Šlapios šįmet Kalėdos.

dẽnis (vok. dial. dene) sm. (2) K, dėnis LL158 laivo lubos, viršus, bliktis: Vanduo jau dẽnį apsėmė Prk. Grįžęs į laivą, denyje pamačiau būrelį naujų keleivių rš.

Vokiškas dialektas...

Gimtajam Anykščių krašte vandenį tebevadina undeniu.

O "ant denio" sakytų - "un denia".

Un denia undeniai.

Iš ta undenia undines tuos undenius vilioja...

Germanai iš Skandinavijos.



Vienas pats.


Undenių vadas.

Šitie tai vieni, be merginų, žygin eidavo.

Be to, kas Tulon su savo samovaru važiuoja?

Tai jos ir keršija.

Our Sunday Poem today, "Ondine" by Mary Barnard, is drawn from legends about German water spirits. Ondine (or undine) lore has inspired a great many works of art over the years --from a famous German story by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué (an influence on Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid") to an opera by E.T.A. Hoffman, a prelude for piano by Claude Debussey, and a ballet by Hans Werner Henz.


By Mary Barnard
At supper time an ondine’s narrow feet
made dark tracks on the hearth.
Like the heart of a yellow fruit was the fire’s heat,
but they rubbed together quite blue with the cold.
The sandy hem of her skirt dripped on the floor.
She sat there with a silvered cedar knot
for a low stool; and I sat opposite,
my lips and eyelids hot
in the heat of the fire. Piling on dry bark,
seeing that no steam went up from her dark dress,
I felt uneasiness
as though firm sand had shifted under my feet
in the wash of a wave.

I brought her soup from the stove and she would not eat,
but sat there crying her cold tears,
her blue lips quivering with cold and grief.
She blamed me for a thief,
saying that I had burned a piece of wood
the tide washed up. And I said, No,
the tide had washed it out again; and even so,
a piece of sodden wood was not so rare
as polished agate stones or ambergris.

She stood and wrung her hair
so that the water made a sudden splash
on the round rug by the door. I saw her go
across the little footbridge to the beach.
After, I threw the knot on the hot coals.
It fell apart and burned with a white flash,
a crackling roar in the chimney and dark smoke.
I beat it out with a poker
in the soft ash.

Now I am frightened on the shore at night,
and all the phosphorescent swells that rise
come towards me with the threat of her dark eyes
with a cold firelight in them;
and crooked driftwood writhes
in dry sand when I pass.

Should she return and bring her sisters with her,
the withdrawing tide
would leave a long pool in my bed.
There would be nothing more of me this side
the melting foamline of the latest wave.

Vandenio era prasideda.

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