Ditt favorittdikt?

[mathianus]

By Alfred Noyes

Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

[calyptomena]

Ikke favorittdiktet mitt (noe slikt har jeg ikke), men et bra dikt:

"Lykke" av Inger Hagerup

Hva lykke er?
- GÄ pÄ en gressgrodd setervei
i tynne, tynne sommerklĂŠr,
klĂž sine ferske myggestikk
med doven ettertenksomhet
og vĂŠre ung og meget rik
pÄ uopplevet kjÊrlighet.


Å fĂ„ et florlett spindelvev
som kjĂŠrtegn over munn og kinn
og tenke litt pÄ vÊr og vind.
Kan hende vente pÄ et brev.
Be prestekravene om rÄd,
og kanskje ja - og kanskje nei -
han elsker - elsker ikke meg.


Men ennÄ ikke kjenne deg.

[Therese]

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

-E.E Cummings

det fineste og mest romantiske diktet jeg vet om

[wertoi]

The Priest They Called Him - William S. Borroughs

Er kanskje ikke et dikt, mer en historie.. BĂžr hĂžres, finnes som lydspor, med Kurt Cobain som spiller Glade Jul i bakgrunnen..


"Fight tuberculosis, folks." Christmas Eve, an old
junkie selling Christmas seals on North Park Street.
The "Priest," they called him. "Fight tuberculosis, folks."
People hurried by, gray shadows on a distant wall.
It was getting late and no money to score.
He turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife.
Cab stop just ahead under a streetlight.
Boy got out with a suitcase. Thin kid in prep school clothes,
familiar face, the Priest told himself, watching from the doorway.
"Remindsme of something a long time ago." The boy, there, with his overcoat
unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare.
The cab drove away and turned the corner. The boy went inside
a building. "Hmm, yes, maybe" - the suitcase was there in the doorway.
The boy nowhere in sight. Gone to get the keys, most likely,
have to move fast. He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner.
Made it. Glanced down at the case. It didn't look like the case the boy had,
or any boy would have. The Priest couldn't put his finger on what was so
old about the case. Old and dirty, poor quality leather, and heavy.
Better see what's inside. He turned into Lincoln Park, found an
empty place and opened the case. Two severed human legs that belonged to
a young man with dark skin. Shiny black leg hairs glittered in the
dim streetlight. The legs had been forced into the case and he had to use
his knee on the back of the case to shove them out. "Legs, yet,"
he said, and walked quickly away with the case.
Might bring a few dollars to score. The buyer sniffed suspiciously.
"Kind of a funny smell about it." "It's just Mexican leather."
"Well, some joker didn't cure it."
The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor.
"Not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is.
Three is the best I can do and it hurts. But since this is Christmas
and you're the Priest..." he slipped three bills under the table into the
Priest's dirty hand. The Priest faded into the street shadows, seedy
and furtive. Three cents didn't buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel.
Say, remember that old Addie croaker told me not to come back unless
I paid him the three cents I owe him. Yeah, isn't that a fruit for ya,
blow your stack about three lousy cents.
The doctor was not pleased to see him.

"Now, what do you WANT? I TOLD you!"
The Priest laid three bills on the table. The doctor put the
money in his pocket and started to scream.
"I've had TROUBLES! PEOPLE have been around!
I may lose my LICENSE!" The Priest just sat there, eyes, old and heavy with
years of junk, on the doctor's face.
"I can't write you a prescription." The doctor jerked open a drawer
and slid an ampule across the table. "That's all I have in the OFFICE!"
The doctor stood up. "Take it and GET OUT!" he screamed, hysterical.
The Priest's expression did not change.

The doctor added in quieter tones, "After all, I'm a professional man,
and I shouldn't be bothered by people like you."
"Is that all you have for me? One lousy quarter G? Couldn't you lend
me a nickel...?" "Get out, get out, I'll call the police I tell you."
"All right, doctor, I'm going." Of course it was cold and far to walk,
rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top floor.
"These stairs," coughed the Priest there, pulling himself up along the
bannister. He went into the bathroom, yellow wall panels,
toilet dripping, and got his works from under the washbasin.
Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room, get every drop in the dropper.

