Udsigten fra min altan i går aftes fik mig til at tænke på et vidunderligt digt af William Carlos Williams. Det er det, der gør lyrik så vidunderlig – at den sætter ord på det prosaisk ubeskrivelige.
To A Solitary Disciple
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color is shell-pink. Rather observe that it is early morning than that the sky is smooth as a turquoise. Rather grasp how the dark converging lines of the steeple meet at a pinnacle— perceive how its little ornament tries to stop them— See how it fails! See how the converging lines of the hexagonal spire escape upward— receding, dividing! —petals that guard and contain the flower! Observe how motionless the eaten moon lies in the protective lines. It is true: in the light colors of the morning brown-stone and slate shine orange and dark blue But observe the oppressive weight of the squat edifice! Observe the jasmine lightness of the moon.