Halloween, Donald & Shakespeare

Kan ikke dy meg - denne filmen gikk på TV i USA i 1950-årene (og sikkert senere også) i anledning Halloween - mimre!
Legg merke til strofene fra Shakespeare´s “Song of the Witches” i filmen…



Song of the Witches

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Macbeth: IV.i 10-19; 35-38
Source: The Random House Book of Poetry for Children (1983)

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Geoffrey Brock, “And Day Brought Back My Night”

Geoffrey Brocks nettsted fins her!

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Taha Muhammad Ali - “Revenge” (“Hevn”)

Litt om (a little info about) Taha Muhammad Ali her (here)!

MEETING AT AN AIRPORT - et annet fint dikt han har skrevet, fins både i originalversjonen og på engelsk her (here)!

Med stor takk til Kjersti Bjørkmo som - atter en gang - gjorde oppmerksom på gull!

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Ukens gode kulturnyhet & i dag skjer det!

Bergens Tidende 20.10.09/ Kari Fauskanger:

Åpner kinosalen for synshemmede

Mikal Eagan mistet synet for åtte år siden. Lørdag skal han på kino og se «Vegas».

FØRSTE GANG I NORGE: Mikal Eagan og Christine Amlie gleder seg til lørdagens visning av «Vegas». De håper Bergen Kino vil tilby flere filmer som er lagt til rette for synshemmede. Odd Mehus

Da er det klart for den aller første ordinære kinovisningen av en synstolket film i Norge. Synstolking av film betyr at det blir lagt på et lydspor der en fortellerstemme forklarer hva som skjer. Lydsporet kommer i tillegg til replikker og lydeffekter. Det vanligste er at lyden sendes trådløst til et headset som den synshemmede får utlevert.

Lørdagens kinovisning av ungdomsfilmen «Vegas» blir likevel helt spesiell. Filmen vises med originallyd og synstolking i full surroundlyd i kinosalen. Det er BIFF og bransjeorganisasjonen Film & Kino som har samarbeidet om visningen på Bergen Kino.

Lovpålagt i USA

Mikal Eagan mistet synet da han fikk kreft som 8-åring. Den siste filmen han så på kino før operasjonen var «Pokémon 3». Nå er han 17 og gleder seg til å få med seg den bergenske ungdomsfilmen «Vegas» på kino.

Det er ikke slik at han ikke har vært på kino i det siste. Sammen med familien har han bodd ett år i USA.

– Der har det vært lovpålagt å gjøre en viss andel film og TV-program tilgjengelig for synshemmede helt siden 1972, forteller Christine Amlie. Hun er Mikals mor, og hun brenner for å få et bedre kinotilbud for synshemmede også her i landet.

I USA fikk de sett filmer som «I Love You, Man» og animasjonsfilmen «Up», som akkurat nå går på kino med tittelen «Se opp» her i landet. «Mamma Mia» var en annen favoritt, men den var ikke synstolket.

– Mange av filmene som kommer til Norge har synstolket fortellerspor på engelsk, men det blir tatt bort, sier hun. Amlie mener det kunne vært beholdt, så hadde synshemmede i alle fall hatt valget.

Nøytral forteller

Helge Jordal har lest inn lydsporet på «Vegas». Han har en sentral rolle i filmen, og kjenner den godt. Det er første gangen han er med på noe slikt og han er spent på det ferdige resultatet.

- Jeg var litt usikker på hvordan det skulle gjøres, men har lagt vekt på å anlegge en mest mulig nøytral fortellerstemme, og ikke fargelegge situasjonene, sier han.

- Karianne Havsberg i Norges Blindeforbund mener Helge Jordal har gjort det rette. – Det er viktig at fortelleren ikke fortolker det han ser, men overlater til den som hører lydsporet å trekke slutninger, sier hun.

Film viktig for unge

26 år gamle Havsberg er selv synshemmet. Det har hun alltid vært, men hun er svært glad i film og elsker å diskutere det hun har opplevd med vennene sine.

- Film er et viktig medium for unge. Når andre diskuterer filmene de har sett, faller vi lett utenfor i samtalen. Vi blir på en måte enda mer blinde enn vi behøver å være, sier Havsberg. - Synshemmede ser like mye TV og film som andre, men vi får all informasjonen gjennom lyden. For oss er synstolking like viktig som teksting er for hørselshemmede, sier Karianne Havsberg.

