Kategoriarkiv: Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 129: ”BearBooks” av Kathleen Rooney

Ola BearBooks by Kathleen

Ett varmt tack till Kathleen Rooney som skrev den här dikten på beställning. Hon är en av grundarna av Rose Metal Press, som ger ut hybridlitteratur, och tillsammans med några kollegor drive hon Poems While You Wait. Att beställa en dikt kostar inte mycket och leveransen sker snabbt. En avgjord fördel är att dikterna skrivs på maskin.

Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 128: ”Pantern” av Rainer Maria Rilke

I Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Dess gång längs gallret har gjort blickens glans
så trött, att inget ditin längre tränger.
Det tycks den som om tusen stänger fanns
och ingen värld alls bortom tusen stänger.

De smidiga starka stegens mjuka skritt
som går i snäva varv på denna tilja
är lik en dans av kraft omkring en mitt
i vilken står en stor bedövad vilja.

Blott sällan öppnas ljudlöst en pupills
ridå -. En bild drar in då, som ska fara
igenom kroppens spända stillhet tills
i hjärtat den upphör att vara.

Copyright © Malte Persson och ellerströms förlag

Ett varmt tack till ellerströms förlag för att vi fick ha med den här klassiska Rilke-dikten i Veckans dikt. Den är hämtad ur Valda dikter, ett urval som fokuserar på Rilkes så kallade ”tingdikter”. Många av dem är hämtade ur Nya dikter (1907–1908). Valda dikter är tvåspråkig. Malte Persson har översatt och skrivit ett förträffligt efterord, som även förklarar vad som menas med ”tingdikter”. Det aningen distade men sobra omslaget har Håkan Liljemärker skapat.

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 127: [Jag måste förändra…] av Göran Sonnevi

Jag måste förändra mitt språk
Det dör oavbrutet
Jag försvinner
om jag inte bygger vidare

Cellbygge ut mot evigheten —
Stjärnor
En vit slätt med snö
Otydliga konturer i det vita, hus, träd
Kraftledningsstolpar
Vitt i vitt
Grader av död
Det pulserar undertill
Hur bryter jag upp?
Jag bygger staden ut på slätten
Döden blir en stad
Inne i döden bor människorna
Trädet
är ett ådernät i dödens öga
Koagulerad himmel
Ett ägg i ett ägg
Celldelning
En morgon ser jag ända till havet
så klart är det
Då pulserar döden av liv

 




© Göran Sonnevi 1974

Ett varmt tack till Göran Sonnevi som lät oss ha med den här dikten som Veckans dikt. Den finns med i nyutkomna Dikter 1959-1972, som omfattar Sonnevis sex första diktsamlingar, och bland mycket annat visar på poetens bredd. Han är en stor kärleksdiktare. Boken är formgiven av Nina Ulmaja.

9789100185558

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 126: ”Ett möjligt samhälle” av Jenny Wrangborg

Jag har burit ett minne
av en framtid vi har
framför oss

ett hopp gömt någonstans
bortom lobbyister och samförstånd

en styrka bakom förlusterna
någonting mellan oss
som blixtrar
som elektricitet

för där ditt hopp gett upp
min styrka
där mina krafter tagit slut
din röst

jag har ett minne
av ett möjligt samhälle

där långt borta ligger väldigt nära
och rörelsen bär oss framåt

det är tidigt
vi är ännu för få
ropen nu bara viskningar
vreden endast vibration i din tysta röst

men jag har burit ett minne
av ett möjligt samhälle
en framtid vi har framför oss

där ingen jobbar för någon annan
men alla arbetar för varandra

 

© Jenny Wrangborg 2014

 

Ett varmt tack till Jenny Wrangborg för att vi fick ha med den här dikten i Veckans dikt. Den är hämtad ur diktsamlingen Vad ska vi göra med varandra (Ordfront). Missa inte att besöka Jennys hemsida, där det finns mycket att läsa, lyssna och titta på.

9789174412116_200x_vad-ska-vi-gora-med-varandra_haftad

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 123-125: tre dikter ur Lina Hagelbäcks ”Akut viol”

Av brunn är du kommen.
Hästarnas frånvaro,
inglasade tyglar, svirrande flykt.
Du föryngras nedför
Violbacken, skadas.
Kalla tankar om dig själv
du dömer dig, utmattas.
En förvildad röst smeker
ditt skimrande jag i ett dunkel:
”Om du verkligen existerar: Sy!

