Bokelskere.no

the bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whisky on him and
inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, i haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski

The Last Night of The Earth Poems

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And futher still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

Scanning the Century,
The Penguin Book of the Twentieth Century in Poetry.

Det finnes ikke sterke nok ord for å beskrive angrepene som nå skjer i Gaza.
Som foreldre står dere i i en ufattelig vanskelig situasjon. Dere skal både beskytte datteren deres for grusomheter og samtidig formidle at kjære slektninger er døde.
Det er beundringsverdig at dere makter å stå i denne situasjonen.

POETICA

I write because I cannot go into battle with
my hands
and the pencil - at times - has better aim than the gun.

I write because the verb to write sounds like
the only sure thing,
and it’s a journey without distances, a body
without a virus.

I write because the blank page is a feral cat
I must take in, shelter and love.

I write because adjectives stalk me and
when they kill
they also give life; because clichés do not
frighten me
and what has been said a thousand times
can also delight.

I write because everything in me is missed
opportunity:
terminals switch places, streets change
their names
and I never get the right station, schedule,
job or comings and
goings.

I write because although it hurts it doesn’t
hurt that much.

I write to fill the jar,
clean my glasses,
push spaces forward,
walk through labyrinths.

I write so I won’t die of shame.
That’s why I write…….

Ana Cecilia Blum

Voices from the Center of the World,
Contemporary Poets of Ecuador

Wings Press, San Antonio, Texas

It is true, words think,
are tender, sleep, dream and wake.
They salivate like cats before milk,
get excited when fireworks go off
at a community fair.
They play like children in the street.
They greet you in a doorway,
sheltering themselves from rain.
Words keep on uttering words
and wear colored handkerchiefs at their
necks.
They leave their homes and merge
like delicate threads of water or air,
small flowing chunks of meat.
Before all else, they fight for the others,
those imprisoned by ignorance
or by brick and mortar prisons.
Each day words have deeper thoughts,
they love and defend the word freedom.
They learn to hate the word impossible.
and are not afraid of the unknown.
Words struggle, get ready and fall into line.

Raul Arias,

Voices from the Center of the World,
Contemporary Poets of Ecuador

Wings Press, San Antonio, Texas.

In Northern Ireland They Called It «The Troubles»

What do we call it?
The very endless nightmare?
The toothache of tragedy?

I call it the life no one would choose.
To be always on guard,
never secure,
jumping when a skillet drops.

I watch the babies finger their
cups and spoons and think
they don’t know yet.
They don’t know how empty
the cup of hope can feel.
Here in the land of tea and coffee
offered on round trays a million times
a day, still a thirst so great

you could die every night, longing
for a better life.

Naomi Shihab Nye

The Tiny Journalist - Poems
American Poets Continuum Series, No. 170

Dette er forferdelige nyheter. Du og din familie er i i tankene mine og har min dypeste medfølelse.

A Person in Northern Ireland

Sends me a message with a quote
from Rainer Maria Rilke, a German
poet:

“And now let us believe
in a long year that is given to us, new,
untouched, full of
things that have never been.”

That’s sort of what I’m afraid of.

Naomi Shihab Nye

The Tiny Journalist, Poems
American Poets Continuum Series, No. 170

Muligens et skudd i blinde, men Sven Moren (1871-1938) var forfatter og er far til Haldis Moren Vesaas (1907-1995).

ON A STARLESS NIGHT

On a starless night,
I toss and turn.
The earth shakes, and
I fall out of bed.
I look out my window. The house
next door no longer
stands. It’s lying like an old carpet
on the floor of the earth,
trampled by missiles, fat slippers
flying off legless feet.
I never knew my neighbors still had
that small TV,
that the old painting still hung on their
walls,
that their cat had kittens.

Mosab Abu Toha

Things You May Find Hidden In My Ear, Poems from Gaza
City Lights Books, San Francisco

Leaving Childhood Behind

When I left, I left my childhood in the
drawer
and on the kitchen table, I left my toy horse
in its plastic bag.
I left without looking at the clock.
I forget whether it was noon or evening.

Our horse spent the night alone,
no water, no grains for dinner.
It must have thought we’d left to cook a
meal
for late guests or to make a cake
for my sister’s tenth birthday.

I walked with my sister, down our road
with no end.
We sang a birthday song.
The warplanes echoed across the
heavens.

My tired parents walked behind,
my father clutching to his chest
the keys to our house and to the stable.

We arrived at a rescue station.
News of the airstrikes roared on the
radio.
I hated death, but I hated life, too,
when we had to walk to our drawn-out
death,
reciting our never-ending ode.

Mosab Abu Toha

Things You May Find Hidden In My Ear: Poems from Gaza,
City Lights Books, San Francisco

The night is darkening round me

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

Emily Brontë (1818-1848)
England

From Great Short Poems from Around the World, Edited by BobBlaisdell,
Dover Publications, INC.

Because My Students Asked Me
what I would want them to do
at my funeral, I told them:
write & perform a collective poem
in which each of you says a line
about how I made you reach for stars
until you became them,
about how much you loved
to pretend
you hated me.
You mean even after you die
you’re going to make us do work?

• Taylor Mali - (U.S.A., b.1965)
• From Great Short Poems from Around the World, Edited by Bob Blaisdell
• Dover Publications, INC.

De evige tre

Der er to mænd i verden, der
bestandig krydser min vej;
den ene er ham jeg elsker,
den anden elsker mig.

Den ene er i en natlig drøm,
der bor i mitt mørke sind,
den anden står ved mit hjertes dør,
jeg lukker ham aldrig ind.

Den ene gav mig et vårlig pust
af lykke, der snart fór hen,
den anden gav mig sit hele liv
og fikk aldrig en time igjen.

Den ene bruser i blodets sang,
hvor elskov er ren og fri,
den anden er eet med den triste dag
drømmene drukner i.

Hver kvinde står mellom disse to,
forelsket, elsket og ren -
een gang hvert hundrede år kan det ske
de smelter sammen til een.

-Tove Ditlevsen (1917-1976)
Diktet er hentet fra Tove Ditlevsen, Dikt i utvalg, Den Norske Bokklubben- 1999.

Spor

Fotavtrykkene
står ikke i passet.
Men i ansiktet
på dem som står deg nær
kan en lese
om du sparket
eller danset
eller bare gikk deg
gjennom livet.

-Annie Riis (1927-2020)

Diktet er hentet fra Disse dagene, dette livet - dikt i utvalg av Ruth Lillegraven og Tordis Ørjasæter. Kagge Forlag 2016

FOR BERRE VANVITET TORER IKKJE

tvilens tenner
å slita på
og det reiv meg bort
på smil med venger

men gløym ikkje ormen i støvet

Jon Fosse
Diktet er hentet fra Poesiar etter Henrik Wergeland, Samlaget - 2016

NO HAR EG SAGT

det eg kan seia
så lat no stilla
lata seg att
for eg treng å kvila

berre kvila

berre kvila

og kanskje alltid berre kvila

berre no

berre enno det

• Jon Fosse
  Diktet er hentet fra Poesiar etter Henrik Wergeland, - Samlaget 2016