Bokelskere.no

Drar frem denne gamle tråden igjen, forhåpentligvis til interesse for flere enn meg selv. :)

No Explosions

To enjoy
fireworks
you would have
to have lived
a different kind
of life

Naomi Shihab Nye

The Tiny Journalist
Poems

Gaza Notebook
(2021-2023)

At fifth grade, I visit the school library.
On a wall by the door, a poster claims,
«If you read books, you live more than one
life.»
Now I’m thirty and whenever I look at faces
around me, old or young, on each forehead I
read:
«If you live in Gaza, you die several
times.

Mosab Abu Toha

Verset er hentet fra diktet Gaza Notebook (2021-2023)

Forest of Noise
poems

Alfred A. Knope, New York - 2024

Poem
And sounds of weeping came insted of music
And I walked out trembling and pushed my face into the soil
And sounds of weeping came insted of words or speeches
And dark evenings arrived at dawn and wailing rose from the village.
- PJ Harvey -
Fra boka Den opne handa

Om eg må døy

Om eg må døy
må du leve
for å fortelje historia mi
for å selje tinga mine
for å kjøpe ein stoffbit
og litt hyssing
(la den vere kvit med lang hale)
slik at eit barn, ein stad i Gaza
når det ser himmelen i auga
og ventar på far sin som fór i lys loge
- utan å seie farvel til nokon
ikkje eingong til kjøt og blod
ikkje eingong til seg sjølv –
ser dragen, min drage som du laga, der den flyr høgt oppe
og tenkjer i eit glimt at det er ein engel
som kjem att med kjærleiken.
Om eg må døy
la det bere håp med seg
la det bli ei forteljing.

Av Refaat Alareer
Gjendiktet av Anna Kleiva

Refaat Alareer ble drept i et israelsk angrep i Gaza 6. desember 2023,
kort tid etter at han skrev dette diktet.

Gripende dikt - ord blir overflødige.

Everything in Our World Did Not Seem to Fit

Once they started invading us, taking our
houses
and trees, drawing lines, pushing us into
tiny places.
It wasn’t a bargain or deal or even a real war.
To this day they pretend it was.
But it was something else.
We were sorry what happened to them but
we had nothing to do with it.
You don’t think what a little plot of land
means
till someone takes it and you can’t go back.
Your feet still want to walk there.
Now you are drifting worse
than homeless dust, very lost feeling.
I cried even to think of our hallway,
cool stone passage inside the door.
Nothing would fit for years.
They came with guns, uniforms, declarations.
Life magazine said,
«It was surprising to find some Arabs still in
their houses.»
Surprising? Where else would we be?
Up on the hillsides?
Conversing with mint and sheep, digging
in dirt?
Why was someone else’s need for a home
greater than our own need for our own
homes
we were already living in? No one has ever
been able
to explain this sufficiently. But they find
a lot of other things to talk about.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Everything Comes Next
Collected & New Poems

Et sørgelig aktuelt dikt, dessverre.

Tomorrow I’ll Write

At night he says: «Tomorrow. I’ll write,»
but there’s nothing at all to back up his
words;
the heavens’ frost laughs in his face,
and the cackling of mocking ice is heard.

Don’t pride yourself on tomorrow’s prize -
when you have no notion of what it hides.

Shemtov Ardutiel, 14th century

Hymns & Qualms,
New and Selected Poems and Translations
By Peter Cole

Nissen på lasset

Han
ligg
som eit vasslik
og ulmar
under overflata
eksen min.
Når som helst kan han flyte opp.
Eg veit ikkje kva ein gjer med vasslik.
Hadde håpa at bitterheita
skulle løyse han heilt opp.

Kari Anne Bye

Eg bur her no

I dag ryddet jeg i noen papirer - da fant jeg dette diktet som ett av mine barnebarn skrev etter sitt første møte med norsk vinter.

Norway

Norway, Norway
High, high
High all the way
up to the sky
Cold sunny
Mostly cold
Norway.

By Aida,
6 years old

Det er det som er spennende med å rydde - hyggelige minner kan dukke opp :-)

What Do Palestinians Want?
A man in the Lake District, England, asked me ………..

The pleasure of tending, tending
something that will not be taken away.
A family, a tree, growing for so long,
finally fruiting olives, the benevolence of
branch,
and not to find a chopped trunk upon
return.

Confidence in a threshold. A little green.
And quite a modest green untouched by
drama.
Or a mound of calico coverlets stuffed with
wool,
from one’s own sheep, piled in a cupboard.
To find them still piled. Is that too much?

Not to dominate. Never to say we are the
only people who count,
or to be the only victims,
the chosen, more holy or precious.
No. Just to be ones who matter
as much as any other, in a common way, as
you might prefer.
Stones and books and daily freedom.
A little neighborly respect.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Voices in the Air - Poems for Listeners

Emily

What would you do if you knew
that even during wartime
scholars in Baghdad
were translating your poems
into Arabic
still believing
in the thing with feathers?

You wouldn’t feel lonely
That’s for sure.

Words finding friends
even if written on envelope flaps
or left in a drawer.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Voices in the Air - Poems for Listeners

Forventning
Misunnelsen har strødd
bananskall på fortauet.
Nå står han i vinduet
og smiler.

Annie Riis

Himlen og de andre - En kjærlighetssatire

Da vi lette etter hunden

Da vi lette etter hunden
fant vi den ikke
verken ute eller inne.
Da vi lette etter lykken
fant vi hunden
under trappen.

Annie Riis (1927-2020)

En av favorittene mine <3

Et artig og underfundig dikt, Ava! Da det dukket opp på nettsiden her for noen år siden, ble jeg så inspirert at jeg fluksens kjøpte Annie Riis’ lille diktsamling Mellom høye trær. Anbefaler den på det varmeste! Vi hadde også en liten diskusjon om Annie Riis.
Takk for at du holder liv i denne tråden.

(Jeg har ikke boken her, så jeg kan dessverre ikke «svare» med et av disse flotte diktene.)

Diktanalyse

Ho køyrde full diktanalyse.
Granska og tolka alt han nokon gong hadde sagt henne.
La vekt på symbolbruk og undertekst.

Heilt utan nokon gong å bli klokare på han.

Så fekk dei rett, klassekameratane frå ungdomsskulen.
Ein får aldri bruk for diktanalyse i den verkelege verda.

Kari Anne Bye

Eg et før eg kjem
Dikt

Samlaget 2020

Meister

Ho sjekka jobbannonsane
ho sjekka Tinder.
Ho sjekka Facebook
ho sjekka Instagram.

Ho var ikkje i rute
ikkje i rute i det heile.
Fekk ikkje til det dei andre fekk til.
Fekk ikkje det dei andre fekk.
Greidde ingenting
Var ingenting
Berre
midtnorsk kretsmeister
i gråt over spilt mjølk.

Kari Anne Bye

Eg et før eg kjem
Dikt

Samlaget 2020

Jeg tror det var du som gjorde meg oppmerksom på denne diktsamlingen, Ava. Mange gode dikt som både humoristisk og sårt tar ting på kornet.

Hyggelig at du har sansen for diktene til Kari Anne Bye, Bjørg.
Jeg leste hennes andre diktsamling, Eg bur her no da den ble utgitt i 2021. Den anbefaler jeg gjerne, selv om jeg foretrekker hennes første - Eg et før eg kjem . :)

Takk for tipset! Eg et før eg kjem likte jeg så godt at jeg kjøpte den selv. Skal sjekke ut Eg bur her no på biblioteket. (Hylleplassen hjemme begynner å bli begrenset, så jeg prøver å begrense kjøpene.)

