Titta på den här bilden. Titta på den gamle mannen som får hjälp att gå och stå.
Han är 101 år gammal. Så det är inte så konstigt att man behöver lite stöd då, varför inte av en vacker kvinna?
Mannen är Erik Ofvandahl, konditor och pekoralist (det förra kallade han sig själv, det senare kallade andra honom.) Många, inklusive mig, har gjort sig lustiga över honom, men när jag ser bilden här vill jag bara ge honom en kram.
Det är fint att skriva poesi, även om den hamnar på tvärs. Och vem är jag att prata? Jag, en peot.
Nå, jag har faktiskt i ett sammanhang skrivit några/två rader som var inspirerade av Ofvandahls diktkonst.
Ovan där i dalen / Hörs en trall av Fartein Valen.
(Valen var en norsk modern kompositör. Han skrev inte trallvänlig musik.)
[Poem by the great Ogden Nash. Read it aloud, this is for the ears and not the eyes.]
The miraculous countdown
Let me tell you of Dr. Faustus Foster. Chloe was lost, but he was loster. He was what the world for so long has missed, A truly incompetent scientist. His morals were good and his person cleanly, He had skied at Peckett’s and rowed at Henley. The only liquor that touched his lips He drew through pipettes with filter tips. He could also recite, in his modest manner, The second verse of The Star-Spangled Banner. Yet, to his faults we must not be blinded; He was ineluctably wooly-minded. When his further deficiencies up are summed, He was butter fingered and margarine thumbed. You’d revoke the license of any rhymer Who ranked him with Teller and Oppenheimer. It took him, and here your belief I beg, Twenty minutes to boil a three-minute egg, Which will give you a hint as to what went on Whenever he touched a cyclotron. There wasn’t a problem he feared to face, From smashing atoms to conquering space, And, should one of his theories expire, He had other ions in the fire, Even walking to work to save his carfare For tackling bacteriological warfare. For years he went to no end of bother To explode this planet or reach another. A more ambitious, industrious savant You may have encountered; I know I haven’t. One Christmas Eve he was tired and irked, He had shot the works and nothing worked. I’d sell my soul,” he cried to the night, To have one experiment come out right.” No sooner said than his startled eyes Saw a ghostly stranger materialize, Who, refraining from legalistic jargon, Announced, “You have got yourself a bargain. Here’s a pact with iron-clad guarantees; Sign here, in the usual fluid, please.” Faustus disdained to quibble or linger, He merely remarked, as he pricked his finger, It had better be good, your quid pro quo; My blood is especially fine type O.” Always in character, come what may (He was down in his doctor’s records as A.) A snicker was heard from the stranger weird, Then he snatched the parchment and disappeared. Faustus was filled with wild surmise And roseate dreams of Noble Prize, Now certain to drop in his lap with awful ease, He thought, with the aid of Mephistopheles. Behold him now in his laboratory, A modern Merlin, hell-bent for glory. With a flourish worthy of the Lunts He triggered every project at once. Intercontinental ballistic missiles Blasted the air with roars and whistles, Rockets punctured the midnight clear, And the atmosphere and the stratosphere. Before the human eye could absorb it A giant satellite entered orbit. With the germ’s equivalent of a howl The bacteria issued forth to prowl. Faustus shouted with joy hysterical, And was then struck dumb as he watched a miracle. He gazed aghast at his handiwork As every experiment went berserk. The bacteria, freed from their mother mold, Settled down to cure the common cold. Distant islanders sang Hosanna As nuclear fall-out turned to manna. Rockets, missiles and satellite Formed a flaming legend across the night. From Cape Canaveral clear to the Isthmus The monsters spelled out Merry Christmas, Penitent monsters whose fiery breath Was rich with hope instead of death. Faustus, the clumsiest of men, Had butter-fingered a job again. I’ve told you his head was far from level; He thought he had sold his soul to the devil, When he’d really sold it, for heaven’s sake, To his guardian angel by mistake. When geniuses all in every nation Hasten us towards obliteration, Perhaps it will take the dolts and geese To drag us backward into peace.