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

Godt sagt! (17) Varsle Svar

Viser 98 svar.


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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

we must

we must bring
our own light
to the

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

as the young boys
down the

as the fry cook
gets his last

as dog chases

as the chessmaster
loses more than
the game

we must bring
our own light
to the

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

as the lonely

as the great beast
in nightmare

as the final season
leaps into

nobody is going
to do it
for us.

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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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

Ay, ay, ay, ay.

Take this waltz with your mouth
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.

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whisky on him and
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and grocery clerks
never know that
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
you want to blow my book sales in

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
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, i haven’t quite let him
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

Charles Bukowski

The Last Night of The Earth Poems

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

"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
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.)
Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar


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
terminals switch places, streets change
their names
and I never get the right station, schedule,
job or comings and

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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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
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.

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

A Person in Northern Ireland

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

“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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar


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)

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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

Ah, make the most of what we yet may
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
and with my own hand labored it to
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
Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar

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
Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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)
Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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)
Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

Bra dikt.

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar


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

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

For The Foxes

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

be sorry for the others

rearrange their

juggling mates

confusion is

and it will
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their

for they have
failed completely to live their own

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
is my

I am a dog walking

I am a broken

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

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

put your sympathy
they say
water held up
to come
you better be
nearly as

Charles Bukowski

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar


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?
'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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

the wine of forever

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

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

Fante's pure magic
hang on the simple

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

the gods play no
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

Charles Bukowski

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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 ...

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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
(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


he was stretched there on that bed,
and amputated:

"John it's

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,

Ask the Dust
Wait Until Spring, Bandini
Dago Red

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

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

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

at the funeral I
met several of his script-writing

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

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

and of course, they never

Charles Bukowski

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar


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)

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
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
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
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-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
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.

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar


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

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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!

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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?

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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)

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar


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

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar


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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar


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

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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)

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar

"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.

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar


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)

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar


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


Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

Åh, Rumi er et av mine favoritter :)

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

(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

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

Love frees.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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.


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 i Shanghai, kalt verdens lengste.skriv bildebeskrivelse her

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

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar


Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

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.)

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

- 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.

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

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

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

Δεν ελπίζω τίποτα.
Δε φοβούμαι τίποτα.
Είμαι λεύτερος.

Νίκος Καζαντζάκης

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

Hva står det her ?

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

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

Nikos Kazantzakis.

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar
[ Slettet av bruker ]

Ava oversatte faktisk det Marit Håverstad skrev.

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar
[ Slettet av bruker ]

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

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar
[ Slettet av bruker ]

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

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar

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.

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar

Den aller sidste dans

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

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

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

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

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar


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

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

the replacements

Jack London drinking his life
away while
writing of strange and heroic
Eugene O'Neill drinking himself
while writing his dark and

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

Charles Bukowski

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar


a lot of

it's not
either to
or even to

Charles Bukowski

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar



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.

Gunnar Ekelöf

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar
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Så tag mit hjerte

Så tag mit hjerte i dine hænder
men tag det varsomt og tag det blidt
det røde hjerte - nu er det dit.

Det slår så roligt, det slår så dæmpet
for det har elsket og det har lidt
nu er det stille - nu er det dit.

Det var så sterkt og så stolt, mit hjerte
det sov og drømte i lyst og leg
nu kan det knuses - men kun av dig.

Tove Ditlevsen

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

Istedet for å sitere ting to ganger her på forumet så griper jeg anledningen og minner om alle diktene jeg har delt av Shelley, Byron, Shakespeare, Yeats, Keats, Goethe, Wergeland, Dickinson, Robert Frost og E.E. Cummings. Det må være godt over 60 tilsammen, og alle prima vare - hvis du spør meg.

Linker til bøkene hvor jeg har delt sitater:
Byron - Samlede
Byron - Childe Harold
E.E. Cummings

Nåvel, tilsynelatende er det ikke særlig mange som har sansen for slike dikt, men jeg brøler ut og reklamerer og er ved godt mot uansett.

Godt sagt! (9) Varsle Svar

La meg også dele en link til D.H. Lawrence sine dikt, hos ham er det også mye fint: ja, det er jammen her du skal trykke!

Godt sagt! (1) Varsle Svar

Dette var storartet, takk skal du ha!
Linkene lar seg foreløpig ikke åpne hos meg, men det lar seg nok ordne med tiden. Uansett, jeg har stor sans for at unge menn brøler ut og reklamerer for sine yndlingsdikt, istedet for kun å trykke dem til sitt eget bryst, og lar dem leve et liv i taushet. Spesielt når diktene, som dine utvalgte, er hentet fra øverste hylle.