Et rom står avlåst

Jeg lengter etter deg.
Et rom står avlåst i kroppen min.
Alle tingene dine fins der og avtrykkene
av det korte livet ditt, flyktige
som skygger i måneskinnet.
Nøkkelen har jeg og går inn
med sekunders mellomrom. Jeg tar på alt
og taler uten ord med tomheten,
en kronisk lytter.

Jeg lengter etter deg
også fordi du var likest meg. Uten deg
går jeg alene med vranglynnet mitt.
Alt som var fint i meg og nå falmer
bar du som en tidlig sommerdag, et flott
langtidsvarsel. Også lavtrykkene mine
langt vest i deg kunne hope seg opp.
Av og til
kolliderte vi og værlagene våre. Skybrudd
og solgangsbris tørnet sammen. Men oftest
hang dagene våre som enige
søskenperler på kjedet.

Lengter etter deg.
Hverken vær eller dager løper mer.
Og tomheten svarer aldri.

Kolbein Falkeid (1933-2021)

Kolbein Falkeid skrev diktet i savnet og sorgen etter datterens død.

Disse dagene, dette livet - dikt vi har sammen
I utvalg ved Ruth Lillegraven og Tordis Ørjasæter

Når elevene starter på Senior-året sitt på High School i USA feires det ofte med overrekkelser av konvolutter med gode ord og hilsninger fra familie og venner. I år startet ett av barnebarna mine på Senior-året sitt. I tillegg til lykkeønskninger la jeg ved dette diktet av Kenn. Nesbitt. Jeg tenker at litt humor og en pust i bakken er like viktig som all verdens velmente råd.

Good Morning, Dear Students

«Good morning, dear students,» the principal said.
« Please put down your pencils and go back to bed.
Today we will spend the day playing outside,
then take the whole school on a carnival ride.»

«We’ll learn to eat candy while watching TV,
then listen to records and swing from a tree.
We’ll also be learning to draw on the walls,
to scream in the classrooms and run in the halls.»

«So bring in your skateboard, your scooter, your bike.
It’s time to be different and do what you like.
The teachers are going to give you a rest.
You don’t have to study. There won’t be a test.»

«And if you’d prefer, for a bit of a change,
feel free to go wild and act really strange.
Go put on a clown suit and dye your hair green,
and copy your face on the Xerox machine.»

«Tomorrow it’s back to the regular grind.
Today, just go crazy. We really don’t mind.
So tear up your homework. We’ll give you an A.
Oh, wait. I’m just kidding. It’s April Fools’ Day.»

Kenn Nesbitt

Du har så rett, Ava og alle gode ønsker til barnebarnet ditt! Heldig som har en mormor/farmor med humor og sans for poesi. Mine to yngste barnebarn har sin aller første skoledag i dag, og vi er invitert på feiring. Jeg har planlagt en sang til dem (hvis de ikke er for oppspilte til å høre 😊 Alf Prøysen slår aldri feil.

Nøtteliten bor i toppen av et tre
Han er aldri ferdig når han skal av sted,
Han skal spise fire konglefrø, og danse litegrann
Han skal erte frøken skjære og en gammel kråkemann.

Nøtteliten, sier mamma, du må gå,
og vær snar og flink på skoleveien nå.
Ikke fly og finne nøtter, du kan spise før du går,
du skal sitte pent på stubben din når skoleklokka slår!

Nøtteliten svarer: Jada, jada, ja,
men nå tror jeg jeg må stikke. Ha det bra!
Og hopp og sprett og tjo og hei
og fire kvister deler seg
så kommer Nøtteliten: Her er jeg!

Nøtteliten gjør så mange rare hopp
ifra tre til tre og stamme ned og opp
Glemmer skolen og de hele, han gjør kast og sprett og sprell
plukker mange fine nøtter. Han er nøtteknekker selv.

Men så hører han at skoleklokka slår
Ifra tre til tre så bustehalen står
Og hopp og sprett og tjo og hei
og litt før den har ringt fra seg,
så sitter han på stubben: Her er jeg!

Takk for hyggelige ord, Lillevi!
Jeg ønsker deg en god og minnerik kveld sammen med barnebarna og familien!
Og - du har helt rett - Prøysen er aldri feil! -:))

People do not pass
away,
They die
and then they stay.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Voices in the Air
Poems for Listeners

Ormeljod

Eg låg inni Lysnedalen
med smeden frå Kjos, du veit,
og gjætte på slaktesmalen
for bonden på Øvre-Tveit.
Der tok vi ein orm i tuva,
ein fræsande eitergast,
og slengde han beint opp i gruva
der glohaugen glødde kvast.

Vi såg han i verk seg krulla
då elden i kjøtet svei:
han låg der isamanrulla
og vilt seg på gloa vrei.
Men brått stod han strak på halen,
i dauden for siste gong,
og kaldt gjenom Lysnedalen
vi høyrde kor ormen song

Ein kvislande låt som trengde
frå ormen i elden ut,
og sylkvass til vers seg sprengde,
med kraft som ein iskald sprut.
Det var som ein straum av galdrar
som blindt seg or svelgen braut,
frå ein som i alle aldrar
med urette lida laut.

Vi høyrde den ville kvide
som skreik frå den dømde liv
som veit det skal dauden lide,
og verjelaust mot han driv.
Vi høyrde det skrik i våde
som stig frå den dømde sjel
som ikkje veit von um nåde,
og tiggar om liv likevel.

Men tonen skar av i hat, han,
som knivseggja kald og kvass.
Det var som eit skrik frå Satan,
I skjerande spott og trass
mot Gud og hans milde menner,
som andar i kjærleik rein,
og midt i sin kjærleik brenner
ein bortstøytt og einsam ein.

Og ormen med blodhat anda
si gift i den ville låt,
til tonen med sorg seg blanda,
og skolv som i vonlaus gråt..
Det var som han helsing sende
til villmarka stor og still,
at no var hans dag til ende,
og no stunda natta til.

Vi stod der av redsla fylte
då ormen si våbøn bad,
og smalen stod kring som trylte
og skolv liksom ospeblad.
Slik stod vi i sumarkvelden
og høyrde kor skriket steig,
til ormen i turrkvistelden
som kol ned i oska seig.

Jakob Sande (1906-1967)

Då Gud heldt fest i Fjaler
Den Norske Bokklubben 1974

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry
edited by Jay Parini

On Being Brought From Africa to America

Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
«Their colour is a diabolic die».
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin’d and join th’ angelic train.

Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784)

The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry

Phillis Wheatley (born c. 1753, present day Senegal?, West Africa - died December 5, 1784 Boston Massachusetts, U.S.) was the first Black woman to become a poet of note in the United States.
She was captured in West Africa and taken to Boston by slave traders in 1761.

Grøne eple

Sumaren var kald og regnfull.
Epli var grøne og flekka av skurv.
Men eg plukkar og sorterar
og staplar kassane i kjellaren.
Grøne eple er betre enn inkje.
Bygdi ligg på 61˚ breid.

Olav H. Hauge (1908-1994)

Dropar i austavind, 1966

Vi skal ikkje sova

Vi skal ikkje sova bort sumarnatta,
Ho er for ljos til det -
Då skal vi vandra isaman ute
under dei lauvtunge tre.

Då skal vi vandra isaman ute
der blomar i graset står.
Vi skal ikkje sova bort sumarnatta
som krusar med dogg vårt hår.