He rolled up his sleeve. Then he heard a groan from next door,
room eighteen. The Mexican kid lived there, the Priest had passed him on
the stairs and saw the kid was hooked, but he never spoke, because he
didn't want any juvenile connections, bad news in any language.
The Priest had had enough bad news in his life.
He heard the groan again, a groan he could feel, no mistaking that groan
and what it meant. "Maybe he had an accident or something.
In any case, I can't enjoy my priestly medications with that sound coming
through the wall." Thin walls you understand. The Priest put down his
dropper, cold hall, and knocked on the door of room eighteen.
"Quien es?" "It's the Preist, kid, I live next door."
He could hear someone hobbling across the floor.

A bolt slid. The boy stood there in his underwear shorts, eyes black with
pain. He started to fall. The Priest helped him over to the bed.
"What's wrong, son?" "It's my legs, senor, cramps, and now I am without
medicine." The Priest could see the cramps, like knots of wood there
in the young legs, dark shiny black leg hairs.
"A few years ago I damaged myself in a bicycle race,
it was then that the cramps started." And now he has the leg cramps back
with compound junk interest. The old Priest stood there, feeling the boy
groan. He inclined his head as if in prayer, went back and got his dropper.
"It's just a quarter G, kid." "I do not require much, senor."

The boy was sleeping when the Priest left room eighteen.
He went back to his room and sat down on the bed.
Then it hit him like heavy silent snow. All the gray junk yesterdays.
He sat there received the immaculate fix. And since he was himself a priest,
there was no need to call one.

[Zatharee]

[mathianus]

Mhm, men var ikke fÞr jeg leste det i en post fra deg for ca 2 Är siden jeg oppdaget hvor bra det diktet egentlig er. Kan det forsÄvidt utenat ogsÄ, thx.

[Puseklatt]

Jens BjĂžrneboe
Det heter en liten kjĂŠrlighetsvise eller noe i den duren...

Det ligger et barn ved min side
Barnet er tyve Ă„r
Å gud forstyrr henne ikke
Hun ligger med utslÄtt hÄr
Hun smiler og svelger i sĂžvne
Hun drĂžmmer nok noe i natt
FĂžrst drĂžmmer hun litt om en kakebit
Og etterpÄ litt om en katt

Hun sover sÄ sÞtt den lille
Og vÄkner aldri av skrekk
og hvis jeg selv skulle vÄkne
springer hun ikke vekk




det synes jeg er et veldig fint dikt...

[Qystein]

Skal vi si det sÄnn da?
sa han
Og jeg trodde ikke
det var sant.






HĂŠ?
sa jeg.
Skal vi si det sÄnn da?
sa han igjen.





Ja!
sa jeg.
Og danset rundt
-inni meg

[Zatharee]

[KamikazeKaninen]

Et barn er fÞdt av André Bjerke

Det stĂžrste mysterium
er ikke mer enn det
at en Ăžrliten kropp
er vÄknet til jorden.
Den nyfĂždte ser
To luker i himlen gÄr opp.

Selv femtrinns raketter
og kjernefysikk
blir puslingens puslespill
nÄr et nyfÞdt barn
med et eneste blikk
beviser at Gud er til.

[Corvus]

Ok, jeg husker det ikke nÄ, og ikke hvem som skrev det, men det var litt tÞft, og var omtrent noe sÄnt;

I once saw a man pursuing the horizon
''Wait!'' I called out to him
''you can never..!''
- ''You lie!'' he called back
and ran on.

---
ellers er jeg stor fan av Poe og Bjerke!!

[Nenja]

Dette diktet sto i Nemi Sommernummeret i 2oo4.

Det er trist, fint og sannsymligvis den stÞrste grunnen til at jeg kom inn pÄ GK Musikk, Dans og Drama i fjor.

Under mÄneskinnets regn av sÞlv,
ble det fĂždt en liten mĂžll.
I hjertet av et tornekratt,
i sommerfuglenes skog, en natt.

Den hÄpefulle lille sjel,
skulle skjebnen snart forandre:
Den var ikke vakker, den var ikke hel,
den var ikke slik som de andre.

Purpur, rĂždt og himmelblĂ„tt –
det svÞp den bar, var askegrÄtt!
Sommerfuglene var kledd i gull;
MĂžllens drakt var sne og muld.

Den ytre vakte en dyp forakt:
”Vi er bedre enn deg, la det vére sagt!
Heslig og félt er ditt vingestþv –
Du er hþst! Du er dþd! Du er vissent lþv!”

