Etikettarkiv: veckans dikt

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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Under Veckans dikt

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

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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?)
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.
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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Under Veckans dikt

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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Veckans dikt 116: ”Dina ögon äro eldar” av Erik Axel Karlfeldt


Dina ögon äro eldar och min själ är beck och kåda.
Vänd dig från mig, förr’n jag tändes som en mila innantill!
Ej fiol jag är med världens alla visor i sin låda,
du kan bringa den att spela, hur du vill och hvad du vill.

Vänd dig från mig, vänd dig till mig! Jag vill brinna, jag vill svalna.
Jag är lust och jag är längtan, gränsbo mellan höst och vår.
Spända äro alla strängar, låt dem sjunga, rusigt galna,
i en sista dråplig högsång alla mina kärleksår.

Vänd dig till mig, vänd dig från mig! Som en höstkväll låt oss brinna;
stormens glädje genomströmmar vårt banér av blod och gull –
tills det lugnar och jag ser i skymning dina steg försvinna,
du, den sista som följde mig för min heta ungdoms skull.

Den här dikten av Erik Axel Karlfeldt (1864–1931) kan mycket väl vara den mest gripande och dramatiska kärleksdikten på svenska språket. Mer av Karlfeldt hittar du på Litteraturbanken eller, ett mindre urval, i standardverket Svensk poesi under redaktörskap av Daniel Möller och Niklas Schiöler, vackert formgiven av Nina Ulmaja. Om du vill snöa in ordentligt, bör du överväga att gå med i Karlfeldtsamfundet.

Svensk poesi

Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 115: ”Man kan inte lära en gammal hund att sluta köpa tavara” av Rosanna Fellman


Åttiotalet är den bästa tid jag fått uppleva
Musiken och köerna till barerna
Tonade rutor på min bil
Friheten som åttiotalets Finland erbjöd

Möjligheterna till vilket arbete som helst
Möjlighet att kunna studera och garanterat få arbete
inte vara rädd för den kommande laman

Att kunna införskaffa produkter för de inkomster jag förtjänat
är väl den enda vanan jag har kvar


Dikten är hämtad ur Strömsöborna och är publicerad med tillstånd av Förlaget och © Rosanna Fellman

Ett varmt tack till Förlaget och Rosanna Fellman för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, hämtad ur hennes debutsamling Strömsöborna (2019). Missa inte att besöka Fellmans Facebook-sida.

Omslag: Helena Kajander / Bob-Malin Collages

Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 114: [Över a ett a] av Lina Rydén Reynols


Över a ett a
Ana andra ana
Rummet är fyllt
så du rör vid allt
Hur sen kan du vara?
Tidig utan spår
nya tag och åter
Nya spår de låser
imorgon som inte är en annan dag


Utdrag ur Läs mina läppar, publicerat med tillstånd av © Lina Rydén Reynols

Ett varmt tack till Lina Rydén Reynols för att vi fick publicera det här utdraget ur hennes diktbok Läs mina läppar (2019). Särskilt roligt är det eftersom boken är den allra första från offensivt satsande nya förlaget Nirstedt/litteratur. Besök hemsidan.


Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 106: ”Brand” av Charlotte Qvandt



Den svarta marken som efter rasande brand ligger åtsmitande

kroppen måste ha brunnit och sedan tystnat

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



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.


Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt

Veckans dikt 101: ”Torso of Air” av Ocean Vuong


Suppose you do change your life.
& the body is more than

a portion of night—sealed
with bruises. Suppose you woke

& found your shadow replaced
by a black wolf. The boy, beautiful

& gone. So you take the knife to the wall
instead. You carve & carve

until a coin of light appears
and you get to look in, at last,

on happiness. The eye
staring back from the other side—



Copyright 2016 by Ocean Vuong. Used with permission of the author and Coppper Canyon Press.

Ett stort och varmt tack till Ocean Vuong och Copper Canyon Press, för att vi fick publicera en dikt ur den mycket starka och emellanåt sublima Night Sky With Exit Wounds (Copper Canyon Press), som var en av de mer omtalade diktsamlingarna 2016. Det är Vuongs första fullängdssamling. Daniel Wenger har skrivit en väldigt fin text om Vuongs poesi i New Yorker. Läs den. Och om jag har förstått saken rätt ges den här exceptionella diktsamlingen ut av Modernista på svenska i höst.


Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 89: ”IV. (Violette)” av Hanna Riisager


Stad av glas och silver.
Skymningsstad, sommarkväll.
Byggnaders glaskroppar, spegelhinnor
högresliga ögonpelare –

Vi tar oss uppåt, bryter genom
våningsplan, svävar utanpå fasader
i svindelburna ljusburar, klättrar
mot en högre, allt högre
grad av transparens –

Vi är i detta seende. Det
händer oss, vi är det.

Solar av viol i våra spindelögon
strålar – sjunker

Avsked, utsikt –

Blå och sfärisk, glödande i sina fästen
staden under oss.
Rullar runt,
vänds upp och inåt.


© Hanna Riisager

Ett hjärtligt tack till Hanna Riisager för att vi fick publicera den här dikten ur hennes fanstastiska diktbok För Kvalia (Dockhaveri förlag), som är något av det mest spännande och vackra jag läst på svenska på mycket längre. Om du köper boken, missa inte ljudspåren, som du hittar en länk till längst bak i boken.

Jag vill också varmt rekommendera ett besök på hemsidan för Dockhaveri förlag, där du både hittar nyheter och något äldre böcker i utgivningen, en hel rad spännande antologier.


Ola Wihlke

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Veckans dikt 87: [sidorna byts ut…] av Johannes Heldén


sidorna byts ut      till en enda
med föränderliga tecken     en avbild av vilken årstid det än är
höstlöven byts ut
orkar inte förenkla     inte heller förklara        allt
på tv gäspar den sista tigern


© Johannes Heldén


Ett stort tack till Johannes Heldén, konstnär, musiker och författare, för att vi fick publicera den här dikten, som är hämtad ut hans samling Ljus (Albert Bonniers, 2013). Missa inte att besöka Johannes hemsida, ovanligt snygg och innehållsrik.

Ola Wihlke

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Under Veckans dikt