Som det vigtigste af mine principper spiser jeg altid æblet med kernehus og det hele. Så det må være hendes tænder der har sat deres mærker i det skrog dér nu hvor hende læber i fugleflugt er over tre tusinde kilometre borte.
Det ligger på trappeafsatsen indtørret, brunt og lige så grimt som der er langt ud af byen, gennem skovene, bjergene, sølvminerne over havet og hvad man ellers drømmer om til man finder sine vinger og møder hende i flugten.
Men indtil videre hader jeg hende fordi hun smed det skrog her.
Så den stakkels orm der betragtede det som sit hjem og aldrig havde hørt om Vestens Filosofi og specielt Freud som hun siger, i modsætning til dyrene var en idiot tørrede ind et trappetrin længere nede.
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-roound. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin the rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.
3 Comments:
VÆKST
Tegner streger uden mening
Barnet siger det er æbler
Maler æbler fuldstændig som æbler
Maleren siger det er æbler
Maler æbler der ikke ligner
Kunstneren siger det er æbler
Maler hverken æbler eller noget andet
På Kunstakademiet spiser de ivrigt æble mogumogu
Æbler Æbler røde æbler
Er Æbler bitre eller sure
Æbleskrog
Som det vigtigste af mine principper
spiser jeg altid æblet
med kernehus og det hele.
Så det må være hendes tænder
der har sat deres mærker i det skrog dér
nu hvor hende læber
i fugleflugt
er over tre tusinde kilometre borte.
Det ligger på trappeafsatsen
indtørret, brunt og lige så grimt
som der er langt
ud af byen, gennem skovene, bjergene, sølvminerne
over havet og hvad man ellers drømmer om
til man finder sine vinger
og møder hende i flugten.
Men indtil videre hader jeg hende
fordi hun smed det skrog her.
Så den stakkels orm
der betragtede det som sit hjem
og aldrig havde hørt om Vestens Filosofi
og specielt Freud
som hun siger, i modsætning
til dyrene var en idiot
tørrede ind et trappetrin længere nede.
After Apple-Picking
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-roound.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
the rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
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