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Tag Archives: poem

Regn

01 lørdag des 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Dikt, poem, poetry, regn, Sigbjørn Obstfelder

regn

MichaelGaida / Pixabay

En er en, og to er to –
vi hopper i vann,
vi triller i sand.
Sikk, sakk,
vi drypper på tak,
tikk, takk,
det regner i dag.
Regn, regn, regn, regn,
øsende regn,
pøsende regn,
regn, regn, regn, regn,
deilig og vått,
deilig og rått!
En er en, og to er to –
vi hopper i vann,
vi triller i sand.
Sikk, sakk,
vi drypper på tak,
tikk, takk,
det regner i dag.

~ Sigbjørn Obstfelder

Sigbjørn Obstfelder  blefødt 21. november 1866 i Stavanger, og døde 29. juli 1900 i København. Han regnes som en av Norges første modernistiske diktere. Han debuterte som dikter i 1889 med verket “Heimskringlam”. Han ut samlingen Digte i 1893. Den vakte oppsikt og gav ham siden plassen som en av de fremste nyromantiske dikterne i Norge. En del av diktene i samlingen, blant annet «Jeg ser», er preget av ensomhet, undring, angst og fremmedfølelse, mens andre dikt er preget av mystikk og erotisk/religiøs lengsel. Mange av diktene er melodiøse, pga Obstfelders lidenskapelige forhold til musikk.

Obstfelder publiserte flere enkeltdikt i tidsskrifter og aviser, men det ble ikke noen stor samlet produksjon. Derimot inspirerte han flere forfattere med sine symbolistiske bildevalg og sin melodiøse stil. Obstfelder skrev også innen andre sjangrer. Kjærlighetfortellinger i “To novelletter” fra 1895, romanen Korset fra 1896, skuespillene “De røde draaber” fra 1897, “Esther” fra 1899 og “Om vaaren” posthumt fra 1902, samt en rekke prosadikt. Han skrev dessuten et dypt personlig verk, En prests dagbog, som ble utgitt kort etter hans død. Den uferdige boka regnes som hans hovedverk ved siden av Digte. Den preges av dyptgripende sannhetssøken og erkjennelsestrang.

Obstfelder døde av tuberkulose i 1900, og han ble gravlagt på Frederiksberg Ældre Kirkegård i København 1. august 1900, samme dag som hans eneste barn, Lili, ble født. (Wikipedia)

Ode to Autumn – John Keats

04 torsdag okt 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Dikt, høst, John Keats, ode to autumn, poem, poetry

Høst

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

John Keats1795-1821

En av de betydeligste engelske dikterne i romantikken. I løpet av hans korte liv ble hans arbeid stadig utsatt fra kritiske angrep, og det var ikke før senere at den betydningen hans verker hadde for den kulturelle endring kom til syne. Keats’ poesi er karakterisert av sprudlende og overstrømmende kjærlighet til språket og med en rik og sensuell forestillingsevne. Han følte ofte at han skrev i skyggen av tidligere poeter og først mot slutten av sitt liv ble han i stand til skrive sitt mest originale og mest minneverdige dikt. (fra Wikipedia)

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the vision of sin

19 onsdag sep 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

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Tags

Dikt, Lord Alfred Tennyson, poem, poetry, the vision of sin

Pegasus1
I had a vision when the night was late:
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.
He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown,
But that his heavy rider kept him down.
And from the palace came a child of sin,
And took him by the curls, and led him in,
Where sat a company with heated eyes,
Expecting when a fountain should arise:
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips-
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse,
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes-
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes,
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes.

2
Then methought I heard a mellow sound,
Gathering up from all the lower ground;
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled
Low voluptuous music winding trembled,
Wov’n in circles: they that heard it sigh’d,
Panted hand in hand with faces pale,
Swung themselves, and in low tones replied;
Till the fountain spouted, showering wide
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail;
Then the music touch’d the gates and died;
Rose again from where it seem’d to fail,
Storm’d in orbs of song, a growing gale;
Till thronging in and in, to where they waited,
As ’twere a hundred-throated nightingale,
The strong tempestuous treble throbb’d and palpitated;
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound,
Caught the sparkles, and in circles,
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes,
Flung the torrent rainbow round:
Then they started from their places,
Moved with violence, changed in hue,
Caught each other with wild grimaces,
Half-invisible to the view,
Wheeling with precipitate paces
To the melody, till they flew,
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces,
Twisted hard in fierce embraces,
Like to Furies, like to Graces,
Dash’d together in blinding dew:
Till, kill’d with some luxurious agony,
The nerve-dissolving melody
Flutter’d headlong from the sky.

