Mul on mõned vabandused sellele, miks ma äsjasurnud iiri luuletaja julgen “minu londoni” kategooriasse liigutada.
Esiteks poleks ma tema surmast – ega olemasolustki – ilma briti meedia abita teada saanudki, sest eesti keelde tema raamatuid tõlgitud pole ja üldse pole ma temast kunagi enne midagi kuulnud. (Aga miks? Ta on isegi Nobeli kirjanduspreemia saanud, umbes sel ajal, kui me kõik arvasime, et Jaan Kross saab.)
Teiseks ja kolmandaks – kaks esimest Heaney luuletust, mida ma lugesin, räägivad minu Londonist. See, noh, aedmurakas:
Blackberry-Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
Ja kohe järgmisena jõudis minuni The Underground, mis… las ta seletab ise, mis sellega on. “Honeymooning, moonlighting, late for the Proms”… ma tulen Promsi juurde mõni päev tagasi, aga oh, kui ilus see luuletus minu meelest on!
Kui keegi nüüd veel googeldushoogu satub, siis üks hoiatus mul on: “Mid-Term Break” on _kohutavalt_ kurb.
whatever 