Faber Book of Beasts.
Am Kader vun mengem OU Cours ass lo Englesch Poesie drun. Meng éischt Reaktioun woer: Urks. Mee et huet sech awer rausgestallt, dass dat Kapitel guer net sou langweileg woer, wéi ech geduecht hat. D’Gedichter sinn selektionnéiert aus dem ‘Faber Book of Beasts’ an gefalen mer zumools gutt, wann ech mer se op CD (resp. iPod) ulauschteren. Dann stéiert mech suguer aalt almoudescht Englesch manner.
Hei dräi Beispiller vun Gedichter, déi ugeschwat an erklärt ginn an déi mer och gutt gefall hunn (suwuel vun der Form wéi vum Contenu):
William Blake – The Fly
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
Miroslav Holub – The Fly
She sat on a willow-trunk
watching
part of the battle of Crécy,
the shouts,
the gasps,
the groans,
the tramping and the tumbling.During the fourteenth charge
of the French cavalry
she mated
with a brown-eyed male fly
from Vadincourt.She rubbed her legs together
as she sat on a disembowelled horse
meditating
on the immortality of flies.With relief she alighted
on the blue tongue
of the Duke of Clervaux.When silence settled
and only the whisper of decay
softly circled the bodies
and only
a few arms and legs
still twitched jerkily under the trees,she began to lay her eggs
on the single eye
of Johann Uhr,
the Royal Armourer.And thus it was
that she was eaten by a swift
fleeing
from the fires of Estrées.
John Donne – The Flea
Marke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny’st me is;
Me it suck’d first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee;
Confesse it, this cannot be said
A sinne, or shame, or losse of maidenhead,Yet this enjoyes before it wooe,
And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than wee would doe.Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
When we almost, nay more than maryed are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,
And cloysterd in these living walls of Jet.Though use make thee apt to kill me,
Let not to this, selfe murder added bee,
And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three.Cruell and sodaine, has thou since
Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence?
In what could this flea guilty bee,
Except in that drop which it suckt from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and saist that thou
Find’st not thyself, nor mee the weaker now;‘Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee;
Just so much honor, when thou yeeld’st to mee,
Will wast, as this flea’s death tooke life from thee.
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