onsdag, juli 23, 2014

Et gammelt forsøg på at oversætte Dermot Healy

What the hammer

Dermot Healy


Sea-sand
The splash grows closer
till it's like someone
turning in bed
beside you.

The waves know their way
intimately; they arrive
like neighbours, closing
gates after them,

filling in all the gaps
in the walls, the silences,
whatever misunderstandings
may have arisen

since the last time
this great big water for wich
there's no metaphor
came pounding over the bar.

As the tide gathers
the grains of sand
that cemented the stones that built the house
begin to stir.

The want to be down there
where they came from,
among all that wild
phosphorescence.

Slowly they slip through
the ears of wheat, the bog-soil
the manure and soot and frog-spit
that plug the rocks
till at full tide the walls weep.

The walls run.
The house shifts.
Tear-ducts appear on the eaves.

Clusters of sparks
light up the bog:
the curlew hails you
The sea-sand rains.

It seems ages
since you've had
whoever this is
in your arms.



The Serenities

for Helen

A fire lit.
Candles burning.
The animals in.

The last weather report
giving warm breezes
from the south

Our lovemaking sweet
and, just before sleep
thoughts like prayer.

Then the dark
where, when you turn,
I turn,

as if we were
in one beautiful moment
looking the same way

from some height
at something mooving slowly
out of sight.


June

                      1
A summer storm comes riding over the waves
like a pirate

and, anchoring to nothingness,
raises a flag of spume some sixty foot high

beyond the sheer drop
in case we'd forget.

                      2
Salt rains down on the cabbages.
Snail turn to spit.

The waves lift
rocks in silence,

like convicts who have been
condemned to this.

                      3
White butterflies dart round in the sun
among the beach stones.
The beach keels.

With a great maw
the land empties itself

into the sea.


Hvad hammeren

Strandsand                                                                                        

Sprøjtet kommer stadigt nærmere                                  
til det føles som nogen                                                                        
der vender sig i sengen                                                                         
ved siden af dig.                                                                                   

Bølgerne kender vejen                                                                         
fortroligt; de dukker op                                                                       
som naboer, lukker                                                                              
låger efter sig,                                                                                                           

fylder alle hullerne                                                                               
i væggene, tavshederne,                                                                       
uanset hvilke misforståelser                                           
der måtte være opstået                                                                        

siden sidste gang                                                                                  
dette store, mægtige vand, for hvilket                           
der ikke findes nogen metafor,                                                            
kom dunkende ind over revlen.                                                            

Efterhånden som tidevandet samler sig,                         
kommer sandkornene,                                                                         
som støbte stenene som byggede huset,
i oprør.                                                                                                                     

De vil være dernede,                                                                            
hvor de kom fra                                                                                                        
blandt al den vilde                                                                                
fosforescense.                                                                                                           

Langsomt smutter de gennem                                                              
hvedeaksene, mosejorden,                                              
det møg og sod og frøspyt,
som fuger klipperne                                                       
indtil væggene ved højvande græder.
                                          
Væggene render.                                                                                  
Huset forskyder sig.                                                                             
Tårekanaler viser sig på tagskægget.                              

Klynger af gnister
oplyser mosen:                                                                                    
regnspoven hilser dig.                                                                          
Strandsandet regner ned.                                                

Det virker som evigheder                                               
siden du har haft,                                                                                 
hvem dette end er,
i din favn.                                                                                            


Afklarethederne                                                         

til Helen                                                                         

En ild tændt.                                                                  
Stearinlys brændende.                                                    
Dyrene inde.                                                                  

Den sidste vejrudsigt                                                      
lover lune vinde                                                                                   
fra Syden.                                                                      

Vores elskov blid                                                            
og, netop før søvn,                                                        
tanker som bøn.                                                                                  

Så mørket                                                                      
hvor, når du vender dig,                                                 
jeg vender mig,                                                                                    

som hvis vi                                                                    
i et skønt øjeblik                                                            
kiggede samme vej                                                         

fra en vis højde                                                                                    
på noget i langsom bevægelse                                        
ud af syne.                                                                     



Juni                                                                                                   
                      1                                                                                                                               
En sommerstorm kommer ridende over bølgerne                     
som en sørøver                                                                                       
                                                                
og, mens den forankrer ved intetheden,                         
hejser et flag af skum hen ved tres fod højt                    

hinsides den blotte dråbe                                                
hvis vi nu skulle glemme.                                               

                      2                                                                                                         
Salt regner ned over kålen.                                             
Snegle bliver til spyt.                                                                           

Bølgerne løfter                                                                                                          
sten i stilhed,                                                                                       

som straffefanger der er blevet                                                            
dømt dertil.                                                                                         

                      3                                                                                                                               
Hvide sommerfugle kaster sig rundt i solen                     
blandt strandstenene.                                                                           
Stranden vender kølen op.                                             

Med en kæmpe kro                                                                             
tømmer landet sig selv                                                                         

i havet.  

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