Hai-pooh

Adrienne Rich - What Kind of Times Are These

What Kind of Times Are These

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

“What Kind of Times Are These”. © 2002, 1995 by Adrienne Rich, from The Fact of a Doorframe: Selected Poems 1950-2001 by Adrienne Rich.

Litt om Adrienne Rich her!

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I anledning Walt Whitmans fødselsdag i dag (1819)

Rita Dove: "American Smooth"

Mark Doty: "Brian, Age 7"

Litt om Mark Doty & hans foredrag "Why poetry matters now" her!

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Tim Minchin: "Storm"

Litt om Tim Minchin her!

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Ted Kooser: "Nest"

Desemberutgaven av tidsskriftet Ames Progressive presenterer et nytt dikt av Ted Kooser - jeg siterer:

Ted Kooser was born in Ames in 1939 and graduated from Iowa State University. He served as US Poet Laureate from 2004 to 2006 and currently edits the weekly newspaper series “American Life in Poetry.” He has published many books over the past four decades and has been awarded numerous literary honors. In 2005 he won the Pulitzer Prize for his book Delights and Shadows.

NEST

In late November,
I found, in a bare
forsythia bush,
a bird nest woven
of pin oak leaves,
a rattly little thing
too loose for eggs
or so I thought,
but in it, like baby birds,
were curled a few
brown pin oak leaves
the winter sky
was feeding.

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(Vokste selv opp i Ames og ble ganske henrykt da jeg nylig snublet over nettstedet til Ames Progressive - og der oppdaget et nytt dikt av en av yndlingspoetene mine. Link til tidsskriftet fins i menyen til høyre.)

Kaffecruise!

(Video: Tomas Mikal Lind Eagan)

Et dikt av Georgios Souris (1852—1919), oversatt av Karen Van Dyck:

Ode to Coffee

Oh, my heavy sweet coffee

alone

or with friends

each sip of you

comes with a lofty idea.

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Oss bloggere imellom...

her på Vere og (kanskje) i Verden

i blåfargens stilleste sekund

trer det (nesten) alltid fram

et gult hus

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En time med poeten Ted Kooser - sett over kaffen!

Ted Kooser (1939 - ), født og oppvokst i Ames, Iowa. (Min barndomsby.) Poet Laureate 2004-2006.

Mer om Ted Kooser her!

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Apropos tekst/bilde-symbioser

Her har det fransk-amerikanske bandet Hold Your Horses! lagd tablåer av kjente malerier til sin “70 Million” - og brått skjer det noe spennende med motivene i både teksten og bildene - i alle fall slik jeg opplever det nå i denne nattetimen...

70 Million

And it hardly looked like a novel at all,

I hardly look like a hero at all

And I'm sorry, you didn't publish this

And you were white as snow; I was white as a sheet

When you came down in this black dress

In your mom's black maternity dress

And so,

Though it hardly looked like a novel at all,

And the city treats me, it treats me to you

And a cup of coffee for you

I should learn it's language and speak it to you

And 70 million should be in the know

And 70 million don't go out at all

And 70 million wouldn't walk this street

And 70 million would run to a hole

And 70 million would be wrong wrong wrong

And 70 million never see it at all

And 70 million haven't tasted snow

And we dance dance dance like the children dance

Imply thought are we taking the chance?

With the light still on, and will we ever reach the tower

And after you came down in this black dress

I don't know what took so very long

And this, And this isn't a war, we don't have to ration

Now wave white flag, and you kept it at home

And words I wrote from a foreign land

You're holding my no longer foreign hand

And 70 million should be in the know

And 70 million don't go out at all

And 70 million wouldn't walk this street

And 70 million would run to a hole

And 70 million would be wrong wrong wrong

And 70 million never see it at all

And 70 million haven't tasted snow

Bloggformatet mitt kutter videoen litt på høyre side. For å se den ordentlig, klikk her!

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