Bacon's Brazen Hed

Det er i desse konspirasjonsdagar ein aukande fascinasjon for meir eller mindre urealistiske og usannsynlege samanhengar baserte på reine tilfelle. Som førebels siste ledd i denne rekkja finn vi ei revitalisering av teoriane som hevdar Francis Bacon skreiv Shakespeare sine skodespel, basert på tvilsame reglar og ein stor porsjon godvilje frå teoretikarane si side. Eg skal her ikkje gå nøye gjennom dei påståtte bevisa som vi har fått presentert, jamvel om det er sterkt freistande, men eg vil kome med ein kort kommentar i verseform til slike aktivitetar. Sonetten er etter spenseriansk mønster og språket er gjort arkaisk for å få ei litt meir historisk stemning.




Bacon's Brazen Hed

The eyes and mindes with truthe dissatisfied
Must complex and clandestine schemes construe,
And stories weaue were lighte with shadows vie,
Truths darker and much deeper to pursue;
Some spinne the yarns of olde, some spinne the new,
They dye with detailes as they can deuize
To more align with what they holde as true,
Some thinke it reale while others know the lies;
They claime to haue discouered what the eyes
Of ordinairie folke could not discerne,
To haue unearthed ancient enterprize
Through seeing codes where plaine speeche haue been learned,
And who, throughe absente words in stone haue red
That Shaxebearde merely proues a brazen hed.
- 10. - 23. desember 2009




Forklåringar

Brazen hed: Syner til eit orakel laga av bronse som, i følgje ein versjon av ei legende, skal ha blitt bygd av matematikaren Roger Bacon og teologen Thomas Bungay etter instruksjonar funne i eit gamalt manuskript. I dette diktet syner det til tanken om at William Shakespeare i praksis var ei fasade konstruert av Francis Bacon.

Euterpomania

Det er forhåpentlegvis mange som, til liks med meg, irriterar seg over at enkelte musikklag og -foreiningar ved NTNU tykkjer det skal vere sosialt akseptabelt å trenge seg inn i auditorier og forstyrre forelesingar. Endå meir frustrerande er det at forelesarar tilsynelatande deler tanken om at dette skal vere sosialt akseptabelt. Noko som gjer saka ekstra provoserande, er at det tydelegvis ikkje skal vere sosialt akseptabelt å reagere mot dette fenomenet. No er det ikkje slik at eg fordømmer kor, korps og slike aktivitetar; det er ikkje slik at eg helst ser at Trondheim Mannssangforening eller Pirum forsvinn frå jorda si overflate. Dei har sjølvsagt sin fulle rett til å drive med sine hobbyar på lik linje med meg sjølv. Alt eg ber om er at dei held seg langt unna forelesingar og heller rekrutterar folk på måtar som ikkje er til plage for dei som ikkje har interesse av å vere med i slike lag. Denne satiren er dedikert til nettopp slike musikkorienterte studentgrupper som gjer byrjinga av haustsemesteret ei sur oppleving for så mange studentar. For å gjere enkelte referansar meir tydelege, vil lesaren finne forklarande notar til slutt; desse er ordna alfabetisk og skrivne på norsk.