Vi skal ikkje sova frå høysåteangen
og grashoppespelet i eng
men vandra i lag under bleikblåe himlen
til fuglane lyfter veng.

Og kjenna at vi er i slekt med jorda,
med vinden og kvite sky,
og vita at vi skal vera isaman
like til morgongry.

Aslaug Låstad Lygre (1910-1966)

Disse dagene, dette livet

Dikt vi har sammen, i utvalg av Ruth Lillegraven og Tordis Ørjasæter

I Am Free

When the ghosts of my past whisper to me
I say, «I am free»
I open my eyes and I see
Pinks, blues, reds and orange
Yellow, purple, turquoise is my favourite
A world of rich tapestry

When the ghosts of my past shout loudly at me
I say «NO» firmly
I open my ears and I hear
Birds singing, engines purring, people talking, laughing
I look, I see
The ghosts are not here with me
Leaves falling, children playing, couple arguing, man smoking

When the ghosts feel too close to my skin
I feel
The ground beneath my feet
The breeze touching my face
The warmth of the sun
The fabric inside my pocket, against my hand
A touching embrace

The ghosts cannot compete
With the power of nature
I see
I hear
I feel
I taste
Delicious distractions
Like honey, smooth and sweet
Bitter chocolate, juicy orange, sugary treat

The ghosts are far away now
I am safe
I see my friends, my colleagues, my family
I am herr, now
I am free

I know
The ghosts are ghosts
They are not here now
They cannot hurt me
I am free

Clare Jones

Å leve sammen

Å leve sammen var som å leve
med en eneste skygge på deling
Ingen av dem ville helt gi seg hen
og ingen ville slippe taket

For sent forstod hun
at hun hadde hatt råd til å gi ham
den kjærligheten
som han aldri turde gi henne

Og for sent forstod han
at han skulle vært for henne
den kjærligheten
som han selv aldri hadde fått

Stein Mehren (1935-2017)

Jeger den jeger. Alltid en annen
Utvalgte dikt 1960-2009
Aschehoug 2012

Kjærleiken er-song

Kjærleiken er den ande
som gjer at vi finst til
Kjærleiken er den vande
som vil og ikkje vil

Kjærleiken er ei lykke
og han er sorga di,
han går der bak eit stykke
og så går han forbi

Kjærleiken er som lyset,
det kjem og det forsvinn
Kjærleiken er det gyset
som seier tap og vinn

Jon Fosse

Dikt i samling
Samlaget 2021

Ord over grind

Du går fram til mi inste grind
og eg går òg fram til di.
Innanfor den er kvar av oss einsam,
og det skal vi alltid bli.

Aldri trenge seg lenger fram,
var lova som galdt oss to.
Anten vi møttest titt eller sjeidan
var møtet tillit og ro.

Står du der ikkje ein dag eg kjem
felldet meg lett å snu
når eg har stått litt og sett mot huset
og tenkt på at der bur du.

Så lenge eg veit du vil kome iblant
som no over knastrande grus
og smile glad når du ser meg stå her,
skal eg ha ein heim i mitt hus.

Haldis Moren Vesaas (1907-1995)

Ord over grind blir av mange lese som eit kjærleiksdikt, men det er nok meir eit dikt om venskap, og ikkje minst om vyrnad for det inste hos eit anna menneske. Halldis hadde den finlandssvenske diktaren Solveig von Schoultz i tankane då ho skreiv dette diktet.

Halldis Moren Vesaas og Tarjei Vesaas - Liv og dikt i lag
Dikt og prosa sett saman av Olav Vesaas.

Efter någons död

Det var en gång en chock
som lämnade efter sig en lång, blek, skimrande kometsvans.
Den hyser oss. Den gör TV-bilderna suddiga.
Den avsätter sig som kalla droppar på luftledningarna.

Man kan fortfarande hasa fram på skidor i vintersolen
mellan dungar där fjorårslöven hängar kvar.
De liknar blad rivna ur gamla telefonkataloger -
abonnenternas namn uppslukade av kölden.

Det är fortfarande skönt att känna sitt hjärta bulta.
Men ofte känns skuggan verkligare än kroppen.
Samurajen ser obetydlig ut
bredvid sin rustning av svarta drakfjäll.

Tomas Tranströmer (1931-2015)

Tomas Tranströmer - Samlade dikter 1954-1996

Hvor hadde vi det fra?
Men hvem sa at dagene våre
skulle være gratis?
At de skulle snurre rundt
på lykkehjulet i hjertet vårt
og hver kveld
stoppe på gevinst?
Hvem sa det?
Hvor hadde vi dét fra?

Hvem sa at livet vårt
skulle være lett å bygge ferdig?
At mursteinene var firkantede ballonger
som føk på plass av seg selv?
Hvem sa det?
Hvor hadde vi dét fra?

Der var piller for alt: nerver,
vedvarende hoste og anemi.
Hvem sa at snarveiene
støtt var kjørbare? At fjellovergangene
aldri snødde til? Og at nettopp vi
skulle slippe å stå fast i tunnelen?
Ja, hvem sa det?
Hvor i all verden hadde vi dét fra?

Kolbein Falkeid

(…)
Du måtte vara stark
händer det
att mänskor säjer
till mej

Och jag tänker
på allt som har hänt
- kanske
jag är stark

Ja, det er väl så
Jag är väl stark jag

Starka mänskor böjs inte
De bryts

och brister

-Märta Tikkanen

Århundradets kärlekssaģa, 1978

Death Before Birth (DBB)

A pallid smile on the face of the sky.
A nightingale departs the wet earth
to start its day, looking for seeds to eat.
A drop of cold water falls from its beak
onto a lazy snail.

Everything is in motion:
the air, the branches on the trees.
An apple falls.

The sound of a drone
intrudes violently.
It fails to move on and
leave us alone for some seconds,
refuses to listen to music
or the whistling of birds.

People die,
Others are born.
For us,
the fear of dying before living
haunts us while we are still
in our mothers’ wombs.

Mosab Abu Toha

Things You May Find Hidden In My Ear - Poems from Gaza
City Lights Bookstore - San Francisco

S
I like to go to the beach and watch the sun as it sinks into the sea. She’s going to shine on nicer places, I think to myself.

My son’s name is Yazzan. He was born in 2015, or a year after the 2014 war. This is how we date things. Once he saw a swarm of clouds. He shouted, «Dad, some bombs. Watch out!» He thought the clouds were bomb smoke. Even nature confuses us.

Mosab Abu Toha

Things You My Find Hidden In My Ear - Poems from Gaza
City Light Bookstore

My Life Has Been the Poem

My life has been the poem I would have
writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.

Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

Great Short Poems - Edited by Paul Negri
Dover Publications

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

Francis William Bourdillon (1852-1921)
Great Short Poems - Edited by Paul Negri
Dover Publications

The Purple Cow

The Purple Cow

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.

Cing Ans Après

Ah, yes! I wrote the «Purple Cow» -
I’m sorry, now, I wrote it!
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’ll kill you if you quote it!

Gelett Burgess (1866-1951)

Great Short Poems - Edited by Paul Negri
Dover Publications

Oh, My We’ve Grown

and can tell
a Kurdish tune from an Iraqi one.

Whoever invented
squeezing breast with a bra,
that maker of this great prison,
should be prosecuted.

