Hart Crane war schon einmal in diesem Blog. In dem Post Brooklyn Bridge, der den deutschen Ingenieur Johann August Röbling zum Thema hat, ist das erste Gedicht aus The Bridge abgedruckt. Ich will Ihnen das Langgedicht (hier im Volltext) an diesem Sonntag nicht zumuten, ich habe heute ein nettes kleines Gedicht von Hart Crane, das Forgetfulness heißt.
Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, --
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.
Eine gewisse Sandra Danby empfiehlt, Cranes Gedicht in der Badwanne zu lesen. Ich habe noch nie ein Gedicht in der Badewanne gelesen, und irgendwie ist das auch ein klein wenig pervers, einen ertrunkenen Dichter in der Badewanne zu lesen.
Es gibt noch ein zweites amerikanisches Gedicht, das Forgetfulness heißt. Das ist von Billy Collins, einem Dichter, von dem Sie vielleicht noch nie gehört haben. Der Mann, dem seine Verlage sechstellige Vorschüsse zahlen, ist zur Zeit Amerikas beliebtester Dichter. John Updike hat über ihn gesagt: Billy Collins writes lovely poems... Limpid, gently and consistently startling, more serious than they seem, they describe all the worlds that are and were and some others besides. Man kann ihn leicht lesen, sogar in der Badewanne:
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, --
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.
Eine gewisse Sandra Danby empfiehlt, Cranes Gedicht in der Badwanne zu lesen. Ich habe noch nie ein Gedicht in der Badewanne gelesen, und irgendwie ist das auch ein klein wenig pervers, einen ertrunkenen Dichter in der Badewanne zu lesen.
Es gibt noch ein zweites amerikanisches Gedicht, das Forgetfulness heißt. Das ist von Billy Collins, einem Dichter, von dem Sie vielleicht noch nie gehört haben. Der Mann, dem seine Verlage sechstellige Vorschüsse zahlen, ist zur Zeit Amerikas beliebtester Dichter. John Updike hat über ihn gesagt: Billy Collins writes lovely poems... Limpid, gently and consistently startling, more serious than they seem, they describe all the worlds that are and were and some others besides. Man kann ihn leicht lesen, sogar in der Badewanne:
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
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