Neil Armstrong (1930-2012) er farin, og hesa fer er hann ikki farin upp á mánan. Hesin søguligi persónur er farin foldum frá. Maðurin, ið segði: That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind, tá ið hann sum fyrsta menniskja traðkaði á yvirflatan á mánanum, hevur verið ímyndin av, hvat ið menniskja kann, um tað setur sær fyri at røkka longur út, enn vit higartil hava. Hóast hann kropsliga stóð á mánanum, so hava yrkjarar í øldir hugsað og yrkt um mánan og nakað væl afturat.
Her eru nakrar yrkingar:
The Moon Versus Us Ever Sleeping Together Again
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
To the Moon
I remember how, heavy with sorrow,
I climbed this hill to gaze on you,
And then as now you hung above those trees
Illuminating all. But to my eyes
Your face seemed clouded, temulous
From the tears that rose beneath my lids,
So painful was my life: and is, my
Dearest moon; its tenor does not change.
And yet, memory and numbering the epochs
Of my grief is pleasing to me. How welcome
In that youthful time -when hope’s span is long,
And memory short -is the remembrance even of
Past sad things whose pain endures.
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago —
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below –Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde —
Her Cheek — a Beryl hewn —
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known –Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will –And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —
Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —
And The Moon And The Stars And The World
that’s what good for the soul:
peeking into windows
watching tired housewives
trying to fight off
their beer-maddened husbands.
Look Down, Fair Moon
Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple;
On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss’d wide,
Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.
the dark matter they haven’t yet walked through?No, I’m not. I’m just the shining sun,
sometimes covered up by the darkness.But in your beauty—yes, I know you see—
There is no covering, no constant light.
eftir W.H. Auden
it would not have occurred to women
to think worth while, made possible onlybecause we like huddling in gangs and knowing
the exact time: yes, our sex may in fairness
hurrah the deed, although the motives
that primed it were somewhat less than menschlich.A grand gesture. But what does it period?
What does it osse? We were always adroiter
with objects than lives, and more facile
at courage than kindness: from the momentthe first flint was flaked this landing was merely
a matter of time. But our selves, like Adam’s,
still don’t fit us exactly, modern
only in this—our lack of decorum.
Homer’s heroes were certainly no braver
than our Trio, but more fortunate: Hector
was excused the insult of having
his valor covered by television.
Worth going to see? I can well believe it.
Worth seeing? Mneh! I once rode through a desert
and was not charmed: give me a watered
lively garden, remote from blatherers
about the New, the von Brauns and their ilk, where
on August mornings I can count the morning
glories where to die has a meaning,
and no engine can shift my perspective.
Unsmudged, thank God, my Moon still queens the Heavens
as She ebbs and fulls, a Presence to glop at,
Her Old Man, made of grit not protein,
still visits my Austrian several
with His old detachment, and the old warnings
still have power to scare me: Hybris comes to
an ugly finish, Irreverence
is a greater oaf than Superstition.
Our apparatniks will continue making
the usual squalid mess called History:
all we can pray for is that artists,
chefs and saints may still appear to blithe it.