Euterpomania

Oh list! How now! What fierce alarum breaks
Through yonder shutter and through yonder gate?
What band of maenads, sirens gone awry
Doth haunt these streets and shrieks at passers-by?
What beasts of wood and wild will heed that call,
A lay tuned like a satyr's madrigal
Forth penetrates each void and realm of space
And freezes mankind like Medusa's gaze;
Pray, from what dismal haunt were they begot',
Pray, what cruel Fate ordained them such a lot?
To roam and roar like rabid rutting rams,
Which in their heat o'ertrample ewes and lambs
And leaves the soil once fertile drear and waste;
A dark display of vices crude and base.
Lo, there in frantic leaps they forth advance
And call for men to come and join their dance,
See there in front runs little Artrapine
Who plays his aulos on Orpheus' spine
Which he hath, for that purpose, cut in twain
To play his tunes which cloy the human brain;
Then next to him his trusted Cacophone
Who bangs his timbrel with a broken bone,
Performs a rhythm in his wonted way
And with barbaric tones distorts the lay;
Oh hark! A singer sings, 'tis Bardanot,
Who in disrupted lines his verse allots,
And, with a lyre, chants his poesy
Of bawdy lyrics and lewd ribaldry;
The boy Disharmonye then follows suit
And calls forth noises from his wooden flute
Which he hath placed, to cause the best effect
Fast to his nose and keeps it there erect.
Soon after him comes mighty Vocalon
Who claims to be Euterpe's bastard son,
His voice booms like a hart in autumn heat
In lack of proper words or metres meet.
Then Dysonaunce, bored with his feeble rhyme,
With rusty bells disrupts him with a chime
And strikes with frantic eagerness the bell,
Then shouts on top of that to drown the knell.
Right afterwards Aeolis armed in brass
Seeks ev'ry other minstrel to surpass,
This to achieve he breaks a sour wind
With sound of dying beasts of distant Ind;
Another man, Falsetti known by name,
Doth also like the rest aspire fame,
With searing tunes he cuts through ear and mind
And leaves the crowd a listless mass behind;
So at the end the last man of this train
With his kithara comes Discordiane,
He plucks the strings and thus creates his blaines,
But veils his grief in song to hide the pains.
This merry band of horrid minstrelsy
Believes their art the utmost harmony;
No door to them is sacred nor no gate,
No room too small for them to congregate,
No hall to great to try to fill the air
With all the deviant noises of their spheres;
They break the doors and march all void of sense,
Descend the stairs with proud impertinence,
Then flocculate before the frighten'd crowd
And care not whether this is found allowed;
With hellish shrieks they start their ritual,
Divided into pointless intervals:
They shout, they sway, they cry, they burst their lungs,
They rant, they call, they sing, they wear their tongues;
When they have turned themselves into a trance
They tear their garments and begin to dance
And nameless satyrs bound in servitude,
Who curse the bonds and chains of this fierce brood,
Transports a marble idol to the stage
Whereon the herd unleashes all its rage;
The idol shows Euterpe, ancient muse,
With aulos in her hand and her locks loose,
And on the faces of the flock a smile
Reveals that they are ready to defile;
Around the idol, then, they form a ring
And to invoke their furies loud they sing:
“We hail to thee, fair patron of our art,
Thou hast our love, sweet mistress, and our hearts
And here we stand our love for to requite,
Here all thine aspects in one soul unite
And in this soul there runs a common chord:
This soul desires to appease its Lord;
Fair mistress, now, accept our humble praise,”
And on this key each man his arms doth raise
Then in next instant hammers on the stone,
Wood, brass and string and old Orpheus' bones
Make resonance against the idol's frame,
All this while her disciples shout her name.
Here Artapine doth break his instrument
In fragments due to amorous intent,
Here Cacophone employs his plate of brass
And with his zeal Euterpe doth harass,
Here Bardanot with magic of the tongue
Perverts the idol in his bawdy song,
Disharmonye, despite his want of age
Doth wield his flute in like incensèd rage,
Tall Vocalon his bloodline here purports
But partakes in the crowd's destructive sport,
Eke with his bells impatient Dysonaunce
Attacks the idol in a fervent dance,
Aeolis seeks to rise above his peers
And with his wind he violates the air,
Falsetti stands behind Euterpe's back
Attempting with his voice the stone to crack,
Discordiane in madness all his strings
Hath placed around her neck it for to wring.
Much like the husband ravishing his wife
Though still considers her his joy of life
This sordid band performs their wayward praise,
And with their violent arts their love embrace;
They keep their sport until mere sand and dust
Is all the remnants of their fervent lust,
When thus the idol is reduced to naught
They stand in joy of all the havoc wrought
And then for the next ritual of doom
They leave the stricken crowd for other rooms.
- September 26-27 2009




Notar:

Aeolis: Namnet syner til Aeolo/Aeolus, ein vindgud i klassisk mytologi. Aeolis nyttar seg av blåseinstrument/vindinstrument - sjå også The Aeolian Harp av Samuel Taylor Coleridge - men namnet syner også til flatulens.

