Du
Posta: 29. 10. 2011 Arkivert under: Uncategorized 1 kommentar »Kanskje er du ikkje vaksen før du innser at ingen eigentleg blir borte?
Eg hugsar at denne tanken slo meg ein tidleg kveld i slutten av mai, på ein liten engelsk veg omgitt av små murhus og eit grønt jorde – at det er slik det må sjå ut der livet, eller kjærleiken, eller ungdommen, eller kva det no var som herja slik i meg, tek slutt: ein slags fridom i alle ting, ein fridom som legg seg, ein fridom som blir ein del av deg.
Der og då slo det meg som noko forferdeleg. Eg var redd for å gi opp, hadde ei kjensle av at eg heldt noko i hendene mine som kom til å forsvinne om eg ikkje heldt godt nok fast. Og sidan gløymde eg det biletet ei stund, medan eg gjorde det eg kunne for å klamre meg fast til det eg ikkje ville miste.
No er eg komen tilbake hit, til denne fridommen. Og no skjønar eg det eg kanskje ikkje skjønte før: alt dette eg gjekk og bar på, alle desse eg kjende, var glad i, elska, er ein del av meg no, anten eg vil det eller ei. Du kan ikkje lukke deg for livet. Folk kjem og folk forsvinn, og av og til kjem dei tilbake. Det kan du ikkje gjere noko med. Du kan ha det vondt, eller vere lei deg, men du kan ikkje vere bitter og sint.
Eg vil ikkje lese dette diktet som om det handlar om å lukke seg og sjå tilbake på det som har skjedd i sinne. Eg les det slik: ingen blir borte – og det kan vere vanskeleg å leve med, men samstundes er det kanskje noko av det som gjer det mogleg å leve i det heile. Kven er du om du ikkje er den du var? Og kven er du om du ikkje kan endre deg, flytte deg litt, stå ein annan stad litt og kjenne at vinden blæs i ei anna retning? Og korleis kan det skje om det ikkje av og til gjer vondt som faen?
YOU
Of the women I have never known
I always name you first
say that I see you more clearly than the sun
and further from me than the light reaches
You have mortal, but eternal eyes
and know it better than I see
hear your voice better than I
who hoarsely have to whisper your words first
You resemble me more than a sister
and you are helplessly with me, unable to come
Even when I make love, you do not stray from my side
Even when I die you will not have me
You’re light at day
and sorrow at night
Your hair billows in the wind
and you’re snow
when it snows
When I call, you never come
But when I turn away, you’re there
Of the women I have never known
you’re the closest to my death
and the furthest from my life
and I always name you first
to betray you
– GJ
Are your lessons done?
Posta: 06. 10. 2011 Arkivert under: Uncategorized Leave a comment »I believe that you heard your master sing
when I was sick in bed.
I suppose that he told you everything
that I keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said.
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?
You met him at some temple, where
they take your clothes at the door.
He was just a numberless man in a chair
who’d just come back from the war.
And you wrap up his tired face in your hair
and he hands you the apple core.
Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare
of all the kisses we put on some time before.
And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk
with a collar of leather and nails,
and he never once made you explain or talk
about all of the little details,
such as who had a word and who had a rock,
and who had you through the mails.
Now your love is a secret all over the block,
and it never stops not even when your master fails.
And he took you up in his aeroplane,
which he flew without any hands,
and you cruised above the ribbons of rain
that drove the crowd from the stands.
Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane
and, an ape with angel glands,
erased the final wisps of pain
with the music of rubber bands.
And now I hear your master sing,
you kneel for him to come.
His body is a golden string
that your body is hanging from.
His body is a golden string,
my body has grown numb.
Oh now you hear your master sing,
your shirt is all undone.
And will you kneel beside this bed
that we polished so long ago,
before your master chose instead
to make my bed of snow?
Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red
and you’re speaking far too low.
No I can’t make out what your master said
before he made you go.
Then I think you’re playing far too rough
for a lady who’s been to the moon;
I’ve lain by this window long enough
to get used to an empty room.
And your love is some dust in an old man’s cough
who is tapping his foot to a tune,
and your thighs are a ruin, you want too much,
let’s say you came back some time too soon.
I loved your master perfectly
I taught him all that he knew.
He was starving in some deep mystery
like a man who is sure what is true.
And I sent you to him with my guarantee
I could teach him something new,
and I taught him how you would long for me
no matter what he said no matter what you’d do.
I believe that you heard your master sing
while I was sick in bed,
I’m sure that he told you everything
I must keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling,
well at least that’s what you said,
And now do you come back to bring
your prisoner wine and bread?
– Leonard Cohen
