47. Un socarrat ou l’amenaça

Vinyeta 47


Comença amb U.

Imitació de la frase ambigua “una jove veu l’amenaça”, inventada per Gabriel Ferrater com un equivalent català de la clàssica anglesa “time flies like an arrow”. Un dels sentits podria ser: “l’amenaça arriba a orelles d’un socarrat (rajola ordinària de fang, per a cobrir l’espai entre les bigues del sostre)”.


Mitja lluna (imperi otomà) = Esquitx d’oli flotant.

Poema model

Poem on his Birthday

          In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea
          Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks
          And palavers of birds
This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave
          He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;
          Herons spire and spear.

          Under and round him go
Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails,
          Doing what they are told,
Curlews aloud in the congered waves
          Work at their ways to death,
And the rhymer in the long tongued room,
          Who tolls his birthday bell,
Toils towards the ambush of his wounds;
          Herons, steeple stemmed, bless.

          In the thistledown fall,
He sings towards anguish; finches fly
          In the claw tracks of hawks
On a seizing sky; small fishes glide
          Through wynds and shells of drowned
Ship towns to pastures of otters. He
          In his slant, racking house
And the hewn coils of his trade perceives
          Herons walk in their shroud,

          The livelong river’s robe
Of minnows wreathing around their prayer;
          And far at sea he knows,
Who slaves to his crouched, eternal end
          Under a serpent cloud,
Dolphins dive in their turnturtle dust,
          The rippled seals streak down
To kill and their own tide daubing blood
          Slides good in the sleek mouth.

          In a cavernous, swung
Wave’s silence, wept white angelus knells.
          Thirty-five bells sing struck
On skull and scar where his loves lie wrecked,
          Steered by the falling stars.
And to-morrow weeps in a blind cage
          Terror will rage apart
Before chains break to a hammer flame
          And love unbolts the dark

          And freely he goes lost
In the unknown, famous light of great
          And fabulous, dear God.
Dark is a way and light is a place,
          Heaven that never was
Nor will be ever is always true,
          And, in that brambled void,
Plenty as blackberries in the woods
          The dead grow for His joy.

          There he might wander bare
With the spirits of the horseshoe bay
          Or the stars’ seashore dead,
Marrow of eagles, the roots of whales
          And wishbones of wild geese,
With blessed, unborn God and His Ghost,
          And every soul His priest,
Gulled and chanter in young Heaven’s fold
          Be at cloud quaking peace,

          But dark is a long way.
He, on the earth of the night, alone
          With all the living, prays,
Who knows the rocketing wind will blow
          The bones out of the hills,
And the scythed boulders bleed, and the last
          Rage shattered waters kick
Masts and fishes to the still quick stars,
          Faithlessly unto Him

          Who is the light of old
And air shaped Heaven where souls grow wild
          As horses in the foam:
Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined
          And druid herons’ vows
The voyage to ruin I must run,
          Dawn ships clouted aground,
Yet, though I cry with tumbledown tongue,
          Count my blessings aloud:

          Four elements and five
Senses, and man a spirit in love
          Tangling through this spun slime
To his nimbus bell cool kingdom come
          And the lost, moonshine domes,
And the sea that hides his secret selves
          Deep in its black, base bones,
Lulling of spheres in the seashell flesh,
          And this last blessing most,

          That the closer I move
To death, one man through his sundered hulks,
          The louder the sun blooms
And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults;
          And every wave of the way
And gale I tackle, the whole world then,
          With more triumphant faith
Than ever was since the world was said,
          Spins its morning of praise,

          I hear the bouncing hills
Grow larked and greener at berry brown
          Fall and the dew larks sing
Taller this thunderclap spring, and how
          More spanned with angels ride
The mansouled fiery islands! Oh,
          Holier then their eyes,
And my shining men no more alone
          As I sail out to die.

Dylan Thomas.

Edició consultada:
The Poems.
The Poems of Dylan Thomas.
New York, New Directions, 1971.

Poem On His Birthday


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