Maya Abu Al-Hayyat

You Can Be The Last Leaf - Selected Poems
Translated by Fady Joudah

Milkweed Editions

Similarities

Even if what you mean is justice,
pain, or history,
is there a difference?
The hater resembles the hater
and murderer, the murderer.
An aerially bombed building
looks like the blown-up one.
A child riddled with holes
resembles another torn apart.
A bereaved mother
resembles a mother in waiting.
Is there a difference,
after you drop justice
from your reply? Justice
is the right of all who live
in the wrong places in this world,
the right of the aggrieved,
the weak, and the poor.
It isn’t a killer’s pretext,
a crutch for the malevolent,
or a sword for the unjust.
Give me a reason
to hand over my kids to you
and resemble the hordes.

Maya Abu Al-Hayyat

You Can Be The Last Leaf - Selected Poems
Translated by Fady Joudah

Milkweed Editions

Gratitude

Do not think I am not grateful for your
small
kindness to me.
I like small kindnesses.
In fact I actually prefer them to the more
substantial kindness, that is always eying
you,
like a large animal on a rug,
until your whole life reduces
to nothing but waking up morning after
morning
cramped, and the bright sun shining on its
tusks.

Louise Glück (1943-2023)

The First Four Books of Poems
Harper Collins Publishers

Louise Glück vant Nobelprisen i litteratur i 2020.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry - Edited by Jay Parini
Columbia University Press

Umoralsk vise

Det er herligt at lyve - med store blaa Øjne
at fable om Bedrifter, man intet kender til,
at faa Folk til at tro paa de vildeste Løgne
og at finde paa nye, saa ofte man vil.

Det er pragtfuldt at stjæle i store Butikker,
hvor Lagrene bugner i østerlandsk Pragt,
og Varene langs hen ad Diskene ligger
og skriger imod os, at Penge er Magt.

Og at være letsindig - hvor sødt at forarge;
at elske og svigte, og elske igen,
hver Time at leve, at vælge og vrage,
og ejes af hele Kaskader af Mænd……

Men ak, jeg maa tøjle de syndige Lyster
for Paradistanken er alt for fatal,
- saa jeg lytter ikke til farlige Røster,
- ak nej, jeg er noget saa fuld af Moral.

Tove Ditlevsen (1918-1976)

Muntre vers fra flere alvorlige land, utvalgt av André Bjerke
Den Norske Bokklubben, 1974

Seven Fingers

Whenever she meets new people, she sinks
her small hands into the pockets of her
jeans,
moves them
as if she’s counting
some coins. (She just lost seven
fingers in the war.) Then she
moves away,
back hunched,
tiny as a dwarf.

Mosab Abu Toha

Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear
Poems from Gaza
City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco

Boogie Street

A sip of wine, a cigarette,
and then it’s time to go
I tidied up the kitchenette.
I tuned the old banjo.
I’m wanted at the traffic-jam.
They’re saving me a seat.
I’m what I am, and what I am,
is back on Boogie Street.

And O my love, I still recall
the pleasures that we knew;
the rivers and the waterfall
wherein I bathed with you.
Bewildered by you beauty there
I’d kneel to dry your feet.
By such instructions you prepare
a man for Boogie Street.

So come my friends, be not afraid.
We are so lightly here.
It is in love that we are made;
in love we disappear.
Tho’ all the maps of blood and flesh
are posted on the door,
there’s no one who has told us yet
what Boogie Street is for.

O Crown of Light, O Darkened One,
I never thought we’d meet.
You kiss my lips, and then it’s done.
I’m back on Boogie Street.

Leonard Cohen (1934-2016)

Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing
Harper Collins Publishers, Canada 2006

Saa tag mit Hjerte i dine Hænder

Saa tag mitt Hjerte i dine Hænder,
men tag det varsomt og tag det blidt,
det røde Hjerte — nu er det dit.

Det slaar saa roligt, det slaar saa dæmpet,
for det har elsket, og det har lidt,
nu er det stille — nu er det dit.

Og det kan saares, og det kan segne,
og det kan glemme, og glemme tit,
men glemmer aldrig, at det er dit.

Det var saa stærkt og saa stolt, mit Hjerte,
det sov og drømte i Lyst og Leg,
nu kan det knuses — men kun af dig.

Tove Ditlevsen (1918-76)

Du mitt menneske
Nordiske kjærleiksdikt i utval ved Åse Marie Nesse
Den Norske Bokklubben 1978

Minnena ser mig

En junimorgon då det är för tidigt
att vakna men för sent att somna om.

Jag måste ut i grönskan som är fullsatt
av minnen, och de följer mig med blicken.

De syns inte, de smälter helt ihop
med bakgrunden, perfekta kameleonter.

De är så nära att jag hör dem andas
fast fågelsången är bedövande.

Tomas Tranströmer (1931-2015)

Sammlade Dikter 1954 - 1996

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes and oh, my friends —
It gives a lovely light.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

100 Best-Loved Poems
Dover Publications

A Rose Shoulders Up

Don’t ever be surprised
to see a rose shoulder up
among the ruins of the house:
This is how we survived.

Mosab Abu Toha

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

When I Grow Older
A Gaza Poem

My name is Omar. I am 5.
Today I washed the blood of my father off the sidewalk.
He was shot in front of our home.
My mom said I did a good job.
She hugged me and cried for far too long.
Her tears were salty like the Gaza Sea.
My brother and sister are still missing under the rubble.
My mom keeps telling me to place my ear on the blocks of shattered concrete and listen carefully.
Maybe they are still alive.
Maybe they need company.
She sings them lullabies to go to sleep.
I always sing along.

It has been many days since they were gone.
I didn't die because I stood in a long line to fetch some water.
There was none.
But my mom said 'Alhamdulilah' that I am still alive.
She called me a miracle.
She said I am all that she has left.

I told her that someday we would get a big bulldozer, would save my brother and sister, and rebuild the house.
And grow a garden, with trees so big they'll reach the heavens.
But tonight, we will sleep in a tent.
I keep dreaming of three angels.
They hover around me and sing me songs.
I jump and dance, but only in my sleep.
When I grow older, I will protect my mother from the angry men with guns.
When I grow older, I will have a son and give him my father's name.
When I grow older, I will remove the big rocks smothering my brother and my sister.
When I grow older, I will never forget.
I will never forget.
I will never forget.

• Ramzy Baroud.

Hjulskiftet

Jeg sitter i veikanten.
Sjåføren skifter ut et hjul.
Jeg liker meg ikke der jeg var.
Jeg liker meg ikke der jeg skal.
Hvorfor ser jeg på hjulskiftet
med utålmodighet?

Lyder

Om en stund, ut på høsten
sitter det svære kråkeflokker i sølvpoplene.
Men hele sommeren da egnen er uten fugler
hører jeg bare lyder fra mennesker.
Det er meg nok.

—

Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)

Av Buckower-elegiene
Brecht 100 Dikt,

I norsk gjendiktning av Georg Johannesen

Den norske bokklubben 1971

Det er få eller ingen dikt som gir meg så mye gåsehud som Tomas Tranströmers

Svarta Vykort

Mitt i livet händer det att döden
kommer och tar mått på människan.

Det besöket glöms
och livet fortsätter.

Men kostymen sys
i det tysta.

Fra diktsamlingen Det vilda torget 1983

I min utgave av Tomas Tranströmer, Samlade dikter 1954-1996, der også Det vilda torget (1983) er med, har Svarta Vykort to vers.
Jeg lurer på hvilken utgave av Det vilda torget du har.

