Tag Archives: dikt online

Veckans dikt 108: [Jag ser såväl träden…] av Agnes Gerner

 

Jag ser såväl träden
som skogarna, och allt därinne
strävar högre

Det som inte rör sig
mellan stammarna, hur jag
följer dess spår

I snön som aldrig funnits
under dynorna

De bon som inte byggs skulle tåla
minusgrader

De som föddes skulle födas
in i värme

 

© 2017 Agnes Gerner

 
Ett varmt tack till Agnes Gerner för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, som är hämtad ur Sus (Albert Bonniers Förlag). Läs Nina Lekanders recension i Expressen. Lyssna på intervju med Agnes Gerner i Kulturnyheterna.

9789100171247

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 107: ”The Dream In Which The Oceans Turn Into Lemonade” av Joe Milazzo

 

I’m surrounded by synchronized delays,
splices in the handholds’ absorption, always
coming extra. It turns out I’m living
midway inside a parody of newsworthy
juice. There’s no spare bedroom, not one
decorative sham, not in this emergency.
The better halves of what’s best
about me? All too acquainted with
the mazy hush of the corridor in which
supersensible angels bestow
their laws only in scribbles tattooed
across the overdue. Like every
feeling generally, this pathology
has blossomed into a menagerie
of fleecy petals. Barge in, why don’t you,
you columns, you cloying instructions
on how to prolong one’s enjoyment.
The perfume of convalescence causes
humiliation to lose its appetite, or
dodge each meal’s strike; the bones
of its rationale begin to knob and peep,
white fires mapping those habitats
reclaiming the skin’s usufruct.
I’m just trying to lever the plots
making you comfortable
into pure practicality. Don’t fret,
their cures present no obstacle.
Those feelings will reason together
under the cafeteria’s jaundiced lamps,
aching to seed the quadrangle with their
cigarette butts, instead swilling
the lumpy solace of stuffing the candy
machine with ”however” after ”however.”

 

Copyright 2016 by Joe Milazzo. Used with permission of the author and Apostrophe Books.

 
Ett varmt tack till Joe Milazzo och Apostrophe Books för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, som är hämtad ur The Habiliments (2016).

images (4)

Milazzo bor och verkar i Dallas, Texas, och på hans hemsida hittar du en massa matnyttigt om hans diktsamling, hela hans författarskap och en rad dikter.

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 106: ”Brand” av Charlotte Qvandt

 

/Brand/
 

Den svarta marken som efter rasande brand ligger åtsmitande
tung,
 

kroppen måste ha brunnit och sedan tystnat
 

Den blanka kolytan vars fjäderlätta svepning väller ut i form av
dofter ur kroppen
 

Minnen

  

Dikten är publicerad med tillstånd av Sadura Förlag och © Charlotte Qvandt

 
Ett varmt tack till Sadura Förlag och Charlotte Qvandt för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, som är hämtad ur hennes samling Epikris (2016), i vilken hon ”använder obduktionen som metafor för det djupast mänskliga.” Boken fick ett mycket positivt mottagande och recensionen i Svenskan ger en bra ingång till diktsamlingen. Charlotte Qvandt arbetar för närvarande med nytt material.

Quant

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 75: ”Dagars mull” av Gabriel Itkes-Sznap

 

i min första egna dröm är det jag som sväller
som sväller och drömmer
som drömmer vintern och kvällen och vandrar

där är jag som frossar

där är jag
med en stjärnkikare (förstörd)
jag som fingrar, och upprymd
räknar fåglar

där är vintergatan, genomfingrad
där är talg

där är himlakroppen, högen
att också
återvända till

jag återvänder

där är nu
inuti, efter
inkråm, krås
dagars mull

 

Gabriel Itkes-Sznap

© Gabriel Itkes-Sznap

Ett varmt tack till Gabriel för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, som är hämtad ur hans debutsamling Tolvfingertal (Bonniers). Den fick mycket fina recensioner när den kom ut förra året. Victor Malm recenserade boken i Expressen: ”Itkes-Sznaps debut är årets bästa”

Tolvfingertal

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 73: ”No No” av Eileen Myles

 

Look I don’t know
about getting
things back
a woman stands
in a room
& it’s winter
she sees herself
there are 3 hot things
to tell her lover
soon the day
changes shape
not this bird
but it’s different
the box stays
the room in her head
soon both heat
& winter are gone
I want to live
in my thoughts
of you, I believe
in you like a door
that returns

 

Eileen Myles

© Eileen Myles

Ett varmt tack till Eileen Myles för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, som är hämtad ur School of Fish (1997). Den finns även med i helt aktuella I Must Be Living Twice. New and Selected Poems 1975-2014 (ecco). Läs mer: ”After 19 Books and a Presidential Bid, Eileen Myles Gets Her Due” Besök Myles hemsida.

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 70-72: tre dikter från ”Hitlers Mustache” av Peter Davis

 

Hitlers Mustache: A Mustache Confession

I feel like a bad mustache a lot of the time. With no friends, and for good reason, greedy and mean and not worth the time. I recognize this sensation often as the symptom of mental mustache but more often as the truth. Who knows about masks? Not me. I’m moving at the speed of light and the occurrence of seeing light gets mustache, etc. I want to tell something about myself, but, mustache.
And of course you’ll consider me rude and histrionic and mustache, but it’s the truth. For a whole lifetime a person is a human. A person is a person whether they know it or not. And if they do, if they feel as if they have a chance, even Superman can’t see through lead. So they might find it, snuggled as if children under flannel sheets, huddling and gaining strength, jumping out from closed closet doors and yelling “Boo!” It may remind them of their own children or of mustaches they can’t put in their cranium and lull to sleep. The whole time becoming blacker and more like a doorway or trapdoor, removing doubt about devout thoughts. There is a mustache. There is one and we all know it. Call it a black, square magnet, or a black square mustache—still this chalkboard is full of chalk. Some mustache has stood in front of this room for a long time with the back of his shirt un-tucked and sweat in his armpits, jotting some mustache code.

