Lyrisk vederkvegelse

Jeg har en skummel plan om å utvide aktiviteten på denne bloggen med litt kunst og lyrikk. Rett og slett fordi jeg synes det blir en smule enstonig med all denne livssynsdebatten. Og fordi også vi humanister trenger en smule vederkvegelse av våre mørke, dystre og lukkede sinn ...

R.S. Thomas (1913-2000) er muligens min favorittlyriker - i skarp konkurranse med George Mackay Brown. Og det er muligens en smule ironi i å spore at de begge var dypt kristne. Orkadieren Mackay Brown var katolikk, waliseren Thomas anglikansk prest.

Uansett, jeg fant en side med Thomas' lyrikk på nettet og tillater meg å låne to dikt derfra:


Children's Song

We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.
And though you probe and pry
With analytic eye,
And eavesdrop all our talk
With an amused look,
You cannot find the centre
Where we dance, where we play,
Where life is still asleep
Under the closed flower,
Under the smooth shell
Of eggs in the cupped nest
That mock the faded blue
Of your remoter heaven.


Evans

Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle"s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.

It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.