Svarta vykort
I
Almanackan fullskriven, framtid okänd.
Kabeln nynnar folkvisan utan hemland.
Snöfall i det blystilla havet. Skuggor
brottas på kajen.

II
Mitt i livet händer att döden kommer
och tar mått på människan. Det besöket
glöms och livet fortsätter. Men kostymen
sys i det tysta.

Jeg har ingen diktsamlinger av Tranströmer, dessverre. Har funnet diktet på nettet for lenge siden og registrerte ikke da noet første vers.

Ikke for sent å ønske seg en diktsamling av Tranströmer, gretemor! :)

Sterkt dikt!

Ja, veldig, kroppen min reagerer bare jeg tenker på det.

Separation Wall

When the milk is sour,
it separates.

The next time you stop speaking,
ask yourself why you were born.

They say they are scared of us.
The nuclear bomb is scared of the cucumber.

When my mother asks me to slice cucumbers,
I feel like a normal person with fantastic
dilemmas:

Do I make rounds or sticks? Shall I trim the
seeds?
I ask my grandmother if there was ever a
time

she felt like a normal person every day,
not in danger, and she thinks for as long

as it takes a sun to set and says, Yes.
I always feel like a normal person.

They just don’t see me as one.
We would like the babies not to find out
about

the failures waiting for them. I would like
them to believe on the other side of the wall

is a circus that hasn’t opened yet. Our friends,
learning how to juggle, to walk on tall poles.

———
Naomi Shihab Nye

The Tiny Journalist, Poems

American Poets Continuum
Series, No. 170

Ansikt mot ansikt

I februar stod alt levende stille.
Fuglene fløy ikke gjerne og sjelen
gnog mot landskapet slik en båt
gnager mot bryggen den ligger fortøyd ved.

Trærne stod vendt med ryggen hit.
Snødybden ble målt opp av døde strå.
Fotsporene ute på skaren ble eldre.
Under en presenning svant språket.

En dag kom noe bort til vinduet.
Arbeidet stanser opp, jeg løfter blikket.
Fargene brant. Alt snudde seg.
Marken og jeg gjorde et byks mot hverandre.

Tomas Tranströmer

Dikt og prosa i samling

Til norsk ved Jan Erik Vold

"Under en presenning tynade språket."

Kan se en liten trykkfeil i den norske oversettelsen av diktet ansikt mot ansikt på siden her, det står "presening".
Håper feilen kan rettes opp igjen.

Takk skal du ha, trykkleifer kan være sjenerende. Nå er det rettet opp. :)

Notat

Livet er den eneste måten
å dekkes med løv på,
hive etter pusten i sanden,
stige til værs på vinger;

å være en hund,
eller stryke den over den varme pelsen;

å skille smerte
fra alt som ikke er det;

å komme seg på innsiden av det som skjer,
se noe fra flest mulige synsvinkler,
å strebe etter å trå minst mulig feil;

En enestående sjanse
til et øyeblikk å erindre
en samtale som fant sted
med lampen slått av;

og i det minste én gang
snuble i en stein,
bli dyvåt når det bøtter ned med regn,
legge fra seg nøklene i gresset;

og å følge en gnist i vinden med øynene;

og uten stans fortsette med å gå glipp av
noe viktig.

Wislawa Szymborska

Livet er den eneste måten, Dikt 2002 - 2012
Tiden Norsk Forlag

Gjendiktet av Christian Kjelstrup

we must

we must bring
our own light
to the
darkness.

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

as the young boys
ski
down the
slopes

as the fry cook
gets his last
paycheck

as dog chases
dog

as the chessmaster
loses more than
the game

we must bring
our own light
to the
darkness.

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

as the lonely
telephone
anybody
anywhere

as the great beast
trembles
in nightmare

as the final season
leaps into
focus

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)
Septuagenarian Stew - Stories & Poems

Small Viennese Waltz

In Vienna there are ten girls,
a shoulder on which death is sobbing
and a forest of dried-out pigeons.
There is a fragment of morning
in the museum of frost.
There is a salon with a thousand
windows.

Ay, ay, ay, ay.

Take this waltz with your mouth
closed.
This waltz, this waltz,
about itself, about death and cognac
that wets its tail in the sea.

I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the dead book,
through the melancholy hallway,
in the dark attic of lilies,
on our bed of the moon
and the dance dreamed by the tortoise.

Ay, ay, ay, ay.
Take this waltz of the broken waist.

In Vienna there are four mirrors
where your mouth and echoes play,
There is death for the piano
that paints the boy blue.
There are beggars on rooftops.
There are fresh garlands of weeping.

Ay, ay, ay, ay.
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.

Because I love you, I love you, my love,
in the attic where the children play,
dreaming ancient lights of Hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon,
seeing sheep and lilies of snow
through the dark silence of your forehead.

Ay, ay, ay, ay.
Take this «I will always love you» waltz.

In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river’s head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I want to leave
violin and grave, the ribbons of the waltz.

Frederico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936)

Frederico Garcia Lorca - Collected Poems

Leonard Cohen satte melodi til teksten i 1986.
Som en kuriositet kan det nevnes at Cohen var så begeistret for dikteren Lorca - at han også kalte datteren sin for Lorca.

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

Kva meinar han med det her:
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

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.

"If I must die
let it bring hope"

If I must die

If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my tings
to buy a piece of cloth
and som strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze-
and bid no one farwell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself-
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up
above
and thinks for a moment a angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale

• Refaat Alareer
  November 1, 2023.
  (Refaat Alareer nektet å forlate det nordlige Gaza, han ble drept i et israelsk luftangrep 7/12 - 2023. Det israelske angrepet drepte også hans bror, hans sønn, hans søster og tre av deres barn.)

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

Let her go away flying
air under her wings
like a beautiful falcon
a treasure to behold

Out there in the sky she is
what a mystery
still you feel her, sense her
a fond memory

Cherish what is in your hand
feed it and give love
whisper in it's ears and stroke it
do it while you can

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

TILL HAVET

O hav, hav,
hur stark den dryck du bräddar!
Din stora kyla
är helig rening klar.
Din ljusfamn
är hälsa svar för människors barn, för oss som läkdom älska.

Ty du, hav,
strålande mjukt, rytande hårt,
falskt, och troget alltid,
är liknelse skön för sköna ting:
för tappra hjärtans saltskummiga väg i världen.

-Karin Boye (Samlade dikter)

Here with a loaf of bread beneath the
bough,
a flask of wine, a book of verse - and
thou
beside me singing in the wilderness -
and wilderness is paradise enow.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may
spend,
before we too into dust descend;
dust into dust, and under dust, to lie,
sans wine, sans song, sans singer,
and - sansend!

With them the seed of wisdom did I
sow,
and with my own hand labored it to
grow:
and this was all the harvest that I
reaped -
«I came like water, and like wind I go.»

• Omar Khayam ( 1044- 1123)
  Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

• Stevie Smith

My Life Has Been the Poem

My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.

• Henry David Thoreau
  (1817 - 1862)

On the World

The world's an inn; and I her guest.
I eat; I drink; I take my rest.
My hostess, nature, does deny me
Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;
Where, having stayed a while, I pay
Her lavish bills, and go my way.

• Francis Quarles
  (1592 - 1644)

Bra dikt.

Winter the Huntsman

Through his iron glades
Rides Winter the Huntsman,
All colour fades
As his horn is heard sighing.

Far through the forest
His wild hooves crash and thunder,
Till many a mighty branch
Is torn asunder.

And the red reynard creeps
To his hole near the river,
The copper leaves fall
And the bare trees shiver.