Christine Amlie er glad for spesialvisningen av «Vegas». Hun håper synstolkning av film blir et fast tilbud på Bergen Kino. Konstituert kinosjef Elisabeth Halvorsen kan ikke love henne det.

– Synstolkingen av «Vegas» er et forsøksprosjekt og det er ikke planlagt flere visninger av «Vegas» eller andre filmer i nær fremtid, sier hun.

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(Kommentar: Men kan ikke kinosjefen bidra til at det blir planlagt flere visninger, da?)

Her er nettstedet til en gruppe som jobber med saken: MediaLT

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Utdrag fra “Skuggar” av Jon Fosse

Utdrag fra “Skuggar”, De Utvalgte /Jon Fosse.
Forestilling på Tou Scene, Stavanger 20-23 oktober 2009.

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Poetisk folkrock

LANGSETTER VÆGEN

Langs ei blå mil i livet

på en væg der natta gror

heilt åleine kald og slitin

der du tråkår opp gamle spor

Med ei tru i tusen biter

med et mørkt og rastlaust sinn

Der du leiter langsmed vægen

etter værme rundt neste sving

Sjøl om tida ligger bak dæ

kan det bli en stubb tel mål

Du er kald og heilt åleine

bak en sving finns det et bål

(Steve Earle/Kari Grinden Lilleseth)

Litt om folkrockbandet LOFT her!

Og litt om Kari Grinden Lilleseth her!

Og litt om Steve Earle her!

Og her! skriver Steve Earle om hvordan han kom til å skrive haikuer - og hva denne haiku-skrivingen betød for ham.

En liten smakebit fra “haiku-året” hans, en haiku av senryu-typen:

Lazy little cloud

Rest on another mountain

I´ve fishing to do

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Bill Holm´s oppskrift på islandsk brødsuppe

Bill Holm (25. august, 1943 - 25. februar, 2009) - amerikansk poet, essayist og musiker. Bill Holm var barnebarn av islandske innvandrere. Han bodde i Minnestota i vinterhalvåret og tilbrakte somrene i Hofsós på Island…

Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe

Start with the square heavy loaf
steamed a whole day in a hot spring
until the coarse rye, sugar, yeast
grow dense as a black hole of bread.
Let it age and dry a little,
then soak the old loaf for a day
in warm water flavored
with raisins and lemon slices.
Boil it until it is thick as molasses.
Pour it in a flat white bowl.
Ladle a good dollop of whipped cream
to melt in its brown belly.
This soup is alive as any animal,
and the yeast and cream and rye
will sing inside you after eating
for a long time.

(Bill Holm)

I min (foreløpige!) overdikting:

Brødsuppe: En gammel islandsk oppskrift

Begynn med det tunge kvadratiske brødet
dampet en hel dag i en varm kilde
til den grove rugen, sukker, gjær
eser seg tett som et sort hull av brødstoff.
La det eldes og tørke litt,
legg deretter det gamle brødet i bløt
en dags tid i lunkent vann smaksatt
med rosiner og sitronskiver.
Kok det til det blir tjukt som sirup.
Hell det i en flat hvit bolle.
Ha i en god klatt pisket kremfløte
som kan smelte i brødets brune mage.
Denne suppen er levende som et dyr,
og etter at du har spist den,
vil gjæren og fløten og rugen
synge i deg lenge.

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Litt om Bill Holm på Wikipedia her!

Og mer på det offisielle Bill Holm-nettstedet her!

Dessverre ser det ikke ut til at det fins noen videoer på nettet hvor han leser (hele) egne dikt, men jeg fant denne vesle snutten her - fra et skolebesøk ikke lenge før han døde:

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Billy Collins leser “Consolation” (“Trøst”)

Consolation

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

Litt om Billy Collins fins her! Og litt til på denne bloggen under juni, juli og november (alle i 2008).

(Stor takk til Kjersti Bjørkmo som gjorde oppmerksom!)

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Patricia Smith - "34"

Her er Patricia Smith´s UPI-innledning og skriftlige versjon av diktet hvor hun gir stemme til 34 av ofrene for orkanen Katrina:

34

ST. BERNARD PARISH, La., Sept. 7 (UPI) – Thirty-four bodies were found drowned in a nursing home where people did not evacuate. The more than half of the residents of St. Rita’s nursing home, 20 miles southeast from downtown New Orleans, died Aug. 29 when floodwaters from Hurricane Katrina reached the home’s roof.

