lørdag den 17. maj 2014


Dunkel. Hjerteskærende skarp. Forførende tung. Røgfyldt. Kompromisløs perfektion. Markaber. Fandens smuk.

Leonard Cohen.

Så var det at jeg fandt min Cohen digtsamling, og blev ramt af hvad han kan med ord. Og så var det at jeg fik tegnet for første gang i flere måneder. Cohens ord smager af en gammel, røget skotsk whiskey.

              THE SPARROWS

Catching the winter in their carved nostrils
the traitor birds have deserted us,
leaving only the dullest brown sparrows
for spring negotiations.

I told you we were fools
to have them in our games,
but you replied:
           They are only wind-up birds
who strut on scarlet feet
so hopelessly far
from our curled fingers

I had moved to warn you,
but you only adjusted your hair
and ventured:
           Their wings are made of glass and gold
and we are fortunate
not to hear them splintering
against the sun.

Now the hollow nests
sit like tumors or petrified blossoms
between wire branches
and you, an innocent scientist,
question me on these brown sparrows:
whether we should plant our yards with breadcrumbs
or mark them with the black, persistent crows
whom we hate and stone.

But I shall tell you of migrations
when in this empty sky
the precise ghosts of departed summer birds
still trace old signs;
or of desperate flights
when the dimmest flutter of a coloured wing
excites all our favourite streets
to delight in imaginary spring.

Tegnet af mig d. 13 maj 2014

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