As night creeps from the ground
Hides each tree from its brother,
And each dying sound
Reveals yet another.

Is it Winter the Huntsman
Who gallops through his iron glades,
Cracking his cruel whip
To the gathering shades?

Osbert Sitwell

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!

Emily Dickinson

For The Foxes

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.

Charles Bukowski

Television

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Roald Dahl

Beautiful Old Age

It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfilment.

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life
lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies
they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins
in their old age.

Soothing, old people should be, like apples
when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft
stillness and satisfaction of autumn.

And a girl should say:
It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! -

And a young man should think: By Jove
my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!

D.H. Lawrence

the wine of forever

re-Reading some of Fante's
The Wine of Youth
in bed
this mid-afternoon
my big cat
BEAKER
asleep beside
me.

the writing of some
men
is like a vast bridge
that carries you
over
the many things
that claw and tear.

Fante's pure magic
emotions
hang on the simple
clean
line.

that this man died
one of the slowest and
most horrible deaths
that I ever witnessed or
heard
about....

the gods play no
favorites.
I put the book down
beside me.

book on one side,
cat on the other....

John, meeting you,
even the way it
was was the event of my
life. I can't say
I would have died for
you, I couldn't have handled
it that well.

but it was good to see you
again
this
afternoon.

Charles Bukowski

Enig med Bukowski. John Fante er en stor forfatter. Jeg har lest et eller annet sted - lurer på om det er i et forord til en av Fantes romaner, at Bukowski skal ha uttalt at uten John Fante ville han ikke ha skrevet bøker.

Charles Bukowski stated in his introduction to Ask the Dust "Fante was my god". Prøvde også å sjekke om ikke Bukowski nevner Fante i Nedenom og hjem, men jeg har lest og hørt boka på Biblo, og har den desverre ikke i hylla.

Ser ut til at du har rett. Jeg har sakset følgende fra en omtale i Dagbladet i 2008, da Veien til Los Angeles kom på norsk:
"Et forord av Bukowski i 1980 til en ny utgave av Fantes trolig beste roman, «Spør Støvet» (… «jeg hadde funnet gull på søppelfyllinga») bidro sterkt til å skape ny interesse for John Fante, som hadde kommet i skyggen av samtidige amerikanske forfattere som Sherwood Anderson, John Steinbeck og Ernest Hemingway. "

Jeg husker heller ikke sikkert i hvilken av Bukowskis bøker han nevner Fante, men lurer på om det ikke er i Women – at han holdt på å gi opp skrivningen, men fant en bok av ham på biblioteket. Men det er såpass lenge siden jeg har lest disse bøkene at jeg ikke tør banne på det. Kanskje på tide å finne dem fram igjen ...

Her er en link som belyser litt av Bukowski's forhold til Fante.
(Både Monica og Odin har rett) :)

Takk for link. Strålende!
Er det i det hele tatt noe man ikke kan få svar på her inne?

the passing of a great one

he was the only living writer I ever
met who I truly
admired and he was dying when I
met
him.
(we in this game are shy on praise
even toward
those who do it very well, but I never
had this
problem with J.F.)
I visited him several times at the
hospital (there was never anybody else
about) and upon entering his room
I was never sure if he was asleep
or?

"John?"

he was stretched there on that bed,
blind
and amputated:
advanced
diabetes.

"John it's
Hank...."

he would answer and then we would
talk for
a short bit (mostly he would talk and
I would
listen; after all, he was our mentor,
our
god):

Ask the Dust
Wait Until Spring, Bandini
Dago Red

all the others.
to end up in Hollywood writing
movie scripts
that's what killed
him.

"the worst thing," he told me,
is bitterness, people end up so
bitter."

he wasn't bitter, although he had
every right to
be......

at the funeral I
met several of his script-writing
buddies.

"let's write something about
John," one of them
suggested.

"I don't think I can," I
told them.

and of course, they never
did.

Charles Bukowski

TO MAA MAN VÆRE…

To maa man være om Livet skal lykkes,
to naar vaart Kærlighets tempel skal bygges.
To naar det stormer og to i det stille,
to for at kunde og to for at ville.

To maa man være for Livet at fatte,
to for dets Lys og dets Glæder at skatte,
to for at nyde og to for at gavne,
to for at elske og to for at favne.

To maa man være naar Verden vil true,
to for i stillhet, mot Himmelen at skue,
to for at leve i Ungdom og Sommer
to for at dø, naar dødstimen kommer.

To maa man være, to!

Johanne Henriette Valentine Rantzhau (1920)

Som et apropos til en annen tråd her inne om hva en forfatter er i dag, velger jeg dette diktet av Charles Bukowski.

so you want to be a writer

by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you 're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it.
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Jeg skjønner jeg ikke er alene om å tenke tanken ;)

There Will Come Soft Rains

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools, singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Sara Teasdale

White Christmas

The sun is shining, the grass is green
The orange and palm trees sway
There's never been such a day
in Beverly Hills, L.A.
But it's December the twenty-fourth
And I am longing to be up North.........

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
just like the ones I used to know
where the treetops glisten
and children listen
to hear sleighbells in th snow.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
with every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white.

Irving Berlin

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But may I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

Det var da riktig barbarisk hvor forsømt denne tråden er blitt, jeg måtte jo bla fire sider for å finne tilbake til den. Jeg blåser derfor litt liv i den med et gammelt dikt.

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true; then learn how false fears be;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

John Donne.

Had I But Wings Like Thine
- Martha Lavinia Hoffman

Had I but wings like thine,
Free bird of flight,
To scale the heights that only wings can reach,
Or steer my passage o'er yon seas of light,
Whose cloudy beach
Is ever shifting like the sands of time!

Had I but wings like thine
To soar between
Those airy deeps and lower deeps more real,
Above the wrecks and ruins of the main,
The joy to feel
Of freedom on unfailing pinions mine!

Had I but wings like thing
To visit lands
Of ancient story and undimmed renown;
To roam and rest beside those glittering strands
That ages crown
With words and thoughts that lustrous gems outshine!

Had I but wings like thine!
In yonder skies,
Thy graceful form becomes a speck to view;
Had I but wings like thine I would arise,
A bird of passage too,
To pass beyond this narrow prison line!

Had I but wings like thine!
'Tis vain to long;
Ah! rather let me feel those hidden wings,
That to a higher, broader, flight belong;
Be mine a heart that ever soars and sings
Above the wrecks of wrong!

Coldness in Love

And you remember, in the afternoon
The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk
A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon
Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth,
And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon.

A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime
Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled
Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time
You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw
The words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime.

And all day long that raw and ancient cold
Deadened me through, till the grey downs darkened to sleep.
Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold
Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep
Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold.

But still to me all evening long you were cold,
And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache;
Till old days drew me back into their fold,
And dim sheep crowded me warm with companionship,
And old ghosts clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled.

I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust,
Like the linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor
Of a disused room: a grey pale light like must
That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed
To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust.

Then I rose in fear, needing you fearfully,
For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood.
I thought I could plunge in your spurting hotness, and be
Clean of the cold and the must.--With my hand on the latch
I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me.

And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed.
So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea
And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed
With cold, like the shell of the moon: and strange it seems
That my love has dawned in rose again, like the love of a maid.

D.H. Lawrence.

A Dream Within A Dream
- Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himselfs, beholds
Nothing that is not there and nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

THE BRIGHT FIELD

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit brush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

Ronald Stuart Thomas

Whispers of Immortality

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

Grishkin is nice: her
Russian eye is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.

