loose, as she falls from the 13th floor
window on the east side of Chicago, or as she
climbs back up to claim herself again.
*
mandag 27. juli 2009
torsdag 23. juli 2009
fredag 10. juli 2009
onsdag 1. juli 2009
Sørlandsbanen til besvær
Ja, som dere kanskje har skjønt av oppslagene i Dagbladet, kom ikke Anne-Ki på besøk til meg denne uken som planlagt. Hun har jo vært her på Lista flere ganger før opp gjennom årene, men siden jeg ikke har bil, har aksjonsradiusen her vært svært begrenset for å si det mildt. Derfor tenkte vi at i år skulle hun ha med den elektriske, slik at vi kunne ta oss mange av de fine turene som er mulig her på vakre Lista - ute i det fri!
For å være sikker på at hun kunne ha med seg den elektriske rullestolen sin på toget fra Oslo til Kristiansand, dro hun til Oslo S en uke før for å bestille billett “in person” - med stolen, selvfølgelig - og fikk på direkte spørsmål svar fra personalet der om at det ville gå helt fint med den stolen.
Selv avtalte jeg med Sørlandsruta reisen videre fra Kristiansand og hit til Lista, i god tid på forhånd naturligvis. De undersøkte - blide og velvillige som alltid - og fant ut at de ikke ville kunne sette henne av på holdeplassen her på Vere fordi det ikke er helt flatt og egnet utenfor her, men holdeplassen rett før Vere var grei. Kjempemessig!
Vi gledet oss begge to til frokoster på moloen, tur til fyret, til utstillinger, åpningen av det nye museet på Nordberg og besøk til kjente rundt her og til stranda og kanskje til og med et stykke innover hulveien!
Da dagen opprant - nå sist søndag - dro Anne-Ki i god tid til Oslo S, pakket og klar. Og så viste det seg altså at de ikke ville la henne bli med på toget likevel! Det var noe med en hendel som var i veien inne på toget der på Oslo S (og senere, i intervju med NSB kom det altså fram at avstigningen i Kristiansand også ville blitt umulig). Dette burde hun helt klart ha fått beskjed om allerede uka før da hun var der for å kjøpe billetten!
Ekspressbussene fra Oslo til Kristiansand tar ikke rullestol, punktum. Og fly må bestilles to uker i forveien. Så der satt Anne-Ki på Oslo S - og her satt jeg på Lista. Og kunne ikke annet.
Jo, vi kunne i det minste kontakte Dagbladet. Èn ting er jo at NSB først sa ok til stolen - og deretter, ved avreisen, brått: nei! En annen ting er jo at denne saken her har en langt større dimensjon som bør belyses.
I den første reportasjen som kom på dagbladet.no syns vi nok saken kom litt skeivt ut og ble framstilt noe mangelfullt. Forløpet kom ikke skikkelig fram, blant annet. Debatt-tråden under ble deretter. Ditto med debatten under reportasje nummer to.
Nå er det jo ikke sikkert at det hadde hjulpet med en skikkelig framstilling av saken, heller. Debatt-trådene i nettavisene er generelt fulle av fordommer og raske konklusjoner basert på uvitenhet samme hva for saker som det kjøres debatt på.
I dette tilfellet her, kom det flere fornuftige debatt-innlegg, men disse forsvant i mølja til fordel for de innleggene som fikk flest leserpoeng. Og akkurat disse innleggene som fikk flest leserpoeng er et sosiologisk studium verd!
Anne-Ki fikk et skriv av personalet på NSB etter at de hadde funnet ut at hun ikke kunne bli med toget likevel. Jeg kopierer det inn her:
“Funksjonshemmede på tog
Alle nyere og moderniserte tog har godt utstyr for rullestolbrukere: Heis, handikaptoalett og festeanordninger for stolen. Eldre tog har tilgang på ramper og skinner slik at det er større behov for assistanse ved på- og avstigning. Enkelte tog har egen kupè med plass til ledsager. Ledsager med ledsagerbevis fra kommunen og honnørbevis reiser på honnørrabatt (50 prosent rabatt av ordinær pris for voksen billett).
Manuell bestilling
I dagens oppslag i Dagbladet får vi høre at det vil kunne ta 20-30 år før Anne-Ki kan få med seg beina sine på et kollektivt transportmiddel hit til Lista.
Om tre uker er det nøyaktig 40 år siden “one small step for man”…
På månen!