”Soldugget er vĂ„rt – du er for stygg!
Du mÄ drikke av stjernebrygg!
Fly under mĂ„nene, fly under sĂžlv!”
For ut i natten forviser man mĂžll ...

ForstÄ det du, eller den som kan.
Slik er det for mĂžll, slik er det for mann.
TĂ„pene ler, ignorantene snakker,
og livet gir mer, til den som er vakker.

Et tungt lodd og bére, det er det visst –
alltid i livet kom mĂžllen til sist.
Sjelden snakket noen til en lille,
SkjĂžnt, mye ble jo sagt ... i det stille.

Men sÄ fikk den hÞre, en midtsommerkveld:
”Det finnes jo andre mþll som deg selv!
Se lyset som skimrer i det fjerne –
de holder til pĂ„ en vakker stjerne!”

Den lille mþllen ble fylt av glede –
og tok til vingene pÄ stedet!
Etter mange tunge timer var den fremme –
endelig et sted som var hjemme!

Den landet ... og tok fyr med det samme.
Lyset den hadde sett, var en flamme!
Mþllen brant opp, og dþde alene –
verden gir mest til dem som er pene...

[Nenja]

Jeg liker dette diktet veldig godt ogsÄ.

http://home.no.net/vegtam/dikt/sove.html

Jeg skjĂžnte det ikke. Nu er det for sent.
Min dom er rettferdig. Min straff er fortjent
Jeg trodde pÄ fremgang, jeg trodde pÄ fred
pÄ arbeid, pÄ samhold, pÄ kjÊrlighet!
Men den som ikke vil dĂž i en flokk
fÄr prÞve alene, pÄ bÞddelens blokk!

[lojosang]

Eh, de skiller seg kanskje litt ut fra mange av de andre diktene her, men jeg er svak for Jakop Sande

Likfunn

So fann dei han Ole Johan,
langt burte i HĂ„steins-hagen.
Der lÄg han og rotna og brann,
med solsteiken rett i magen.

Og magen var grÞn og blÄ,
av steinklaka gorr og slim,
og flugor og kvitmakk smÄ,
aula i yrjande stim.

Spyfluga grĂžn og feit,
la sine egg i skinne',
og Älkvite smÄmakkar beit
seg gangar og bol der inne.

Ei rotte stakk tranten ut,
kva svarten som no var og sjÄ?
Ho var som ein blodgorra klut,
med blankslimut hale pÄ.

Og augo hans Ole Johan,
var berre ei slimut glye
som nedover kinnet rann,
so sleip som ei slimut spye.

Og nasa eit blodraudt sÄr,
der beinpipa lyste bleik.
For rotta ho var der i gÄr,
og Ă„t seg so feit ei steik.

Og lippa for kjĂžt var rein,
og gliste med kvasse tenner,
som illkvite stakk og skein,
som marssol pÄ frosne fenner.

Og teven stod tjukk ikring,
denne blaute, flytande kropp,
og krÄka sat rundt i ring,
og skratta med hĂžge hopp.

So tok dei han Ole Johan,
og la han pÄ fire pÄla.
So bar dei han fire mann,
med' krÄkene skratta og skrÄla.

Mykje tÄ skrotten flaut vekk,
og mykje kvarv burt som eim,
og mykje i spyfluga gjekk,
men beina kom heile heim.


Gjenta

Og gjenta ho kjĂžpte seg spennor og stas,
og ringar med perlor av farga glas.
- Men ikkje vart gjenta gift.

So greidde ho hÄret med kost og med kamb,
til dess det vart krulla som ull pÄ eit lamb.
- Men ikkje vart gjenta gift -

So tok ho ein sviptur til nĂŠraste by,
og sytte seg skjĂžrt utav kjĂžpety.
- Men ikkje vart gjenta gift. -

Og gjenta stal pungen frÄ husbonden sin,
og kosta seg halsklut av rĂžysekattskinn.
- Men ikkje vart gjenta gift. -

DĂ„ vart ho so arg at ho frĂŠste som krut,
og flakte so av seg kvar einaste klut,
- men dÄ vart gjenta gift......




Men den absolutte favoritten mÄ vÊre "Etter ein rangel". Trur eg.
Her kjenner jeg meg igjen, selv om mine egne forstetter ikke gÄr ut pÄ Ä synge Ändelig sanger pÄ Sions bedehus.


