De Engelse dichter, essayist en schrijver Stephen Spender werd geboren op 28 februari 1909 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Stephen Spender op dit blog.
The Pylons
The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages
Of that stone made,
And crumbling roads
That turned on sudden hidden villages
Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete
That trails black wire
Pylons, those pillars
Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret-
The valley with its gilt and evening look
And the green chestnut
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook-
But far above and far as sight endures
Like whips of anger
With lightning’s danger
There runs the quick perspective of the future-
This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek
So tall with prophecy
Dreaming of cities
Where ofien clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.
A footnote to Marx’s chapter “The working day”
“Heard say that four times four is eight
“And the king is the man what has all the gold.”
“Our king is a queen and her son’s a princess
“And they live in a palace called London, I’m told.”
“Heard say that a man called God who’s a dog
“Made the world with us in it,” “And then I’ve heard
“There came a great flood and the world was all drownded
“Except for one man, and he was a bird.”
“So perhaps all the maple are dead, and we’re birds
“Shut in steel cages by the devil who’s good,
“Like the miners in their pit cages
“And us in our chimneys to climb, as we should.”
Farewell To My Student
For our farewell. we went down to the foot-path
Circling the lake. You stood there, looking up at
White egrets nesting in high branches.
And I, apart, stood silent. searching for
Images to recall this moment.
The first, I thought. must be that pine tree
Which, with slashed bark, climbs vertically
Across the lines of waves beyond.
Second. your face, a bronze medallion,
Greek or Roman, against the lake.
Perhaps Bellini
Delved from antiquity such an image
Of a twenty-year-old Triton lifting up a conch
Against a background of blown waves.
And Seurat, centuries later, in the profile
Of a holidaying boy, against the Seine.
And then you turned to me and said
With glance a third thing to remember:
“You are gone already, your thoughts are far from here
Three thousand miles away,
Where you will be tomorrow. And I
Here. remembering today.”
Then ten years passed till, today. i write these lines.
Stephen Spender (28 februari 1909 – 16 juli 1995)