1.
I believe Jesus is hugely who He says he is: 
The crook of an arm, 
a shadow threatening my hair. 
a hellish glare beneath the moonwash, 
the slapping storm that wakes me, 
the washing clean.

2.
The Reaper has touched his lips to my days, 
blessing me with gray fragrance and awkward new skin. 
What makes the dust of me smell like a dashed miracle, 
the underside of everything? 
What requires me to hear the bones?

3.
Before the rain stung like silver, I had forgotten me. 
My name was a rude visitor, arriving 
unannounced, without a gift, 
always leaving too soon.

4.
If you knew my alley, its stink and blue, 
if you knew dirt-gritted collard greens 
that are salt-pork slick and doused with Tabasco, 
then you knew me. 
I know that you’ve come 
with my engine, and the rest of my skin. 
You will rise me.

5.
Son don’t rise, 
daughter don’t know enough to dial a phone. 
Gets harder to remember 
how my womb folded because of them, 
how all of me lumbered with their foolish weight. 
See what they have done, 
how hard and sweet they done dropped me here?

6.
Clumps of earth in the rising and me 
too weathered to birth a howl. 
I sleep in small shatters. I climb 
the bitten left wall of my heart. 
In all the places I fall, 
it is dry.

7.
We knew we had been bred for sacrifice, 
our overflow of yesterdays too wretched a nudge, 
our tired hearts borderless 
and already mapped for the Motherland. 
We reach for the past like it is food and we are starving. 
They scour our surfaces, 
prepare us, 
wrap us in white.

8.
When help comes, 
it will be young men smelling like cigarettes and Chevys, 
muscled boys with autumn breath and steel baskets 
just the right size for our souls. 
To save us, they will rub our gums with hard bread. 
They will offer us

water.

9.
To cool fever, rub the sickness with wet earth. 
For swelling, boil a just plucked chicken 
and douse the hurt in the steam. 
Always from the position of the knees, 
create the savior you need. 
Then 
wait.
Wait.
Jesus…both faith and magic have failed.

10.
There is no light, no thin food moving through my arms. 
Even without machines, I feel my numbers have soared. 
I am a sudden second of soft leaving. 
I’m cold 
and I’m strapped to this country.

11.
Daughter, son, I am bursting with this. 
I am straining to celebrate the links of blood. 
I am wide aloud craving something shaped like you.

12.
There are no bridges.

13.
We are stunned on our scabbed backs. 
There is the sound of whispered splashing, 
and then this:
Leave them.

14.
Our father…

15.
The walls are slithering with Bayou spit, 
tears, 
the badness that muddies rivers. 
We flail in that sin, 
alive and bended beneath a wretched Southern rain. 
We sip our breath from that filthy ocean. 
Only some things float.

16.
I ain’t scared of no wet, no wave. I done seen more than this. 
God is in all houses. 
Just balance the huge noun of Him on your tongue.

17.
Wait with me. 
Watch me sleep in this room 
that looks so much like night. 
I’m gon’ wake up, I swear it, 
to some kind of sun.

18.
Which art in heaven…

19.
My name Earline 
and I’m gon’ say you my life-- 
sugar in my veins, a single cloudy eye, 
and blood when I pee. 
Half dead, I used to say, 
I used to tell ‘em Hell, I’m already half dead.

20.
I have forgotten how to pray, 
cannot find my knees.
I want the man with my needles. 
I want that sting, 
those silver holes in my body, I want 
my needles, 
I want my sleep for days, 
I wanna cheat the Reaper.
I want somebody’s hand.

21.
Hallowed be thy name

22.
Hollow be our names. 
Call us running boards, the ice man, 
big band, hogshead, possum in stewing pots. 
Twist our heads on our snapping necks 
back to where we danced from. 
Call us names that are barely necessary. 
Call us those 
who do not need these days.

23.
Big Easy. 
I ran your green, 
rolled in your red dust, 
and your sun turned the white of me red 
and the black of me blue. 
Funny how colored I got, 
how I absorbed your heat, and how you, 
without flinching, 
called me your child.

24.
God, we need your glitter, you know, 
those wacky miracles 
you do 
for no reason at all?

25.
I fight the rise with all the guitar left in my throat. 
Old folks got shit to say, 
ain’t got but a little time to say it. 
We don’t never die quiet.

