Waar Byron zijn haren losschudde
‘Here Byron
unwound his turban and shook his locks
as gulls dropped into the sea.’
Deze regels komen uit het gedicht A Pythagorean Traveler van Patti Smith, uit de bundel Auguries of Innocense (2005). Patti Smith schreef het gedicht in San Remo, waar ze zich verwonderde over de wolken.
Awoke in a light not known before
the lodging’s glass door mirroring
a likeness not hoped to glimpse again
clouds of my childhood, clouds of God
that supported the feet of Jesus Christ
ascending the brush of Raphael.
The young on their motorbikes do not lift
their heads nor cry: The clouds, the clouds.
They are always there – Mediterranean calm.
The clouds. Do they know me? Do they know I am here,
scribbling as they are decomposing?
The moon rises filled with moon blood
drawn from the Italian skies. Here Byron
unwound his turban and shook his locks
as gulls dropped into the sea. The moon
knew her rival and hung like an ornament
from the ear of a bright deity curling his lips,
expelling great puffs, the clouds of San Remo.
I will sit here until dawn tripping the spine
of the stars, a Pythagorean traveller marvelling
another numerical scheme, adding to his shoulder
a music not heard but attained.
Beauty alone is not immortal.
It is the response, a languages of cyphers,
notes, and strokes riding off on a cloud charger-
the bruised humps of magnificent whales.
Clouds of my childhood, clouds of God
awash in rose, violet, and gold.