3
And then I look’d up toward a mountain-tract,
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn:
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn
Beyond the darkness and the cataract,
God made himself an awful rose of dawn,
Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold,
From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near,
A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold,
Came floating on for many a month and year,
Unheeded: and I thought I would have spoken,
And warn’d that madman ere it grew too late:
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken,
When that cold vapour touch’d the palace-gate,
And link’d again. I saw within my head
A gray and gap-tooth’d man as lean as death,
Who slowly rode across a wither’d heath,
And lighted at a ruin’d inn, and said:

4
“Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin!
Here is custom come your way;
Take my brute, and lead him in,
Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay.
“Bitter barmaid, waning fast!
See that sheets are on my bed;
What! the flower of life is past:
It is long before you wed.
“Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour,
At the Dragon on the heath!
Let us have a quiet hour,
Let us hob-and-nob with Death.
“I am old, but let me drink;
Bring me spices, bring me wine;
I remember, when I think,
That my youth was half divine.
“Wine is good for shrivell’d lips,
When a blanket wraps the day,
When the rotten woodland drips,
And the leaf is stamp’d in clay.
“Sit thee down, and have no shame,
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee:
What care I for any name?
What for order or degree?
“Let me screw thee up a peg:
Let me loose thy tongue with wine:
Callest thou that thing a leg?
Which is thinnest? thine or mine?
“Thou shalt not be saved by works:
Thou hast been a sinner too:
Ruin’d trunks on wither’d forks,
Empty scarecrows, I and you!
“Fill the cup, and fill the can:
Have a rouse before the morn:
Every moment dies a man,
Every moment one is born.

“We are men of ruin’d blood;
Therefore comes it we are wise.
Fish are we that love the mud.
Rising to no fancy-flies.
“Name and fame! to fly sublime
Thro’ the courts, the camps, the schools,
Is to be the ball of Time,
Bandied by the hands of fools.
“Friendship! -to be two in one-
Let the canting liar pack!
Well I know, when I am gone,
How she mouths behind my back.
“Virtue!–to be good and just–
Every heart, when sifted well,
Is a clot of warmer dust,
Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell.
“O! we two as well can look
Whited thought and cleanly life
As the priest, above his book
Leering at his neighbour’s wife.
“Fill the cup, and fill the can:
Have a rouse before the morn:
Every moment dies a man,
Every moment one is born.

“Drink, and let the parties rave:
They are fill’d with idle spleen;
Rising, falling, like a wave,
For they know not what they mean.
“He that roars for liberty
Faster binds a tyrant’s power;
And the tyrant’s cruel glee
Forces on the freer hour.
“Fill the can, and fill the cup:
All the windy ways of men
Are but dust that rises up,
And is lightly laid again.
“Greet her with applausive breath,
Freedom, gaily doth she tread;
In her right a civic wreath,
In her left a human head.
“No, I love not what is new;
She is of an ancient house:
And I think we know the hue
Of that cap upon her brows.
“Let her go! her thirst she slakes
Where the bloody conduit runs:
Then her sweetest meal she makes
On the first-born of her sons.
“Drink to lofty hopes that cool-
Visions of a perfect State:
Drink we, last, the public fool,
Frantic love and frantic hate.
“Chant me now some wicked stave,
Till thy drooping courage rise,
And the glow-worm of the grave
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes.
“Fear not thou to loose thy tongue;
Set thy hoary fancies free;
What is loathsome to the young
Savours well to thee and me.
“Change, reverting to the years,
When thy nerves could understand
What there is in loving tears,
And the warmth of hand in hand.
“Tell me tales of thy first love-
April hopes, the fools of chance;
Till the graves begin to move,
And the dead begin to dance.
“Fill the can, and fill the cup:
All the windy ways of men
Are but dust that rises up,
And is lightly laid again.
“Trooping from their mouldy dens
The chap-fallen circle spreads:
Welcome, fellow-citizens,
Hollow hearts and empty heads!
“You are bones, and what of that?
Every face, however full,
Padded round with flesh and fat,
Is but modell’d on a skull.
“Death is king, and Vivat Rex!
Tread a measure on the stones,
Madam–if I know your sex,
From the fashion of your bones.
“No, I cannot praise the fire
In your eye–nor yet your lip:
All the more do I admire
Joints of cunning workmanship.
“Lo! God’s likeness–the ground-plan–
Neither modell’d, glazed, or framed:
Buss me thou rough sketch of man,
Far too naked to be shamed!
“Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,
While we keep a little breath!
Drink to heavy Ignorance!
Hob-and-nob with brother Death!
“Thou art mazed, the night is long,
And the longer night is near:
What! I am not all as wrong
As a bitter jest is dear.
“Youthful hopes, by scores, to all,
When the locks are crisp and curl’d;
Unto me my maudlin gall
And my mockeries of the world.
“Fill the cup, and fill the can!
Mingle madness, mingle scorn!
Dregs of life, and lees of man:
Yet we will not die forlorn.”