26.
A sudden ocean of everyone’s shoulders.

27.
And this scripture: Leave them.

28.
And I am left, no deity hovering, 
no black hair on my head, 
all of me thinner than when I began.
Fingers of ice climb me, 
reach my dimming light, 
and choke my only angel.

29.
I had the rumble hips, I tell ya. 
I was slingback and press curl 
and big titties with necessary milk. 
I was somebody’s woman, 
I was the city where the city wasn’t. 
Louisiana, 
goddamn. 
You lied to me so lush.

30.
I lost my seeing in that war. 
But I ain’t gonna need these old eyes for that resurrection.
That’s gon’ be one hell of a line.
I’ll be the one slightly off center. 
I’ll be the one facing the wrong way.

31.
They left us. Me. Him. Our crinkled hands. 
They left our hard histories, our gone children and storytells. 
They left the porch creaking. 
They left us to our God, 
but our God was mesmerized elsewhere, 
watching his rain.

32.
Thy will be done.

33.
No more of us, 
stunned and silent on the skin of this sea, 
this thunderous wet. 
We bob and bounce and spin slow, 
draped in an odd sparkle.

34.
The underearth turns its face to us.

leave

them

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Poetiske Lista på YouTube!

Foto & film av Karin Lundekvam

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Har poeter gjort noe tilsvarende, tro?

Mer om dette konseptet her!

(Med takk til Tove Andersen som gjorde oppmerksom!)

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Joy Harjo

“A Poem To Get Rid Of Fear” fra She Had Some Horses 1983/2006

Mer om Joy Harjo her!

Og her er et annet dikt fra samme samling:

The Woman Hanging From The Thirteenth Floor Window

She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor

window. Her hands are pressed white against the

concrete moulding of the tenement building. She

hangs from the 13th floor window in east Chicago,

with a swirl of birds over her head. They could

be a halo, or a storm of glass waiting to crush her.

She thinks she will be set free.

The woman hanging from the 13th floor window

on the east side of Chicago is not alone.

She is a woman of children, of the baby, Carlos,

and of Margaret, and of Jimmy who is the oldest.

She is her mother's daughter and her father's son.

She is several pieces between the two husbands

she has had. She is all the women of the apartment

building who stand watching her, watching themselves.

When she was young she ate wild rice on scraped down

plates in warm wood rooms. It was in the farther

north and she was the baby then. They rocked her.

She sees Lake Michigan lapping at the shores of

herself. It is a dizzy hole of water and the rich

live in tall glass houses at the edge of it. In some

places Lake Michigan speaks softly, here, it just sputters

and butts itself against the asphalt. She sees

other buildings just like hers. She sees other

women hanging from many-floored windows

counting their lives in the palms of their hands

and in the palms of their children's hands.

She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window

on the Indian side of town. Her belly is soft from

her children's births, her worn levis swing down below

her waist, and then her feet, and then her heart.

She is dangling.

The woman hanging from the 13th floor hears voices.

They come to her in the night when the lights have gone

dim. Sometimes they are little cats mewing and scratching

at the door, sometimes they are her grandmother's voice,

and sometimes they are gigantic men of light whispering

to her to get up, to get up, to get up. That's when she wants

to have another child to hold onto in the night, to be able

to fall back into dreams.

And the woman hanging from the 13th floor window

hears other voices. Some of them scream out from below

for her to jump, they would push her over. Others cry softly

from the sidewalks, pull their children up like flowers and gather

them into their arms. They would help her, like themselves.

But she is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window,

and she knows she is hanging by her own fingers, her

own skin, her own thread of indecision.

She thinks of Carlos, of Margaret, of Jimmy.

She thinks of her father, and of her mother.

She thinks of all the women she has been, of all

the men. She thinks of the color of her skin, and

of Chicago streets, and of waterfalls and pines.

She thinks of moonlight nights, and of cool spring storms.

Her mind chatters like neon and northside bars.

She thinks of the 4 a.m. lonelinesses that have folded

her up like death, discordant, without logical and

beautiful conclusion. Her teeth break off at the edges.

She would speak.

The woman hangs from the 13th floor window crying for

the lost beauty of her own life. She sees the

sun falling west over the grey plane of Chicago.

She thinks she remembers listening to her own life

break loose, as she falls from the 13th floor

window on the east side of Chicago, or as she

climbs back up to claim herself again.

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