Bøger af Traumear

Without intelligence no one and nothing lives. Without intelligence rain falls but never lands, eggs are brooded but never hatch, god is named but never worshipped. And without intelligence we look in vain for grandeur, greatness and magnanimity. But even more important than intelligence is the humour of the divine heart. Here we move in the realm of reality as persons dedicated to the preservation of common humanity on earth. Nothing else can fall more truly with the scope of our nature. No mastery of created being can strike us as more worthy or as more just.The humour of the divine heart - it leaves little to be desired. It resides in subtle understatement as readily as in gross exaggeration; it loves to make all things equal before the failure to sin.What a strange figure sin cuts if its effects are remeditated! Without sin itself, but in the presence of its imagined effects, we may do a singular work of relief; we may lift the cross of the Christ himself, like Simon of Cyrene, and earn for our labours a glorious recognition before the throne. (from text)

He who beholds the natural world is bound to speak out and his speech is informed by what he beholds, it cannot be otherwise. Does he distinguish between the created world and the natural world? This is an interesting question. Birth is out of itself, creation out of another. And yet when we speak of the natural, born world we mean also the created world. An exciting connection is indicated by the English language between birth and berth, between being born and being borne. Not the sound but the letter distinguishes the two, remarkably in both cases. The mother gives birth to the child out of her womb and then gives it berth in her arms.

The poems mark successive stages in a growth cycle. They lose nothing due to their being abstracted from their setting. 21 Always where lightning connects brawn with brain and the tower falls, smashing masses beneath it struck griefless and dumb, there help will come. We need but that one distinct moment's exertion of will towards ourselves, at no cost to this thing or that eye. Thereafter comes laughter. Lie in the grass of a summer's day, seaside contentment heavy on lips and in limbs; feel those intemperate breezes rich in justice on skin. Then, when the sails appear, white on your mind's tested horizon, you begin to count the days left, check baggage, con future needs and wait the storm out with a smile. Oh that these days have so much within them that reeks of vile superstition! Not a sensation goes by but we cause it, more shallow, less fruitful. Barren stretches of wishing we disown when the tenants, our moods, pay lip service in terms of rent. We shriek our defiance. All is not lost. *