Kategori: lyrikk

De som kjenner meg, eventuelt har fulgt denne bloggen ei stund, veit at jeg er stor fan av forfatteren Neil Gaiman og at jeg synes han er en genial mann. Det betyr selvsagt at jeg også følger med på Neil Gaiman’s Journal. Det var i hans blogg jeg snublet over en video noen har laget og lagt ut på YouTube med hans dikt «The Day The Saucers Came», hvor de også bruker Neil Gaiman selv som oppleser:

For slike som meg, som synes zombier er skitskumle, er denne ganske ekkel og skummel, men til tross for dette digger jeg den.

Diktet finnes i boka Fragile Things, i min utgave på side 271. (Jeg har førsteutgaven, innbundet, fra 2006).

Now Winter Nights Enlarge

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

Skrevet av Thomas Campion.

II.

TO * * * * * *

Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes;
Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet.
Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses
When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.

Fra Poems 1817 av John Keats.

Her Legs

Fain would I kiss my Julia’s dainty leg,
Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

Skrevet av Robert Herrick, hentet fra Seventeenth-Century Poetry, Penguin Popular Poetry.

Alvering, alvering,
først så jeg ingenting,
trådte i ringen inn,
danset i sol og vind.

I sju år der uten stans
danset jeg alvedans.
Trådte i dansen inn,
danset i regn og vind.

Trådte i ringen inn,
danset i snø og vind,
danset for ingenting,
alvering, alvering.

Fra Ly skrevet av Ingvill Solberg.

I høsten.

Det, som var så varmt og rikt,
møter det, som giver kulde.
Det, som ødslet, møter pligt,
det, som var, hvad være skulde.

Høstens storme, strænge bud
fra de opgjør, livet kræver:
ånden taler med sin gud
og i strængene det bæver.

Fra Digte og sange av Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson.

Uten tittel

Når skyene samles mot
midten
av himmelen, tenker jeg: Hvor
er
midten av himmelen?

Skrevet av Frode Haltli, hentet fra Hedmarks ungdom forteller.

Siden jeg for tiden befinner meg i Irland, er det naturlig å poste et dikt av en irsk poet…

She Walked Unaware

Oh, she walked unaware of her own increasing beauty
That was holding men’s thoughts from market or plough,
As she passed by intent on her womanly duties
And she passed without leisure to be wayward or proud;
Or if she had pride then it was not in her thinking
But thoughtless in her body like a flower of good breeding.
The first time I saw her spreading coloured linen
Beyond the green willow she gave me gentle greeting
With no more intention than the leaning willow tree.

Though she smiled without intention yet from that day forward
Her beauty filled like water the four corners of my being,
And she rested in my heart like a hare in the form
That is shaped to herself. And I that would be singing
Or whistling at all times went silently then,
Till I drew her aside among straight stems of beeches
When the blackbird was sleeping and she promised that never
The fields would be ripe but I’d gather all sweetness,
A red moon of August would rise on our wedding.

October is spreading bright flame along stripped willows,
Low fires of the dogwood burn down to grey water, –
God pity me now and all desolate sinners
Demeted with beauty! I have blackened my thought
In droughts of bad longing, and all brightness goes shrouded
Since he came with his rapture of wild words that mirrored
Her beauty and made her ungentle and proud.
Tonight she will spread her brown hair on his pillow,
But I shall be hearing the harsh cries of wild fowl.

Skrevet av Patrick MacDonogh.

Dagens dikt blir litt annerledes. Det blir i ånd med hvor jeg befinner meg, og en islandsk kvinne jeg virkelig liker…

ARMY OF ME

Stand up
you’ve got to manage
I won’t sympathize anymore

And if you complain once more
you’ll meet an army of me

You’re alright
there’s nothing wrong
self-sufficience please!
and get to work

And if you complain once more
you’ll meet an army of me

You’re on your own now
we won’t save you
your rescue-squad is to exhausted

And if you complain once more
you’ll meet an army of me

Fra Post av Björk.