Bokelskere.no

med sin moralske utpresning, sin nasjonalisme som hvitner av nevrotisk raseri

med runde øyne, som en soldat når han stormer en sort skanse

i stedet for Jeg
rår nå – Vi!

Hvordan skulle jeg unnlate å besynge meg selv hvis jeg helt og holdent er unik, hvis hver av mine bevegelser er et gigantisk gåtefullt mirakel.

Jeg vil verken ha verden eller drøm. Jeg vil ha min frihet, min menneskelige kjærlighet

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

"In London November isn't a month," he said, "it's a state of mind."

«Jeg tænker paa kvelder som denne, jeg ikke faa lov til at leve —
paa modne marker, som bruser af korn, uten mig!
Paa rørende, lette smaating: Aks, som knækkes,
veier i sjøen, bleke seil derute,
bølger, som strømmer mot stranden uten mig!
Hverdagen, ven, som mildt blir ved bak graven,
tænker jeg paa, og alle de dype, blaa,
kommende kvelder her i sommerhaven,
uten mit sind mot dit, tænker jeg paa!

Inni er øynene dine vinduer
mot et land der jeg står i klarhet.

Ingen elsker meg og ingen har
svingt lampen over mitt lik.

A Book
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!

The Mystery of Pain.
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Skallen, det hemmelige hjertet,
blodets baner, som jeg ikke ser
drømmens, denne Proteus' tunneler,
innvollene, nakken, skjelettet.
Jeg er disse ting. Utrolig nok
er jeg også minnet om et sverd
og om en ensom sol lavt i vest
som spres til gull, til skygge, til intet.
Jeg er den som fra havnen ser stevner;
jeg er de sjeldne bøker, de sjeldne
gravyrer slitt ned av tiden;
jeg er den som misunner de som alt er døde.
Merkeligst å være mannen som fletter
ord i et rom i et hus.

Elva er som min smerte
Den renner og tørker ikke ut
Og når er uka ferdig?

I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection –
We shall get ourselves rather disliked.

"Pop Art is neither abstract nor realistic," said Alloway, "though it has contacts in both directions. The core of Pop Art is neither frontier; it is, essentially, an art about signs and sign systems."

The Pop Art era is usually dated from the first one-man show of Jasper Johns at the Leo Castelli Gallery, January 20 to February 8, 1958, with paintings of American flags, letters of the alphabet, rows of numbers, and archery targets.