Tagebuch

Im Zeitfeuilleton gibt es diese Woche einen Artikel über den australischen Dichter Les Murray und sein neuestes Versepos "Fredy Neptune".
Ich hatte das Vergnügen, den alten Mann vor zehn Jahren in Schottland in einer Lesung zu sehen und zu hören. Von Les Murrays Sprachgewalt war ich beeindruckt, aber beinahe eben so sehr vom britischen Publikum:


At a poetry reading w\ Les Murray

They sit & reflect the effort
    of listening in their faces
their fingers play at their crossed knees
    as a piano: soft, because
    it's poetry (& maybe 'cos they
    just lack strength to play
    an angry cluster).
And all the time they wear
    their blissful smile as if they met
    an angel from above (that's why
    they wear their sunday suits, I guess).
They are astonished children staring
    at the arena,
they are the spiritual noblesse.
They smile embarrassed about sex
    & rude & filthy words one spoke.
They're pleased, they're patient,
    always posh.
They are the poetry he
    is amused to read

the toothless fat old rogue.