Artrapine: Namnet er mitt eige påhitt, til liks med resten av musikantane sine namn, og syner her til ein som forgrip seg på kunst (art rapine). Dette er eksemplifisert ved at han har gravd opp - altså skjenda - den store skalden Orfeus si ryggrad. Inspirasjonen kjem frå The Faerie Queene av Edmund Spenser (Bok 1, Canto 2, Vers 18).

Aulos: Gresk dobbelfløyte, sjå Euterpe.

Bardanot: Not-a-bard, altså ikkje ein skald, noko som vert eksemplifisert gjennom hans grove og usømelege viser.

Cacophone: Direkte omsett: Ein som drit lyd.

Discordiane: Diskord, mangel på harmoni.

Disharmonie: Disharmoni.

Dysonaunce: Dissonans.

Euterpe: Musikken si muse, avbileta med ein aulos som sitt emblem.

Falsetti: Altså ein som syng i falsett.

Furier: Romersk parallell til erinnyene i gresk mytologi. Kvinnelege skapnader frå som personifiserar raseri, særleg raseriet til dei døde.

Ind: India; dei døyande dyra referert til er elefantar.

Kithara: Gresk strengeinstrument med seks strengar, emblemet til lyrikken si muse Erato.

Madrigal: Sekulær musikkform med opphav i den italienske humanistiske renessansen, ofte nytta som nemning for ein kjærleikssong og/eller knytt opp til pastoralsjangeren. Sjå til dømes Christopher Marlowe sin pastorale The Passionate Shepherd to his Nymph.

Maenade: Kvinneleg dyrkar av vinguden Dionysos, kjende for sin villskap oppnådd gjennom dans og vinrus. I romersk mytologi er desse kjende som bakkatinner, følgjarar av Bacchus (Dionysos sitt romerske motstykke). Trass i at begge nemningane nytta før presentasjonen av musikantane syner til kvinnelege skapnader, er samlege musikantar menn.

Medusa: Gorgon frå gresk mytologi med eit blikk som skapte levande vesen om til stein.

Orpheus (Evt. Orfeus eller Orfeo): Mytisk skald frå gresk mytologi, hylla for sitt lyrespel som kunne temje ville dyr. Han vart riven sund - bokstaveleg tala - av ville maenader; årsaka til dette er ulik frå versjon til versjon.

Satyr: Skapnad frå gresk mytologi, halvt mann og halvt geit. Satyrane er kjende for sine seksuelle eskapader og følgjer gjerne Dionysos.

Sfærene sin musikk: Ein pytagoreisk tanke om at sfærene - altså alle klodane i verdskvelven - produserte musikk. Denne musikken kan ikkje oppfattast av menneske, fordi vi er så vane med den.

Sirene: Fuglekvinner frå gresk mytologi som forfører menn inn i fortaping gjennom forheksande song; til dømes nemnde i Odysseen.

Vocalon: Syner til vokal, altså at han nyttar røysta si for å formidle sin "musikk". At røysta hans høyrest ut som ein brunstig hjort, er på ingen måtar ein kompliment.

Marsyas

Bileta nedanfrå er frå Kapitolmuseet i Roma og syner Marsyas. Marsyas var ein satyr frå gresk mytologi, som var svært dyktig til å spele fløyte, så dyktig at han utfordra guden Apollo til ein spelekonkurranse. Apollo vann og Marsyas vart flådd levande og bunden til eit tre med si eiga hud. Dette som straff for hybris - overmot, som fekk satyren til å setje seg opp mot Apollo. Dei interesserte oppfordrast til å lese Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943) sitt dikt kalla Marsyas. Nedanfor er to dikt om denne legenden, tittelmessig ikkje stort meir fantasifulle enn Roberts sitt.

Marsyas

Now has silenced followed clatter
And the day has come to end;
Soft wailing from the satyr
On the wound that never mends
Is the only sound that rises
By the cypress and the sedge,
Cursing hubris, worst of vices,
At the dark nocturnal edge.

