To poeter venter på torsdag og Nobelprisen

Den syriske poeten Adonis er en gigant innen den arabiske verdenen og ville være en verdig vinner av Nobelprisen i Litteratur 2011

Nobelprisen i litteratur kunngjøres imorgen, og får som vanlig mye blest. Mange blir også forbauset over vinneren.  Hvem er han? Hvem er hun?  Skjønt kvinnelige forfattere har tradisjonelt vært underrepresentert i dette eksklusive selskapet.  Det svenske akademiet har flere ganger valgt ganske obskure forfattere, men det er likevel mange verdenskjente forfattere som er aktuelle kandidater.

Jeg skal ikke spekulere i hvem kommer til å tildeles prisen, men vi vet at det finnes mange verdige alternativer, deriblant Philip Roth,  Joyce Carol Oates, Péter Nádas, Peter Carey og Haruki Murakami. De ville alle være svært populære vinnere.

To poeter er også blant favorittene, og det ville være fantastisk å se en av dem vinne iår.

Den svenske poeten Tomas Tranströmer er en klippe innen svensk og nordisk lyrikk.  På norsk er han gjendiktet av Jan Erik Vold, men hvorfor ikke lese ham på svensk?

Minnena ser mig

En junimorgon då det är för tidigt
att vakna men för sent att somna om.

Jag måste ut i grönskan som är fullsatt
av minnen, och de följer mig med blicken.

De syns inte, de smälter helt ihop
med bakgrunden, perfekta kameleonter.

De är så nära att jag hör dem andas
fast fågelsången är bedövande.

Den syriske poeten Adonis har blitt forventet å få Nobelprisen i flere år allerede.  Denne eminente poeten som idag bor i Paris, er kjent som selve modernisten av arabisk lyrikk i siste halvdel av forrige århundre.  Han kalles gjerne den arabiske TS Eliot.  Etter at vi i vår opplevde Arab Spring virker det riktig å hedre Adonis med Nobelprisen i litteratur akkurat dette året.  Det følgende diktet er oversatt til engelsk av Khaled Mattawa.

Celebrating Childhood

Even the wind wants
to become a cart
pulled by butterflies.

I remember madness
leaning for the first time
on the mind’s pillow.
I was talking to my body then
and my body was an idea
I wrote in red.

Red is the sun’s most beautiful throne
and all the other colors
worship on red rugs.

Night is another candle.
In every branch, an arm,
a message carried in space
echoed by the body of the wind.

The sun insists on dressing itself in fog
when it meets me:
Am I being scolded by the light?

Oh, my past days –
they used to walk in their sleep
and I used to lean on them.

Love and dreams are two parentheses.
Between them I place my body
and discover the world.

Many times
I saw the air fly with two grass feet
and the road dance with feet made of air.

My wishes are flowers
staining my days.

I was wounded early,
and early I learned
that wounds made me.

I still follow the child
who still walks inside me.

Now he stands at a staircase made of light
searching for a corner to rest in
and to read the face of night again.

If the moon were a house,
my feet would refuse to touch its doorstep.

They are taken by dust
carrying me to the air of seasons.

I walk,
one hand in the air,
the other caressing tresses
that I imagine.

A star is also
a pebble in the field of space.

He alone
who is joined to the horizon
can build new roads.

A moon, an old man,
his seat is night
and light is his walking stick.

What shall I say to the body I abandoned
in the rubble of the house
in which I was born?
No one can narrate my childhood
except those stars that flicker above it
and that leave footprints
on the evening’s path.

My childhood is still
being born in the palms of a light
whose name I do not know
and who names me.

Out of that river he made a mirror
and asked it about his sorrow.
He made rain out of his grief
and imitated the clouds.

Your childhood is a village.
You will never cross its boundaries
no matter how far you go.

His days are lakes,
his memories floating bodies.

You who are descending
from the mountains of the past,
how can you climb them again,
and why?

Time is a door
I cannot open.
My magic is worn,
my chants asleep.

I was born in a village,
small and secretive like a womb.
I never left it.
I love the ocean not the shores.

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