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute.
From my bed I can hear him,
And the round notes flutter and tap about the room,
And hit against each other,
Blurring to unexpected chords.
With the little flute-notes all about me,
In the darkness.

In the daytime,
The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand
And copies music with the other.
He is fat and has a bald head,
So I do not look at him,
But run quickly past his window.
There is always the sky to look at,
Or the water in the well!

But night comes and he plays his flute,
I think of him as a young man,
With gold seals hanging from his watch,
And a blue coat with silver buttons.
As I lie in my bed
The flute-notes push against my ears and lips,
And I go to sleep, dreaming.

Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar


Mit hjerte elsker alle de umuligste børn, de som ingen holder af og ingen kan forstå. Lyvebørn og stjælebørn og løftebryderbørn, de børn som alle voksne folk er meget vrede på.

Mit hjerte ynder ikke disse pyntehavebørn, der står i bed og intet ved om synd og bittert savn. De børn som voksne holder af og klipper pænt i form, og som med ren samvittighet tør nævne Gud ved navn.

Den kender mest til kærlighet som aldrig mødte den. Om dyden ved den lastefulde mer end nogen tror. Mit hjerte hader pæne voksnes hækkeklippesaks. Det er på vilde buske verdens sjældne blomster gror.

Tove Ditlevsen

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar

Flott dikt, minner meg om slagordet i kampanjen "Du kan være den ene"

"Ofte er det barn som "fortjener" det minst som trenger det mest" 

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

Time and Eternity

They say that "time assuages",-
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do, with age.

Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy.
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
(IV. Time and Eternity, poems third series)

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

Svantes lykkelige dag

Se, hvilken morgenstund,
solen er rød og rund,
Nina er gået i bad,
og jeg spiser ostemad.
Livet er ikke det værste man har,
og om lidt er kaffen klar.

Blomsterne blomstrer op,
der går en edderkop,
fulene flyver i flok,
når de er mange nok.
Lykken er ikke det værste man har,
og om lidt er kaffen klar.

Græsset er grønt og vådt,
og bierne de har det godt,
lungerne frådser i luft,
ah, hvilen snerleduft.
Glæden er ikke det værste man har,
og om lidt er kaffen klar.

Sang under brusebad,
hun må vist være glad,
himlen er temmelig blå,
det kan jeg godt forstå.
Lykken er ikke det værste man har,
og om lidt er kaffen klar.

Nu kommer Nina ud,
nøgen og fuktig hud,
kysser meg kærligt og går
ind at red sit hår.
Livet er ikke det værste man har,
og om lidt er kaffen klar.

Benny Andersen

Godt sagt! (8) Varsle Svar


lad os drikke
og se på hinanden.
Spar ikke på vennlighed.
Vi ved ikke hvem av os
der først vil blive til ingen
eller noget ufatterligt andet,
men i dag kan vi nå hinanden
og høre hinandens latter.
Det må vi benytte os af.
Drik ud
men langsomt
Spar ikke på angst og vennlighed.

Benny Andersen

Godt sagt! (5) Varsle Svar

Det är vackrast när det skymmer

Det är vackrast när det skymmer.
All den kärlek himlen rymmer
ligger samlad i ett dunkelt ljus
över jorden,
över markens hus.

Allt är ömhet, allt är smekt av händer.
Herren själv utplånar fjärran stränder.
Allt är nära, allt är långt ifrån.
Allt är givet
människan som lån.

Allt är mitt, och allt skall tagas från mig,
Inom kort skall allting tagas från mig.
Träden, molnen, marken där jag går.
Jag skall vandra -
Ensam, utan spår.

Pär Lagerkvist

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

min nye kjole

Når kedsomheden plager mig,
Og dagene blir alt for grå,
Smider jeg det gamle klunds
Og tar min nye kjole på

Den hang en dag i en butikk
Jeg gikk derind og købte den,
Nu bor den i mit klædeskab,
Og er min aller beste ven.

Min nye kjole er så sød,
Frimodig og litt let på tå
Men den er god å krybe i
når dagene blir altfor grå

Tove Ditlevsen

Godt sagt! (6) Varsle Svar
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Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar

En dag om året

En dag om året borde alla låtsas,
att döden vilar i ett vitt schatull.
Inga stora illusioner krossas,
och ingen skjuts för fyra dollars skull.

Världskatastrofen sover lugnt och stilla
emellan lakan på ett snyggt hotell.
Inga rep gör något broder illa,
och ingen syster slumrar vid ett slutet spjäll.

Inga män blir plötsligt sönderbrända
och ingen dör på gatorna just då.
Visst är det lögn, det kan väl hända.
Jag säger bara: Vi kan låtsas så.

Stig Dagerman
(Sverige, 23 februari 1954)

Godt sagt! (3) Varsle Svar
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