Bokelskere.no

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.

One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.

Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than merely to keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us. For example, when Captain Bartolus saw Orlando's skirt, he had an awning stretched for her immediately, pressed her to take another slice of beef, and invited her to go ashore with him in the longboat. These compliments would certainly not have been paid her had her skirts, instead of flowing, been cut tight to her legs in the fashion of breeches. And when we are paid compliments, it behoves us to make some return. Orlando courtseyed; she complied; she flattered the good man's humours as she would not have done had his neat breeches been a woman's skirts, and his braided coat a woman's satin bodice. Thus, there is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us and not we them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.

A man who wanted to look better
But not younger is red
Swells of raw.
Later they will remove the staples.

Ten weeks later
They are younger.
They pull over
Their head a sock of skin.

The white cannibals in cowboy boots
Return to the bush
And the darkness of the brutes.

Meat-eating seagulls shout their little cries myanmar myanmar above the airport,
Dropping razor clams on the runway to break them open.
Hard is soft inside.
The big jet has soft people inside for the ride.

Le fleuve est pareil à ma peine
Il s'écoule et ne tarit pas
Quand donc finira la semaine

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman -
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root -
Let there be commerce between us.

Jag ser på ett blad och fäster mitt hopp
till det. Att det trots årets slut ska
hänga kvar. Om vinden ska rista till.
Och darrande inte märka. Jag ser
på det här från min plats. Har inte
alltid dess plats varit? Liknande
i sig själv? Vad hindrar mig
då. Från att för alltid
vända tillbaka. Eller
bara vända mig
om.

You can crab over the morning paper and kick the shins of the guy in the next seat at the movies and feel mean and discouraged and sneer at the politicians but there are a lot of nice people in the world just the same.

President Bush the younger is making ice cream.
Ice cream for dessert
Is what Iraq is, without the courses that normally come before.

What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage

Denne figuren, tegner, har ennå ikke blitt vid nok, ennå ligner den seg selv Og tenker, Og tenker, Og tenker, og den blir mørkere, vakrere, den lærer seg et språk, vi venter. Vi venter foran huset, mens skyggen glir over det, og sola, som vi også ser, synker ned gjennom himmelen. Men er det en himmel, og er det tankevekkende oss? Nei, ikke nye navn! Slik at de fortsetter å være ord i en livlig samtale som nettene glir over, og nettene blir hvite, vi blir forløst, formørket, løst, formørket, uløst, mørk, hverdagslig, nattfarget, annen person, i det andre landet, i det andre Berlin, flere ganger urbane. Ha tillit til forvandlingen.

Bjørka og bladene på den. Og høst, og vinter, og tidlig vår. Jeg går ikke denne veien, men er en pilsamling, en bokstavsynagoge, er rolig; jeg går over vannet, på sjøen, over havet. Det er et omvendingshav, et høsthav, et vinterhav. Rolig snakker vinden om at ingen går over vannet. Ingen går: så er vinden der og over hvert ord suser det og trekker. Tenningsnøkkel som får susingen til å starte. Virkelighetssjåføren har kommet seg inn i bilen og kjører bortover landeveien.

[W]e can say that religious belonging becomes progressively more important in the life of postmodern populations as the sense of belonging to a territory, a community, or a social class is lost. The current resurgence of religious forms of self-identification has little to do with spirituality, piousness, or the feeling of the sacred. On the contrary, it has a lot to do with the craving for belonging, which seems to accompany the deterritorialization and the decrease in solidarity provoked by virtualization.