T. S. Eliot

September

We sit late, watching the dark slowly unfold:
No clock counts this.
When kisses are repeated and the arms hold
There is no telling where time is.

It is midsummer: the leaves hang big and still:
Behind the eye a star,
Under the silk of the wrist a sea, tell
Time is nowhere.

We stand; leaves have not timed the summer.
No clock now needs
Tell we have only what we remember:
Minutes uproaring with our heads

Like an unfortunate King's and his Queen's
When the senseless mob rules;
And quietly the trees casting their crowns
Into the pools.

Ted Hughes

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Har du lest "The Outsiders" av Susan E. Hinton?

"The Outsiders" av Susan E. Hinton leste jeg i tenårene, den var simpelthen en "målesebok". Boken har etterhvert blitt en klassiker i "ungdomslitteraturen", og temaet er nok like aktuelt i dag som da den ble utgitt i 1967.

Cross

My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If I ever cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well.

My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm gonna die,
Being neither white nor black?

Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

Clown in the Moon

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Dylan Thomas

Love's Two Insomnias
- Rumi

When I am with you, we stay up all night,
When you're not here, I can't get to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them.

BELLY DANCER
(Rumi)

Most poets are like a belly dancer
who never reveals anything below her waist -

I won´t tease you like that
for I love when your
eyes get

e
x
c
i
t
e
d
.

Åh, Rumi er et av mine favoritter :)

Ja, min også.... Og her er mitt favorittdikt :)

The Guest House
~ Rumi ~

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

LOVE DOES THAT
(Meister Echart)

All day long a little burro labors, sometimes
with heavy loads on her back and sometimes just with worries
about things that bother only
burros.

And worries, as we know, can be more exhausting
than physical labor.

Once in a while a kind monk comes
to her stable and brings
a pear, but more
than that,

he looks into the burro´s eyes and touches her ears

and for a few seconds the burro is free
and even seems to laugh,

because love does
that.

Love frees.

Days like these...

Days like these.

On days like this
When the rain want fall
and the sky’s so dry
that even birds cant call.
I can feel youre tears
dissapearing in the air
carried on the breeze
On days like these…

It’s years like these
that make a young man old
bend his back aginst the promises
that life should hold
they can make him wise
they can drive him to his knees
nothing comes for free
On days like these…

But you can’t reap what you don’t saw
and you can’t plant in hallow ground
so let us fill this empty earth with hope
until the rains come down…

In lives like these
where every moment counts
I add upp all the things
that I can live without
When the one thing left
is the blessing of my dreams..

I can make my peace
with days like these…

Janis Ian

Du skriver at diktet må være utenom Norge, men ikke at forfatteren må være utenlandsk. Dette er et av mine yndlingsdikt, som jeg til og med har deklamert ved enkelte anledninger.

Den 31. januar 1927 la Nordahl Grieg ut på reportasjereise for Tidens Tegn. Målet var borgerkrigens Kina. Underveis skrev han reportasjer og intervjuer som han sendte hjem, og skisser til det som skulle bli reportasjeboken ”Kinesiske dage”, utgitt høsten 1927. Omkring 1. mars kom han til Shanghai. Baren i The Shanghai Club var et sted som en vitebegjærlig journalist på 24 år ikke kunne unngå å oppsøke. Der fikk han inspirasjon til dette diktet.

VAND

Solen kaster seg mot jorden,
som en dræktig tigerinde
sprunget ut av rummets jungel,
glefsende mot blod i blinde.

Kvalt i dyrefavnens kvalme,
grusomt klæbet fast til dypet,
under lyset, under stanken,
under havnens tunge byrder,
kravler langsomt menskekrypet.
Hør, hvor kuli-sangen raller!
Som et stønn av blod og svette
gisper det fra dokk og kai.
Det er sommer i Shanghai.

Gin and bitter, gin and bitter!
Det er tætt med folk i baren.
Langsmed skrankens rop og latter
glimter, gliser drikk ved drikk.
Sprængte uer-øine svømmer
tunge i den hete disen,
stanser ved det dugg-grå glasset,
gin and bitter, boy - be quick!

Vi har satt oss, borti mørket.
Landsmænd er vi, møtt herute.
Jeg skal reise. Han skal bli.
Han skal bli igjen med savnet,
mens han ser en andens øine
alt få lys av Norges blåner....

Lucky devil, det er De.

Joda! Det er bra herute,
ponier og bil og boyer,
alltid plenty med halloi!
Det er bare denne længslen,
den en aldrig kan få kverket,
bring en gin and bitter, boy.

Vet De hvad jeg længter efter,
det som bare er at le av,
det jeg ofret år av livet,
for at få om det gikk an.
Det jeg tænker på om dagen,
det jeg griner for om natten,
det er vand!

Vand som rinder, vand som risler,
vand om våren, vand om høsten....

Kan De fatte dette mand?

Ikke slikt som her i Østen,
med sin råtne, gule snerke,
drivende av daue rotter,
som en stinkende kloak.
Jeg kom fort på hospitalet
engang da jeg lot det skure
ikke årket mer, og drakk.

Vand i Norge, vand av renhet, -
hvor en lægger sig og drikker,
det er dét jeg tænker på.

Kanskje regner det så sakte.
Lyden siver ned i bækken,
mellem bjerkene og lyngen.
Kanskje ligger skodden grå.

Det er dette som jeg drømmer:
At jeg ligger der og slubrer.
Over begge håndledd strømmer
vandet fossende og kallt.
Nævene har tak mot bunden,
steinen gnures ind i kjødet,
dette harde, svale presset. -
Jeg kan se og føle alt.

Boy, din slubbert! Gin and bitter -
Husker De hvordan det smaker,
susende i stryk fra breen,
men med saft fra kratt og kjærr...
Brune røtter, nakne gråstein
sender med sin smak i farten -
kræklinglyng og tyttebær!

Alt er med i iskall renhet!
Hele vidden, hele luften
fosser vildt og stridt mot kjæften,
evig over all forstand.
Risler, fosser.... Drikk, la være!
Bækken er der, er der, er der.
Jeg er sjuk av alt herute.
Herre Jesus - gi meg vand!

Hentet fra Nordahl Griegs Samlede dikt (1950)

Den 34 meter lange baren som er beskrevet i diktet, den gang kalt verdens lengste.

Storartet!!!

Because I could not stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

Emily Dickinson

Apparent Death
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

WEEP, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;

He died of nothing--by mere chance was slain.
But is he really dead?--oh, that I cannot prove:

A nothing, a mere chance, oft gives him life again.

Än, fastän dvalan betyngde min hjärna,
låg jag och grubblade vidöppet vaken,
såg jag, hur ljusflamman andades matt,
såg, hur hon flämtade långt ned i staken,
fladdrade, slocknade, såg, hur en stjärna
glimtade svagt genom rymdens natt.

Månen sken in, men dess kyliga skimmer
tycktes mig likna den elmseld, som blossar
över en mast, när det kvällas på hav,
lysvedens ljus eller lyktmän på mossar
eller det sken, som ens öga förnimmer
flyktigt en sensommarnatt på en grav.

Luften mig tycktes lik jord, som förtunnats,
vidgats och blivit ett stoff, som kan andas,
skumt och av skymtande syner fullt,
skugga och glimt, som förenas och blandas,
gravkummelljus av den art, som förkunnats
fordom i sagor om trolldomskult.