Triumph of Apollo


Now his wooden flute lies broken
In the gathering of dark;
Not a single tune is spoken
Save the mournful chant of larks;
Mellow humming, a reminder
Of the songs there played of old,
Rarely was Apollo kinder
Than here in this story told

Hadrian

Ein tur til Roma i oktober var ei fantastisk oppleving som sette sterke spor i meg, ein herleg tur i godt selskap og fint ver. Roma er ein herleg by, og med si enormt viktige kulturelle og historiske rolle, seier det seg nærast sjølv at det er ein by full av poetisk inspirasjon. Til dømes var både John Keats og Percy Bysshe Shelley residentar i Roma - utan samanlikning for øvrig. Det følgjande diktet handlar om den romerske keisaren Hadrian (styrte frå 117-138 e.Kr.), og er inspirert av eit bilete teke av ein kamerat. Biletet syner statua av keisar Hadrian vendt mot sitt gamle mausoleum der borga Castello di San Angelo står i dag. Mausoleet er der framleis inne i borga. Visse referansar i teksten vil kanskje vere noko obskure, desse vil verte forklarte nedanfor.



Hadrian

Adorn'd by cypress and Italic firs,
Beneath that rising sun no shadow stirs
Nor falls from saintly spires to the ground.
Among that Roman fragrance there is found
A pedestal of white upon which stands
The statue of a man whose royal hand
Once ruled the world, but now he is confined
To witness change of ages and cruel time.

“I mourn,” thus spoke the statue, then with grief
He carried on his tale as if relief
Was sought from words alone, and then he spoke:
“I relieved the troubled from their yoke,
I fortified the borders by command,
I hunted beasts in savage, distant lands.
My death came late, this unfortunate was I,
Too often have I witnessed beauty die.
At least I now am free from carnal pain,
The living search aponia in vain.
Yet still my soul is troubled in this dark,
For even in these misty lands are marked
The echoes of the changing earthly tide.
Oh curse, curse and fie the human pride!”

“See!” he bade me see and I did see
The architecture pointed out for me:
The ancient mound, the tower and the wall
A monument to power bound to fall.
“Within this sacred structure lies my tomb
Which is, past death, a new and holy womb,
Existence in a life beyond this life
Where the soul is free from struggle war and strife.
But see the structure built, raised out from mine,
A place for naked women and strong wine.
Alas, thus ends my glory; sand and bricks,
Dust and shadows, lime and broken sticks –
This is what remains, thus fleets the world
In the ever changing gyre and its swirl.
Before I leave, let me some wisdom give:
To live is but to die and death to live.”



Notar:

Linje 3: Saintly spires - syner til Vatikanet. Skuggane frå Vatikanet fell ikkje på San Angelo.

Linje 12: Hadrian gjorde ein viss reduksjon i slaveriet, noko som etter romersk standard var radikalt nok til at Hadrian - i mine auge - kunne ha nytta slike ord om dette som han gjer i diktet.

Linje 13: Medan forgjengaren og adoptivfaren Trajan var oppteken av å utvide riket, var Hadrian meir oppteken av å sikre grensene. Eit døme på dette er muren i Nord-England.

Linje 14: Hadrian var ein ivrig jeger.

Linje 15: Hadrian døydde i ein alder av 62.

Linje 16: Elskaren hans, den unge Antinous, drukna i Nilen.

Linje 18: Aponia er gresk for fridom frå smerte. Hadrian hadde sterke epikureiske sympatiar, og i epikureisk filosofi var aponia - saman med ataraxia (perfekt mental ro) - viktige element.

Linje 20: I eit dikt skrive av Hadrian på dødsleiet, står det at sjela hans snart skal reise til ein mørk og skoddefull stad.

Linje 24: Hadrian var svært interessert i arkitektur.

Linje 32: Ein referanse til Rodorigo Borgia - pave Alexander VI - som var kjend for sine seksuelle eskapadar. Alexander VI nytta truleg Castello di San Angelo ved høve, men om han hadde orgiar der er eit tema for spekulasjon. Med sin fascinasjon for epikureisk filosofi, ville truleg Hadrian ikkje ha sett positivt på slike hedonistiske aktivitetar.