 

Hitlers Mustache: The Mustache Being Creepy on the Bus

The mustache was staring a stake through June,
she could feel the mustache peering, felt stress
creeping from the mustache like a blood moon.
The mustache knew he was prone to obsess.
Once, a young mustache, he watched a snake
for so long the mustache point became moot.
Though he felt his mustache (ice cream to her cake)
melting to a dead mustache, her beauti-
ful discomfort was a mustache Garbo,
mustache mystery on par with foreplay,
the mustache train carrying a hobo
whose mustache name was Mustache Lovely Day.
In Junes sqare eyes, the mustache saw rhinestone.
In her black fear, mustache smelt hair cologne.

 

Hitlers Mustache: The Short Story

Important arrangements were to be made. The party would not plan itself. She sat on her square, black sofa, dreaming about the decorations and imagining the caterer and even some of the clothes her guests might be wearing. It made her happy to think like this. But, soon enough, her grand hopes began to settle like soft snow on the warm floor of the situation. She didn’t have much money. A. would never get behind her on this. Her sister-in-law would drink too much and break her black, square heel and throw her purse in the swimming pool and fall asleep in a lawn chair. There were bills that needed to be paid now. If only she had never met mustache. If only he hadn’t mustached her aunt in a furnace, or
breaded her over an open mustache.
That evening while her husband and children ate the food she had carefully mustached for them, she got an idea. Perhaps, she thought, if I were to mistake something for mustache. It seemed perfect. It covered all the angles. A. would get behind it because he needed that mustache. Her sister-in-law would take care of the bills. The cold snow began to melt. As a metaphor for her mood the cold snow no longer made sense and began to drift upward, out of the story, out of the poem, existing only in the past, in another time, one that seemed much bleaker.
The next morning she packed the children’s lunches and pressed A.’s shirt for him. After the kids were on the bus, and A. kissed her cheek and drove the Volkswagen down the long driveway, she fed the mustache and packed her baggage. She called the mustache. Put a note on the door for the mustache, and left, making sure she left the mustache slightly cracked so the mustache would be able to mustache the mustache.
The day was hot and by the time she reached the airport she was sweating through her shirt. She fanned herself with a mustache and nervously surveyed the situation. There were two guards near the mustache. Each mustache looked like it held mustache. She ordered a cup of mustache from the mustache who worked behind the mustache.
Mustache knew that she couldn’t mustache about this forever. She’d have to make up her mind mustache. She studied the mustache. She thought about all of the mustache in her mustache. All of the mustache. All of the mustache and mustache and must ache and mustache. She thought about the mustaches when her mustache was put in mustache. She took one more mustache of mustache. She mustached. She mustached her mustache and with every mustache of her mustache, mustached.

Peter Davis

© Peter Davis

Many thanks to Peter Davis, poet and musician – and all-around nice guy – for letting us publish three idiosyncratic and deeply original poems, from his seminal debut collection Hitlers Mustache (The Barnwood Press, 2006).

hm02

Every poem has the title ”Hitlers Mustache [something]”. Each and every one of the poems are about Hitlers mustache, or maybe, none of them really are about Hitlers mustache? Read three poems from Davis collection, hugely entertaining and thought provoking Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! (Bloof Books, 2010). Visit Peter Davis homepage, for more poems, interviews, amongst other things.

Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 69: ”Pavane för en död prinsessa” av Per-Eric Söder

 

natten är kall
som utspillt nagellack
rummet knäpper sina händer
runt skårorna
i våra kroppar
vi ligger tätt intill varandra
under kylans klackar
och talar oss anspråkslöst
ner i siameskatternas
våta trampdynor

två fattiga
som vräker sig fram
genom midnattskartans bröst
som river griffeltavlorna
från lustens smidiga gips
en bit regn
snittar upp språket till kallbrand
och jag
skalar försiktigt
hjärtats förhud
mot den vattrade linsen
under din panna

att bli du
ditt du
mitt du
du,
håller ett upproriskt
system av andetag mot
min längtan
att få stanna i lugnet
som föregår stormen
men det är inte döden
utan rädslan för döden
vi ska besegra
bli mindre ensamma
i varandras
avtagande hud

vi bor i livet
klipper månen ur mörkret
och rullar den som en budbärare
mellan våra
språksamma kön
som skjuts fram
och slutligen når
tillräckligt
nära

Per-Eric Söder

© Per-Eric Söder

Ett varmt tack till Per-Eric Söder för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, s0m är hämtad ur Kärlekens hat (1977). Den finns också med i samlingsvolymen Sot. Valda och nya dikter (ellerströms). Boken avslutas med en intervju med Söder, gjord av Håkan Sandell, som handlar en hel del om tiden i poesigruppen Vesuvius, som förutom Per-Eric Söder utgjordes av Eric Fylkeson och Bruno K. Öijer.

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Ola Wihlke

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