Etter ein rangel

I morgon vil eg byrja pÄ eit nytt og betre liv,
trur eg.
Eg skal aldri gÄ pÄ fylla meir og skjera folk med kniv,
trur eg.
Eg skal aldri skrÄla visar meir i laddevinsrus,
men synge Ă„ndelege sanger i Zions bedehus,
trur eg.

Alle kvinnfolk som eg mĂžtar skal eg sky som bare fan,
trur eg.
Og gÄ vyrdeleg forbi dei som ein nybakt kappelan,
trur eg.
Eg skal sitte som ein munk i ein misjonskone-ring,
og drikka kaffe medan drÞset gÄr um andelege ting,
trur eg.

Det skal ingen meir fÄ sjÄ meg nÄr det lir til hÞgste natt,
trur eg,
koma ruslande pÄ heimveg utan stivety og hatt,
trur eg.
Eg skal legga meg nÄr grisen gÄr til kvile i sitt bol,
og stÄ opp nÄr hanen flakser og gjel i morgonsol,
trur eg.

Ja, i morgon skal eg byrja pÄ den gode veg som sagt,
trur eg.
Taka striden upp mot kjĂžtet og den heile develsmakt,
trur eg.
Men i dag lyt det fÄ vera, for eg er so spÞkje tyrst
at eg mÄ ha eit Þlkrus til Ä leska meg pÄ fyrst,
trur eg.

[Corvus]

[Corvus]

Jeg liker dette barne-diktet fordi det egentlig er ganske sadistisk. Egentlig er det engelsk, men jeg husker ikke hele pÄ orginalsprÄket. Det er med i en bok av Agatha Christie, hvor ti mennesker blir drept omtrent pÄ samme mÄten som i diktet av en psykopat som er en av dem. (De to fÞrste blir forgiftet, den tredje slÄtt ned med klubbe, den fjerde fÄr klÞvd hodet av en Þks, den femte fÄr en sprÞyte i halsen, den sjette blir skutt i hodet, den sjuende blir druknet, den Ättende fÄr en marmoblokk i hodet, den niende blir skutt, og den tiende henger seg. *gni hendene sadistisk* genial bok. - Ti smÄ Negerbarn -les den!!)

Ti smÄ negerbarn skulle ta seg fri
Ún satte i halsen, sÄ var de bare ni

ni smÄ negebarn sov over all mÄte
Ún forsov seg, sÄ ble de bare Ätte

Ätte smÄ negerbarn sa 'vi reiser nu'
en ble igjen, sÄ ble det bare sju

sju smÄ negerbarn skulle bake kjeks
Ún hugget seg, sÄ ble de bare seks

seks smÄ negerbarn skulle rese hjem
en bie stakk den ene, sÄ ble de bare fem

fem smÄ negerbarn ga seg til Ä flire
Ún ble skutt i hodet, sÄ ble det bare fire

fire smÄ negerbarn havet ville se
en and slukte den ene, sÄ ble de bare tre

tre smÄ negerbarn i ville skogen dro
en bjÞrn tok den ene sÄ ble det bare to

to smÄ negerbarn satt i solen og gren
en ble brent ihjel, sÄ ble det bare Ún

en liten negergutt alene
det er tingen
han gikk og hengte seg
sÄ ble det - ingen.

[Nenja]

[Asfrith]

Ja! Er det ikke genialt?

Annen artig ting, boka til Agatha Christie heter "Ten Little Niggers", det samme som diktet pÄ originalsprÄket. Sier litt om at det er en gammel bok

[Corvus]

[Pyro]

Dette er sÄ enkelt og fint synes jeg. KlÞnete og derfor sjarmerende.


KjĂŠrlighetsdikt
Dikt om hvordan jeg hadde det.
Forfatter: Chris Ivers

Alt begynte med en uskyldig klem,

men helt pÄ slutten var du bare sÄ slem.

Jeg fikk sommerfugl i magen av Ă„ bare se smilet ditt,

da vi ble bedre kjent, stjelte du ikke bare hjerte men hele livet mitt.

Plutselig ble du alt jeg tenkte pÄ,

du var egentlig alt jeg hadde drÞmt om Ä fÄ.

Du tenker sikkert at jeg er rar,

blir sÄ jÊvlig forelska i en jeg ikke vet hvem er...

Men EN ting vil jeg innrĂžmme,

du er alt for fin.

Jeg kommer alltid til Ă„ drĂžmme at du kanskje en gang kan bli min