Pythagoras

Som alle veit, eller kanskje ikkje absolutt alle, er det bitter krangel mellom Gløshaugen og Dragvoll. Dette fordi Gløshaugen vert prioritert økonomisk framfor Dragvoll. Sidan folk på Gløshaugen driv med realfag, er dei alle disiplar av Pythagoras og følgjeleg potensielt suspekte. Nedanfor er eit dikt om nettopp Pythagoras, basert på ei legende - som godt kan vere sann - om kva som hende med ein disippel som fann ut at matematikaren og sektleiaren faktisk tok feil på eit punkt. Dette kan sjølvsagt lesast som ein allegori tiltenkt studentane på Gløshaugen, men det kan også sjåast på som ei mytisk-biografisk forteljing om Pythagoras.


A man sat once by a beach of golden sand
The waves did their best to touch his feet
And in the golden dune with his right hand
He drew his figures as if on a paper sheet

Pythagoras he was called this man by the sea
A man much respected and admired in his age
And his followers and students much did see
In him combined an Olympian and a gifted sage

They gathered around old Pythagoras by the dune
Each morning as the birds would at dawn ascend
Where he told about the spheres and their soft tune
He was thought a teacher, a lover and friend

Yes, he taught them of the world, the orbs, the spheres
In which the magic dwells that man must understand
And many of the young boys were brought to tears
When touched, caressed by his old, right, gifted hand

One day a young man turned to him and claimed
“I will prove to you that your figures are wrong”
And old Pythagoras then was overcome with shame
He burst into tears and cried a lamenting song


His followers learned what had been done
The man was seized and taken to the shore
Where they held him 'til his breath was gone
And he was submerged to the ocean's floor

Galahad failed

No nærmar det seg semesterstart for mitt vedkomande, og det er dermed tid for å støte på uante mengder hindringar og problem i studieprosessen. NTNU har nemleg lagt det opp slik at orientering og manøvrering på heimesida er vanskeleg og lite brukarvenleg. I tillegg er det aldri godt å vite kva fag og emner som plutseleg opphøyrer å eksistere, og som dermed reduserar vår valfridom ytterlegare. Dette damoklessverdet - og ein digital labyrint sjølv ikkje Daidalos kunne ha konstruert sluare - er ein del av NTNU-studentane sin kvardag. Det var i etterkant av nokre liknande nettproblem eg vart skikkeleg frustrert over den tilsynelatande totale mangelen på kontroll, og eg byrja på dette diktet. Diktet er basert på gralstradisjonen og Kong Arthur-mythosen - ein av dei rikaste mythosane vi har i Vest-Europa - men det er samstundes satirisk, noko som kjem fram - forhåpentlegvis - gjennom den lette og raske verserytmen. Opuset er elles spekka med meir eller mindre obskure referansar til ymse, desse vil verte forklarte etterpå.



Galahad failed

I

I ventured one morning away from my home
Seeking the fountain of wisdom
With a map and some gold and tales of old
I left for the fountain of wisdom

II

The travel was arduous, the winding road long
I battled both Time and its system
Until I one day, when Time gave way
Stood before the palace of wisdom


III

The palace, a fortress, of glass had been made
Its radiance shone in the morning
A guardian placed by the gate with his mace
Gave me a sinister warning

IV

“Enter young gallant, I take it you seek
The coveted fountain of wisdom
But youngster beware, there are fiends here
And a palace may soon be a prison”

V

I entered the main gate and walked to the door
Of this palace of glass and wonders
The hinges did creak and a raven did shriek
And above me the sound of thunder

VI

The doorway was yawning, the darkness inside
Had a fragrance of cold moss and fungi
In the midst of the hall a brazen head talked
Resembling that of Bacon and Bungay

VII

“Time is and it was and will quite soon be past”
The brazen head said with a laughter
“'tis a place for despair so why are you here
Tell me now what you are after”

VIII

I explained my intentions, my chivalrous quest
But the oracle's time was now over
“No more can be given as aid for the living
No more is my duty, young rover”

IX

Then darkness ascended, light entered the room
It revealed nothing more than it had to
“But listen to me, I will give you for free
An advice for the journey ahead you”