Du står på en stark plats.
Rävarna har dig och dina
dikter nu. Det enda du kan
göra är att hålla om dig, som
vore det en vana. Vad som än finns
på din botten: ge det till mig.
Jag tar hand om dina poesihäften
bläckpennorna. Här älskar jag dig
och rävarna älskar dig.

Genomskinliga klockslag
raseriet: våra misstag som ännu
luktar bränt. Småsolar fräser till
när de träffar havsvattnet.
Apelsinskymmningen
vi bär och b ä r på.

© Lina Hagelbäck 2019

Ett varmt tack till Lina Hagelbäck för att vi fick ha med de här tre dikterna, hämtade ur Akut viol (Lejd), i Veckans dikt. När jag läste boken för några dagar sedan var det nästan som om jag för första gången förstod poesins fulla emotionella kraft. Hagelbäcks tidigare diktsamlingar är Violencia (2013), Violencia och hennes far (2015), Ömhetsmarker (tillsammans med Ulrika Nielsen) (2017), Ambivalencia (2018).

akut-viol_omslag_fram

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 122: [”Konvojen rullar vidare…”] av Emilio Zucchi


Konvojen rullar vidare, nu mot Milano.
Samtidigt, i Florens, har Anna Maria
förts ut från Villa Triste. All tortyr
har visat sig verkningslös: döms
till döden, får hastigt stiga upp
på en lastbil med andra fångar:
Piccagli, kapten och grundare
av Radio CORA, därtill en italiensk
soldat och tre allierade
fallskärmssoldater. På stranden av Mugnone,
bifloden till Arno,
bakbinds Anna Maria bredvid 
de fem motståndsmännen: blomma
uppryckt ur jorden, liten krossad
myra, eld, mamma… Sex varma
krampartat styva lik; blod ned till vattenbrynet:
likt Skamander, likt Simoeis,
likt gräset under Kains fötter
färgas Mugnone röd.

 

© Bokförlaget Faethon

Ett varmt tack till de goda människorna på Faethon, för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, hämtad ur Emilio Zucchis skakande diktbok Ondskan in i märgen / Le midolla del male, en berättande lyrisk-dokumentär bok, vars två centrala gestalter är en ung motståndskvinna och en sado-fascistisk torterare med slipprigt dandy-manér.

Framsida-Zucchi (1)

Boken utkommer i en lyxig tvåspråkig utgåva i Faethons Poesis-serie med modern lyrik. Den har ett förord av Giuseppe Conte och ett fantastiskt efterord av Jesper Svenbro, som också översatt, med reflektioner om förlåtelsens omöjlig- och nödvändighet. Besök Faethons hemsida, förlaget har mycket spännande på gång.

Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 121: ”The Media” av Ben Lerner

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”But if you’ve ever seen a dendritic pattern in a frozen pond, lightning captured in hard plastic, or the delicate venation of an insect’s wing (the fourth vein of the wing is called the media), then you’ve probably felt that a spirit is at work in the world, or was, and that making it visible is the artist’s task, or was.”
– Ben Lerner, ”The Media”

Ben Lerner identifierar sig som poet, trots att han för inte helt länge sedan avslutade en romantrilogi, med Topeka School. ´Den kan mycket väl bli en klassiker, eller något i den stilen. Tidigare i vår läste Lerner in en prosadikt i New Yorkers smått unika serie The Writer’s Voice. Dikten heter ”The Media” och är en bländande voice-mail-dikt: lyssna/läs.

Recensioner av Lerners tre romaner: På väg från Atocha, 10:04, Topeka School.