*
For å være sikker på at hun kunne ha med seg den elektriske rullestolen sin på toget fra Oslo til Kristiansand, dro hun til Oslo S en uke før for å bestille billett “in person” - med stolen, selvfølgelig - og fikk på direkte spørsmål svar fra personalet der om at det ville gå helt fint med den stolen.
Selv avtalte jeg med Sørlandsruta reisen videre fra Kristiansand og hit til Lista, i god tid på forhånd naturligvis. De undersøkte - blide og velvillige som alltid - og fant ut at de ikke ville kunne sette henne av på holdeplassen her på Vere fordi det ikke er helt flatt og egnet utenfor her, men holdeplassen rett før Vere var grei. Kjempemessig!
Vi gledet oss begge to til frokoster på moloen, tur til fyret, til utstillinger, åpningen av det nye museet på Nordberg og besøk til kjente rundt her og til stranda og kanskje til og med et stykke innover hulveien!
Da dagen opprant - nå sist søndag - dro Anne-Ki i god tid til Oslo S, pakket og klar. Og så viste det seg altså at de ikke ville la henne bli med på toget likevel! Det var noe med en hendel som var i veien inne på toget der på Oslo S (og senere, i intervju med NSB kom det altså fram at avstigningen i Kristiansand også ville blitt umulig). Dette burde hun helt klart ha fått beskjed om allerede uka før da hun var der for å kjøpe billetten!
Ekspressbussene fra Oslo til Kristiansand tar ikke rullestol, punktum. Og fly må bestilles to uker i forveien. Så der satt Anne-Ki på Oslo S - og her satt jeg på Lista. Og kunne ikke annet.
Jo, vi kunne i det minste kontakte Dagbladet. Èn ting er jo at NSB først sa ok til stolen - og deretter, ved avreisen, brått: nei! En annen ting er jo at denne saken her har en langt større dimensjon som bør belyses.
I den første reportasjen som kom på dagbladet.no syns vi nok saken kom litt skeivt ut og ble framstilt noe mangelfullt. Forløpet kom ikke skikkelig fram, blant annet. Debatt-tråden under ble deretter. Ditto med debatten under reportasje nummer to.
Nå er det jo ikke sikkert at det hadde hjulpet med en skikkelig framstilling av saken, heller. Debatt-trådene i nettavisene er generelt fulle av fordommer og raske konklusjoner basert på uvitenhet samme hva for saker som det kjøres debatt på.
I dette tilfellet her, kom det flere fornuftige debatt-innlegg, men disse forsvant i mølja til fordel for de innleggene som fikk flest leserpoeng. Og akkurat disse innleggene som fikk flest leserpoeng er et sosiologisk studium verd!
Anne-Ki fikk et skriv av personalet på NSB etter at de hadde funnet ut at hun ikke kunne bli med toget likevel. Jeg kopierer det inn her:
“Funksjonshemmede på tog
NSB ønsker at toget skal være et praktisk fremkomstmiddel for alle. Derfor er universell utforming prioritert ved anskaffelse av nye og ved betydelig modernisering av gamle tog. Skal du være trygg for at du får en behagelig reise, er det viktig at du orienterer deg om hvilke hjelpemidler som finnes på din togavgang.
For å være sikker på at NSB er i stand til å møte ditt behov, bør du bestille reisen senest dagen før du skal reise. Da kan også konduktøren varsles og være spesielt oppmerksom på at du kommer og sørge for at nødvendige hjelpemidler er på plass.
For å være sikker på at NSB er i stand til å møte ditt behov, bør du bestille reisen senest dagen før du skal reise. Da kan også konduktøren varsles og være spesielt oppmerksom på at du kommer og sørge for at nødvendige hjelpemidler er på plass.
Alle nyere og moderniserte tog har godt utstyr for rullestolbrukere: Heis, handikaptoalett og festeanordninger for stolen. Eldre tog har tilgang på ramper og skinner slik at det er større behov for assistanse ved på- og avstigning. Enkelte tog har egen kupè med plass til ledsager. Ledsager med ledsagerbevis fra kommunen og honnørbevis reiser på honnørrabatt (50 prosent rabatt av ordinær pris for voksen billett).