Skumma gestalter jag såg i det vida,
vilande rader av somnade släkten,
bidande än i förhoppning och tro
solen och dagen och morgonväkten,
slumrande stilla och sida vid sida,
varv över varv i en dödsdröms ro.

Dovt som när haven skvalpa och svalla
hörde jag sorl av de multnades röster,
mörka som klang av en harposträng,
hörde dem skölja från väster till öster,
fråga och svara, stiga och falla,
vandra som böljor i svall till min säng.

(Drömmar i Hades, første del, av Gustaf Fröding.)

Alone
- Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

BOGHOLDEREN
Den gale bogholder, mager og krum,
ledte og ledte dag efter dag.
Han talte og talte, og tallenes sum
hviskede tyst om et kassebedrag.

Selv vidste han intet at sige sig på.
Han stirrede ind i sit hjertes spejl.
Ham mumlede skræmt, besværgende, grå:
det hele beror på en regnefejl.

Og ingen vidste om al hans kval.
For kassen stemte. Dog satt han der,
år efter år, forstyrret og gal,
ude af stand til at regne mer.

Da kom revisjonen. En fingernegl
slog ned som en spids og dirrende kniv.
Her er, sagde stemmen, den regnefejl,
hvormed du har ødelagt hele dit liv.

Nu kender jeg intet til bokholderi,
men noget til galskap og meget til frygt.
Jeg ved om et hjerte, der aldrig har fri,
og aldrig tør elske fortroligt og trygt.

Jeg ved om en kasse, der stemmer præcist,
og om bøger der rummer en regnefejl,
vi ikke tør se før vort liv er forlist,
og vor dommer er klar med sin dræbende negl.

Den borer sig ind i dit hjerte en dag
og blotter dets blinde og sårbare plet.
Der blir ingen proces eller nævningesag.
Alt er for sent. Der er skjet dig din ret.

Tove Ditlevsen

A Pæan
- Edgar Allan Poe

I. How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?

II. Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!--oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!

III. They loved her for her wealth--
And they hated her for her pride--
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her--that she died.

IV. They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak--
That I should not sing at all--

V. Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully--so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.

VI. But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.--

VII. Of the dead--dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes.
And the life upon her hair.

VIII. Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike--the murmur sent
Through the gray chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.

IX. Thou diedst in thy life's June--
But thou didst not die too fair:
Thou didst not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.

X. From more than friends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven.--

XI. Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.

Δεν ελπίζω τίποτα.
Δε φοβούμαι τίποτα.
Είμαι λεύτερος.

Νίκος Καζαντζάκης

Hva står det her ?

I hope for nothing,
I fear nothing,
I am free.

Nikos Kazantzakis.

Ava oversatte faktisk det Marit Håverstad skrev.

Jeg så ikke at du oversatte teksten Marit Håverstad skrev, beklager misforståelsen.

JA VISST GÖR DET ONT
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister.
Varför skulle annars våren tveka?
Varför skulle all vår heta längtan
bindas i det frusna bitterbleka?
Höljet var ju knoppen hela vintern.
Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger?
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister,
ont för det som växer
och det som stänger.

Ja nog är det svårt när droppar faller.
Skälvande av ängslan tungt de hänger,
klamrar sig vid kvisten, sväller, glider -
tyngden drar dem neråt, hur de klänger.
Svårt att vara oviss, rädd och delad,
svårt att känna djupet dra och kalla,
ändå sitta kvar och bara darra -
svårt att vilja stanna
och vilja falla.

Då, när det är värst och inget hjälper,
brister som i jubel trädets knoppar,
då, när ingen redsla längre håller,
faller i ett glitter kvistens droppar,
glömmer att de skrämdes av det nya,
glömmer att de ängslades för färden -
känner en sekund sin största trygghet,
vilar i den tillit
som skapar världen.

Karin Boye

To One in Paradise
- Edgar Allan Poe

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

Den aller sidste dans

Butcher
Altid vil jeg mindes denne aften
Altid vil jeg huske denne dans
Våren i dit blik
Smilet om din mund
Altid vil jeg mindes denne stund

Gasten:
Den allersidste dans før vi går hjem
før solen og en ny dag bryder frem
Endnu er du mig nær
Endnu er natten vor
Og yndig er den sidste vals
før vi går

Begge:
Et møde med din mund før vi går hjem
Det ønsker jeg mig kun før vi går hjem
En aften er forbi
Du hvisker mig godnat
Jeg kysser dig på gensyn du
Jeg har aldrig følt himlen så nær som nu

Alle:
Den allersidste dans før vi går hjem
Før solen og en ny dag bryder frem
Endnu er du mig nær
Endnu er natten vor
Jeg kysser dig på gensyn du
Jeg har aldrig følt himlen så nær som nu
Jeg har aldrig følt himlen så nær som nu

Kay Norman Andersen / Børge Müller

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: — Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

the replacements

Jack London drinking his life
away while
writing of strange and heroic
men.
Eugene O'Neill drinking himself
oblivious
while writing his dark and
poetic
works.

now our moderns
lecture at universities
in tie and suit,
the little boys soberly studious,
the little girls with glazed eyes
looking
up,
the lawns so green, the books so
dull,
the life so dying of
thirst.

Charles Bukowski

poetry

it
takes
a lot of
desperation
dissatisfaction
and
disillusion
to
write
a
few
good
poems.

it's not
for
everybody
either to
write
it
or even to
read
it.

Charles Bukowski

EN VERKLIGHET

(drömd)

Jag tror inte på ett liv efter detta

Jag tror på detta liv

Och nu, när saven slutat stiga och jag har hunnit

Till sensommaren, min årstid, minns jag

Hur ångestfyllt jag förr tyckte syrsorna filade,

Tycker så inte längre.

Det är redan skumt

Och åkervägens smala rödskiftande band

Försvinner in i dungar, löper ut ur dungar:

Om varje vägkrök ett mysterium

Av färgernas och ljusets egenliv

Det är skönt att gå

En gammal gärdsgård är också med

Det är den stund då stenarna tänker som bäst

Det är den stund då denna stora varelse

Andas och doftar. Vilka färger i skymningen!

Trädorna lila, stenar i tankfullt skiftande blått

Och lövskogen så rik på skiftningar

Som vore den sitt eget sus!

Ett gult löv är ännu en dyrbarhet

På ena sidan vägen sädesfält

och på den andra sidan barrskog

och säden gul till röd och i skylarna guldbrun

och den sandröda vägen, jag älskar sådana enkla vägar

bara för gående och för grova fordon efter fromma hästar

Sådana vägar tycks mig lika goda som någon livsfilosofi

Och varje landskap, varje skiftning i landskapet, innehåller alla

möjliga landskap

och detta liv innehåller alla möjliga liv:

Syrsornas, lysmaskens, grävlingens – alla tänkbara liv

Och det är detta liv som skall fortsätta, som fortsätter

också högre och högre upp, i andra sfärer

Där pågår just nu detta liv

Som också är kvällsmolnens liv, och stjärnornas, och de befolkade världarnas,

Och de osynligas liv, och de dödas

Ty något annat liv finns inte:

Alla lever de och skall leva

och alla ger av sitt liv åt alla och lånar sitt ljus åt alla

och det är inte ett gott och inte ett ont

Det bara är

Det finns en lyckokänsla som kommer sällan men kommer ändå

Det finns detta vårt fornimmandes vittnesbörd

och detta att vara till.

Flyktigt är allt medvetande

men flyktigt är inte fåfängligt.

Så sluts min bukoliska sång.