Recension: ”The Hatred of Poetry” av Ben Lerner

Veckans dikt 19: ”Didactic Elegy” av Ben Lerner

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 119 & 120: ”Som om livet…” och ”Både inne i…” av Henrika Ringbom

 

Som om livet hade stannat av, och tiden
alla hade flytt eller ingen ännu flyttat in
Här är prydligt som inuti ett stilleben
tryckande, nära nog klaustrofobiskt
Mitt i finns en besynnerlig tomhet
Där kan någonting stiga fram
Tomheten kan också förbli tom

 

Både inne i och utanför
huset världen
har jag länge vetat
att livet förvandlas
till något som liknar en dröm
också för oss som lever

 
© Henrika Ringbom 2020

Ett varmt tack till Henrika Ringbom för att vi fick ha med de här två dikterna i Veckans dikt. De är hämtade ur diktsamlingen En röst finns bara när någon hör den, utgiven av Förlaget. En av bokens avdelningar, den sista, ”Trösten”, finns med i helt aktuella Lyrikvännen nr 3. Kika gärna på Henrikas författarpresentation. Tack också till Förlaget, som sände boken till oss.

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 118: ”I Sing the Body Electric” av Walt Whitman

1
I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
2
The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.
The expression of the face balks account,
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,
The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.
The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.
3
I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,
And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.
This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,
The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners,
These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,
They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,
They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love,
He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face,
He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him,
When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang,
You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.
4
I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?
I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.
There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,
All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.
5
This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.
This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.
6
The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,
He too is all qualities, he is action and power,
The flush of the known universe is in him,
Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him,
The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,
Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself,
Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here,
(Where else does he strike soundings except here?)
The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred,
No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang?
Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you,
Each has his or her place in the procession.
(All is a procession,
The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)
Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant?
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts,
For you only, and not for him and her?
7
A man’s body at auction,
(For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,)
I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business.
Gentlemen look on this wonder,
Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it,
For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,
For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d.
In this head the all-baffling brain,
In it and below it the makings of heroes.
Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve,
They shall be stript that you may see them.
Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs,
And wonders within there yet.
Within there runs blood,
The same old blood! the same red-running blood!
There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations,
(Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?)
This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns,
In him the start of populous states and rich republics,
Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.
How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries?
(Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries?)
8
A woman’s body at auction,
She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.
Have you ever loved the body of a woman?
Have you ever loved the body of a man?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth?
If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,
And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,
And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.
Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body?
For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.
9
O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you,
I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the soul, (and that they are the soul,)
I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and that they are my poems,
Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems,
Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,
Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids,
Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges,
Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,
Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue,
Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest,
Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones,
Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails,
Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side,
Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone,
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root,
Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,
Leg fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg,
Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;
All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female,
The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean,
The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,
Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity,
Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman,
The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings,
The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud,
Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming,
Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening,
The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes,
The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair,
The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body,
The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out,
The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees,
The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones,
The exquisite realization of health;
O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul,
O I say now these are the soul!

 
Walt Whitman

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Veckans dikt 117: ”Waiting for a Ride” av Gary Snyder

Standing at the baggage passing time:
Austin Texas airport — my ride hasn’t come yet.
My former wife is making websites from her home,
one son’s seldom seen,
the other one and his wife have a boy and girl of their own.
My wife and stepdaughter are spending weekdays in town
so she can get to high school.
My mother ninety-six still lives alone and she’s in town too,
always gets her sanity back just barely in time.
My former former wife has become a unique poet;
most of my work,
such as it isis done
Full moon was October second this year,
I ate a mooncake, slept out on the deck
white light beaming through the black boughs of the pine
owl hoots and rattling antlers,
Castor and Pollux rising strong
— it’s good to know that the Pole Star drifts!
that even our present night sky slips away,
not that I’ll see it.
Or maybe I will, much later,
some far time walking the spirit path in the sky,
that long walk of spirits — where you fall right back into the
”narrow painful passageway of the Bardo”
squeeze your little skull
and there you are again

waiting for your ride

(October 5, 2001)

(© 2004 Gary Snyder, återgiven med författarens tillstånd)

Many thanks to Gary Snyder (född 8 maj, 1930) for letting us reproduce this beautiful quotidian/spiritual poem. Snyder, amerikansk författare, mest känd som poet, och associerad med både Beat-rörelsen och San Francisco-renässansen. Snyders fiktiva värld präglas av ett stort intresse för ekologiska frågor och han har kallats ”the poet laureate of Deep Ecology”. Han har även översatt från klassisk kinesiska och modern japanska. Många av hans dikter anknyter, precis som ”Waiting for a ride”, till buddhistiska trosföreställningar. Klimatet, miljön och andlighet är återkommande referenspunkter i Snyders poesi.

Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt