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WATERS Tell me, tall Theudas Where can I find untainted waters? To make my body whole Where do I find The cool waters Of blood-blessing Bethesda? Which shall redeem the brain from brutal buzz You see Coolness has betrayed me Taps and showers The still, lukewarm waters Of the altar-fond Shoveled upon my sore infant-skull Should I follow the sea-gulls? And their omnivorous appetite? Where are the wrecks of the tall light-house? The wood-held lantern-light Of the Galilean siren-cries? Reliced by feathers and clotted blood Of south-bound birds And Sea-saints’ ragged sail-cloths? Shall I meet Suzanne of the shores? Can my blue eyes appear in her mirror? And Will my heart shrink sweetly-sea-silent By the sedating song of his gently-swung Jewish tongue? The mild monarch of Montreal Will I ever hold the glacial design The beautiful glistening icicles of my postponed, cool Arctic exile? Messiah The sailor Will he speak to me, through my submersion? Will his blood bouquet above the coral-reefs Blossom from underwater- hot-springs? Where my body lies bloated, inwrought with sea-weeds My back, bruised upon the sharp sea-shells? Will he speak to me sweetly? In my swollen sea-sunk cell? Or should I seek my submersion in Greek? Though, Poseidon, Nereus? You seem very distant to me Should I swim above the archways of Atlantis Picking dead snail-shells from chalked castles? Tell me, tall Theudas! Will I ever hold a sea-shell to my ear? When far from sea And listen to the swirling wind-roared waves Crashing against costal rocks? And not my own My far-too-well-known busy blood My ponderous heart Blowing and beating with blistering fear? Where are those boatmen Who can sail my soil-sick body out of here? And Rub weeds and salt in my terrestrial tears? Who is the Phoenician sailor? Will he appear? And Will he speak? Will the self-lulled mermaids of Prufrock’s sea Will they sing Will they sing sea-psalms to me? Shall I meet Aristocratic Ariel? Sylvia The sea-born Sylvia’s sea-wedding Sylvia’s sea-sorority Sylvia Now speaking with such soft syllables-ends Wriggling her virgin-fin-tail Reassembled with her asylum-sisters Caressing and combing their mermaid-hair Black, chestnut, blonde and dark Amid Silvery-shiny salmon-shoals Sylvia The silver-crowned sea-heir Sylvia The Maritime Matriarch Head, out of carbon-monoxide-airs Sea-absolved And Seahorses, circling her silver-inwrought scales Glittering in ripples, untainted and bare Theudas! If I ever turn sea-ward Who shall meet me there? Theudas, soaked and tall Will you help me out of these dusty, dry robes? And Release me to drink and rejoice in water’s rippled flesh Till I choke? Please! Stir these solemn, still Waters of Narcissus K.N 5/3 2014 | ||||||||||||||
 | haleløs | 2014-03-11 10:40:05 |
dear baby, still wet from baptism; whomever you are; jewish, greek, godly, earthly; you start off by unfolding and experiencing your own, unique self. In your life, you will meet devils, dempns and maritime matriarchs; don't be too impressed youll never find anyone as smart and interesting as ... yourself
You can even turn into an iron-seagull, if you prefer.
On your journey I wish you
'a little song
a little dance
a little sunshine
down your pants'
haha; følte mig liiige inspireret til ovenstående ;)
Jeg forstår altså ikke, hvorfor den fabulerende babys nysgerrige monolog ikke kan gøres på DANSK?
venligst ...
You can even turn into an iron-seagull, if you prefer.
On your journey I wish you
'a little song
a little dance
a little sunshine
down your pants'
haha; følte mig liiige inspireret til ovenstående ;)
Jeg forstår altså ikke, hvorfor den fabulerende babys nysgerrige monolog ikke kan gøres på DANSK?
venligst ...
| haleløs | 2014-03-11 18:02:54 |
'baby' udleder jeg af:
"The still, lukewarm waters
Of the altar-fond
Shoveled upon my sore infant-skull"
og samtlige metaforer er faktisk hentet fra din tekst.
Mine komm. kan altid frit slettes via klik-på-det-røde-kryds nederst til højre ;)
venligst ...
"The still, lukewarm waters
Of the altar-fond
Shoveled upon my sore infant-skull"
og samtlige metaforer er faktisk hentet fra din tekst.
Mine komm. kan altid frit slettes via klik-på-det-røde-kryds nederst til højre ;)
venligst ...
| K.N. Lorenzen | 2014-03-11 18:14:25 |
Det var altså ikke sarkasme, hvis det var det du troede. Jeg kan dog godt forså, hvordan det kunne opfattes sådan. Var bare interesseret. Og, ja jeg skulle lige læse din tekst engang til. Så stod det straks mere klart. Jeg må have været for hurtig på tasterne. Men der stod ikke noget ondsindet eller "bittert" bag.
Kristian
Kristian
| haleløs | 2014-03-11 18:22:44 |
sådan blev det skam heller ikke opfattet! Jeg troede faktisk, det var en monolog i et større teater-stykke?
venligst ...
venligst ...
| K.N. Lorenzen | 2014-03-11 18:35:05 |
Ja! Det kan jeg godt forstå :) Det er nok snarere en tøjlesløs fri-forms hyldest :) Der er en lind strøm af undervandsbilleder, hvor jeg undervejs hilser på nogle inspiratorer :) Tak fordi, du tog dig tid til det. Håber det var en slags oplevelse.
Venligst
Kristian
Venligst
Kristian
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"Baby"??-monolgen kunne sikkert begå sig på dansk, men er indtil videre kun nedfældet på hedensk :) Selvom den poetiske "parafrase" (visdoms-litteratur/satire??) var en oplevelse ;), havde jeg lidt svært ved at tyde dine tanker (bortset fra Dansk/Engelsk-bemærkningen, som var rimelig klar). Tusind tak for besøget!
Kristian