James Fenton, Walter John de la Mare
Der englische Lyriker, Schriftsteller und Journalist James Fenton wurde am 25. Aprol 1949 in Lincoln, Großbritannien, geboren. Er studierte Psychologie und Philosophie in Oxford und wurde bereits als Student 1968 für seinen ersten Gedichtzyklus, »Our Western Furniture«, mit dem Newdigate Prize ausgezeichnet. Ein Jahr später trat er mit einem zweiten Gedichtband, »Put Thou Thy Tears into My Bottle«, an die Öffentlichkeit. Seine Karriere als Journalist begann er bei der Zeitung »New Statesman«, für die er über Politik und Literatur schrieb. Seine langjährige Tätigkeit als freiberuflicher Indochina-Korrespondent beeinflußte sein künstlerisches Schaffen nachhaltig. Als Reporter für »The Guardian« verbrachte er auch ein Jahr in Deutschland. In dieser Zeit entstand u.a. das Gedicht »A German Requiem« (1981), das mit dem Southern Arts Literature Award for Poetry ausgezeichnet wurde.
In Paris With You
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
Wind
This is the wind, the wind in a field of corn.
Great crowds are fleeing from a major disaster
Down the green valleys, the long swaying wadis,
Down through the beautiful catastrophe of wind.
Families, tribes, nations, and their livestock
Have heard something, seen something. An expectation
Or a gigantic misunderstanding has swept over the hilltop
Bending the ear of the hedgerow with stories of fire and sword.
I saw a thousand years pass in two seconds.
Land was lost, languages rose and divided.
This lord went east and found safety.
His brother sought Africa and a dish of aloes.
Centuries, minutes later, one might ask
How the hilt of a sword wandered so far from the smithy.
And somewhere they will sing: 'Like chaff we were borne
In the wind. ' This is the wind in a field of corn.
James Fenton (Lincoln, 25. April 1949)
Der englische Dichter Walter John de la Mare wurde am 25. April 1873 in Charlton, Grafschaft Kent geboren. Seine Familie stammt von französischen Hugenotten ab. Seine erste Arbeitsstelle bei einem Ölunternehmen erlaubte ihm genug Freizeit, um sich dem Schreiben zu widmen. Er publizierte zunächst unter dem Pseudonym Walter Ramal. Später arbeitete er achtzehn Jahre lang als Buchhalter. Ein Regierungsstipendium von 100 britischen Pfund ermöglichte ihm, sich ab 1908 als freier Schriftsteller zu betätigen und er zog mit seiner Familie nach Buckinghamshire. Seine Dichtkunst brachte ihm hohe Anerkennung ein und er wurde mit Ehrendoktorwürden der Universitäten Oxford, London und Bristol ausgezeichnet. An seinem Wohnhaus, dem Southend House in Twickenham, in dem er von 1940-1956 lebte, wurde eine Gedenktafel angebracht.
All That's Past
Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier's boughs,
When March winds wake,
So old with their beauty are--
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks;
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone,
Their every drop is as wise
As Solomon.
Very old are we men;
Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
By Eve's nightingales;
We wake and whisper awhile,
But, the day gone by,
Silence and sleep like fields
Of amaranth lie.
Wanderers
Wide are the meadows of night,
And daisies are shinng there,
Tossing their lovely dews,
Lustrous and fair;
And through these sweet fields go,
Wanderers amid the stars --
Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune,
Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.
'Tired in their silver, they move,
And circling, whisper and say,
Fair are the blossoming meads of delight
Through which we stray.
Walter John de la Mare (25. April 1873 – 22. Juni 1956)
In Paris With You
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
Wind
This is the wind, the wind in a field of corn.
Great crowds are fleeing from a major disaster
Down the green valleys, the long swaying wadis,
Down through the beautiful catastrophe of wind.
Families, tribes, nations, and their livestock
Have heard something, seen something. An expectation
Or a gigantic misunderstanding has swept over the hilltop
Bending the ear of the hedgerow with stories of fire and sword.
I saw a thousand years pass in two seconds.
Land was lost, languages rose and divided.
This lord went east and found safety.
His brother sought Africa and a dish of aloes.
Centuries, minutes later, one might ask
How the hilt of a sword wandered so far from the smithy.
And somewhere they will sing: 'Like chaff we were borne
In the wind. ' This is the wind in a field of corn.
James Fenton (Lincoln, 25. April 1949)
Der englische Dichter Walter John de la Mare wurde am 25. April 1873 in Charlton, Grafschaft Kent geboren. Seine Familie stammt von französischen Hugenotten ab. Seine erste Arbeitsstelle bei einem Ölunternehmen erlaubte ihm genug Freizeit, um sich dem Schreiben zu widmen. Er publizierte zunächst unter dem Pseudonym Walter Ramal. Später arbeitete er achtzehn Jahre lang als Buchhalter. Ein Regierungsstipendium von 100 britischen Pfund ermöglichte ihm, sich ab 1908 als freier Schriftsteller zu betätigen und er zog mit seiner Familie nach Buckinghamshire. Seine Dichtkunst brachte ihm hohe Anerkennung ein und er wurde mit Ehrendoktorwürden der Universitäten Oxford, London und Bristol ausgezeichnet. An seinem Wohnhaus, dem Southend House in Twickenham, in dem er von 1940-1956 lebte, wurde eine Gedenktafel angebracht.
All That's Past
Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier's boughs,
When March winds wake,
So old with their beauty are--
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks;
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone,
Their every drop is as wise
As Solomon.
Very old are we men;
Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
By Eve's nightingales;
We wake and whisper awhile,
But, the day gone by,
Silence and sleep like fields
Of amaranth lie.
Wanderers
Wide are the meadows of night,
And daisies are shinng there,
Tossing their lovely dews,
Lustrous and fair;
And through these sweet fields go,
Wanderers amid the stars --
Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune,
Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.
'Tired in their silver, they move,
And circling, whisper and say,
Fair are the blossoming meads of delight
Through which we stray.
Walter John de la Mare (25. April 1873 – 22. Juni 1956)
froumen - 25. Apr, 18:45