Manuell bestilling
Krever din togreise spesielle behov er det viktig at du bestiller billetten gjennom NSB Kundeservice på telefon 815 00 888 eller hos en kundebehandler på stasjonen. Spesielle behov kan i dag ikke bestilles på nettet, men funksjonshemmede får likevel tilgang til de samme rabatter
Motoriserte rullestoler
Motoriserte rullestoler
Plassen for rullestoler tilfredsstiller internasjonale mål og er på 700 x 1200 millimeter. Rullestolen må ikke veie mer enn 250 – 350 kilo inklusive bruker. Dersom disse målkravene tilfredsstilles, kan rullestolen sikres under transport, og brukeren får tilgang til handikaptoalett, ramper og heiser der det er tilstede.
Rullestolheisenes begrensning varierer fra togtype til togtype. Dersom vekten på passasjer og rullestol totalt overstiger disse begrensningene, vil ikke heisen løfte. Hjelpemidler som skinner har en tålegrense på 250 kilo og ramper på stasjonen har en grense på 300 kilo. Motoriserte rullestoler må dessuten være typegodkjent som rullestoler av Statens refusjonsordning for hjelpemidler.
Rullestolen må kunne festes forsvarlig på anvist plass. I motsatt fall vil den kunne komme i bevegelse under uønskede hendelser og den vil stenge mulige rømningsveier ved eventuell evakuering. Dermed kan den utgjøre en sikkerhetsrisiko for både brukeren og andre passasjerer.
NB! Brukere av rullestoler som ikke tilfredsstiller disse kravene kan ikke forventes plass på NSBs tog og blir heller ikke tilbudt spesialtransport av NSB. Togene på Trønderbanen tar desverre ikke elektriske rullestoler ombord.”
Anne-Kis stol er innenfor målene og vekten (hva enten hun sitter i den eller ikke).
Legg forresten merke til setningen: “og blir heller ikke tilbudt spesialtransport av NSB.”
Nå er jo denne stolen til Anne-Ki hennes bein. Det er denne stolen som gjør at hun kan klare seg selv uten hjelp. Det er denne stolen som det går helt greit med på andre baner hun reiser med. Og det er denne stolen hun føler seg 100% trygg i. Det er ikke som om hun har en rullestol-park å velge i; det er denne stolen hun har. Punktum.
NB! Brukere av rullestoler som ikke tilfredsstiller disse kravene kan ikke forventes plass på NSBs tog og blir heller ikke tilbudt spesialtransport av NSB. Togene på Trønderbanen tar desverre ikke elektriske rullestoler ombord.”
Anne-Kis stol er innenfor målene og vekten (hva enten hun sitter i den eller ikke).
Legg forresten merke til setningen: “og blir heller ikke tilbudt spesialtransport av NSB.”
Nå er jo denne stolen til Anne-Ki hennes bein. Det er denne stolen som gjør at hun kan klare seg selv uten hjelp. Det er denne stolen som det går helt greit med på andre baner hun reiser med. Og det er denne stolen hun føler seg 100% trygg i. Det er ikke som om hun har en rullestol-park å velge i; det er denne stolen hun har. Punktum.
I dagens oppslag i Dagbladet får vi høre at det vil kunne ta 20-30 år før Anne-Ki kan få med seg beina sine på et kollektivt transportmiddel hit til Lista.
Om tre uker er det nøyaktig 40 år siden “one small step for man”…
På månen!
*
onsdag 20. mai 2009
Naomi Shihab Nye
(Med stor takk til Kjersti Bjørkmo som gjorde oppmerksom!)
Naomi Shihab Nye måtte jeg straks finne ut mer om - bl.a. her!
Poetry Foundation har lagt ut flere av diktene hennes - her!
Og her er et dikt som traff meg ekstra:
Boy and Egg
Every few minutes, he wants
to march the trail of flattened rye grass
back to the house of muttering
hens. He too could make
a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh
it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it
to his ear while the other children
laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him,
so little yet, too forgetful in games,
ready to cry if the ball brushed him,
riveted to the secret of birds
caught up inside his fist,
not ready to give it over
to the refrigerator
*
søndag 17. mai 2009
torsdag 23. april 2009
The Raven av Edgar Allan Poe & The Alan Parsons Projects versjon
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
(Edgar Allan Poe, 1845)
En fin artikkel om Edgar Allan Poe på norsk Wikipedia her!
Og om The Alan Parsons Project på engelsk Wikipedia her!
*
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
(Edgar Allan Poe, 1845)
En fin artikkel om Edgar Allan Poe på norsk Wikipedia her!
Og om The Alan Parsons Project på engelsk Wikipedia her!
*
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