X

So the oracle spoke of the palace and death
Of labyrinths seemingly endless
Of gallants of yore and mystery doors
I felt as if utterly friendless

XI

I then turned my back and moved hastily on
Past torches of flickering fire
Then up a stair, where a scent in the air
Had the odour of old woodland mire

XII

Great buildings of glass on either side stood
A cobbled street cut through a city
Friezes on glass I relentlessly passed
Truly a place with no pity

XIII

Behind an oak door I hoped I could find
Someone to guide in the mazes
Yet there was dark, so awfully dark
And of humans I did find no traces

XIV

The door had then vanished, the chamber still black
I could not retreat where I entered
Yet I heard someone sing, and there was a ring
Of candles, a bard in its centre

XV

“What is your quest, then? Oh, be that as it may”
Said the bard at my approaching
“Stride on through the maze, of nightmares and haze
And be welcomed as if encroaching”

XVI

I walked for a while, I admit I was lost
In a cobweb of hallways and mirrors
Nothing was as it seemed, it was like a dream
Brimming with fear and terror

XVII

I walked the corridors in search of a place
To find answer to delicate matters
But all over the floor and on each single door
Were elaborate symbols and patterns

XVIII

One gate took me back to where I once had been
Another one opened to nothing
A path led me through some doors painted blue
One gate had the shape of a coffin

XIX

Then out on a bridge high over the ground
A black knight tossed me a claymore
It had a beautiful blade of true craftsmen made
“Your life is the prize that we play for”

XX

He attacked me at once, I struggled and struck
First blood was his in a fashion
We eagerly fought, great havoc we wrought
You might say we warred with passion

XXI

We fought for a while until passion was gone
The fight was no longer for glory
And when the bell in the tower proclaimed the ninth hour
He asked and I told him my story

XXII

“You fight well young gallant, I bid you farewell”
I hoped he would show me the fountain
“The fountain,” he said, “is a quest for the dead
And you have not yet climbed that mountain”

XXIII

As the black knight was leaving I bravely strode on
Yet my heart was laden with sorrow
For if he was right, why bother this fight
If joy would be like dew on the morrow

XXIV

A great library hall with old book lined in rows
I entered through dark lilac curtains
My heart leaped with joy, I cheered like a boy
I believed there was wisdom for certain

XXV

I wandered the room and its rows filled with books
Yet nowhere a clue had been hidden
For in each single book in which I bothered to look
Was nothing, as if words were forbidden

XXVI

So there in the midst of no knowledge I stood
In a temple that promised wisdom
Oh the darkening hall and the Babylon walls!
I felt as if lost in a prison

XXVII

Then I suddenly detected all alone on the floor
A scroll that suggested solution
Yet on it I read “'Tis a place for the dead
Your quest has the taste of illusion”

XXVIII

“But stride onwards stranger, fulfill first your task
Then you may seek for the fountain”
No more could I see, how should I come free?
And return to my home in the mountains

XXIX
With rage and with anger, with screams of dismay
I tried to break out of the prison
But with no one to ask what was my task
I failed in the search for wisdom













Notar:





Vers 5: Ramnen er ein referanse til diktet The Raven av Edgar Allan Poe.



Vers 6: Referansen til sopp, er knytt til soppåtaket på Dragvoll tidlegare i år (2008)

Bronsehovudet syner til orakelet som, i følgje legenda, vart laga av matematikarenRoger Bacon og teologen Thomas Bungay på 1200-talet.



Vers 7: Time is, time was, time is past - desse orda var alt orakelet frå skodespelet Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay sa før det knuste. Skodespelet vart skrive av Robert Greene.



Vers 9: It revealed nothing more than it had to - ein referanse til ufullstendig informasjon.

Vers 19: Out on a bridge - Brua som knyt dei to bibliotekfilialane saman
Claymore - eit skotsk sverd
Black knight - ein riddarduell er eit vanleg element innan slik dikting, men jamfør dette elementet med Monty Python-karakteren the Black Knight frå The Holy Grail for å få det satiriske elementet endå sterkare fram.