5
The voice grew faint: there came a further change:
Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range:
Below were men and horses pierced with worms,
And slowly quickening into lower forms;
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross,
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch’d with moss,
Then some one spake: “Behold! it was a crime
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time”.
Another said: “The crime of sense became
The crime of malice, and is equal blame”.
And one: “He had not wholly quench’d his power;
A little grain of conscience made him sour”.
At last I heard a voice upon the slope
Cry to the summit, “Is there any hope?”
To which an answer peal’d from that high land.
But in a tongue no man could understand;
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn.

~ Lord Alfred Tennyson

Alfred TennysonAlfred Tennyson, 1. baron Tennyson (1809 – 1892) var en britisk lyriker og en av de mest populære engelske poeter noensinne. Han betraktes som hovedrepresentant for lyrikken under viktoriansk tid. Mesteparten av Tennysons poesi var basert på klassiske eller mytologiske tema. Et antall fraser fra Tennysons poesi har gått inn og blitt vanlige i det engelske språk, blant annet «nature, red in tooth and claw», «better to have loved and lost», «Theirs not to reason why,/Theirs but to do and die», og «My strength is as the strength of ten,/Because my heart is pure». Tennyson var en briljant versemaker i Wordsworth-tradisjonen som visste å spille på viktoriatidens konvensjoner, preget av konservativ nasjonalisme og preferanser. I samtiden var det forventninger til at Tennyson skulle bli den nye Lord Byron, men ettertiden har dog minsket hans betydning. (Wikipedia)

Musa i orgelet

06 torsdag sep 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Dikt, jakob Sande, musa i orgelet, poem, poetry

Alexas_Fotos / Pixabay

Det budde ei mus i et orgel
som stod i et kyrkjehus.
Ho var ikkje nettopp nonne
– berre ei orgelmus.

Ho treivs inni orgelverket
for musa var musikalsk,
og merka når orgeltonen
var aldri so lite falsk.

Og det fekk ho ofte merke
for han som var orgelnist,
og han som var belgetrøar
var brødrene Rosenquist.

Den eldste var belgetrøar,
– ein storvomba somlekopp;
men broren på klaviaturet
var sprek som ein orre å topp.

Så ingen kan undrast at musa
stundom vart ille ved.
Men bortsett frå slikt spetakkel
ho levde sitt liv i fred.

Ho hadde til levemåten,
for brød sto ho aldri i beit.
Det fant ho i sakristiet,
men det er det ingen som veit.

Og ein gong var musa heldig,
– det hende nok enno ein gong -:
Ho barsla til dyr musikk
av Mendelsohn’s bryllupsong.

Og når det var preikesundag
ho hadde si gode stund,
og tok seg tilliks med hine
sin vanlege sundagsblund.

Men sidan var ulykka ute:
det fants ikkje botevon,
då Rosenquist, belgetrøar,
gav opp, og gjekk av på pensjon.

For bror hans fekk trumfa igjennom
ein skinnbelg av likaste sort
på fire til fem hestekrefter,
og dermed bles musa bort.

Men likevel, kan ein vel seie,
tok musa det siste stikk:
Ho fauk over kyrkjetårnet
til himmels med full musikk.

~ Jakob Sande

Jakob SandeJakob Sande ble født 1. desember 1906 og døde 16. mars 1967. Han var en norsk forfatter fra Dale i Sunnfjord. Han gav ut, mens han levde,ti diktsamlinger og tre novellesamlinger. Mange av diktene hans fikk melodi og ble populære viser. Sande ble en folkekjær dikter i løpet av sin karriere, og flere av diktene er fremdeles svært populære. Diktningen spinner rundt temaer som vestlandsnaturen, sjømannslivet, livet på bygden, dikt som tar opp sosiale spørsmål og dikt som tar for seg klassiske temaer som kjærligheten og døden. Diktene veksler fra grotesk humor, som i «Kallen og katten» og «Likfunn», til sentimentale og følelsesladde dikt som «Fløytelåt» og «Vesle Daniel». Han er også representert i salmebøker med «Det lyser i stille grender» og «Du som låg i natti seine». (Fra Wikipedia)

A dream – Edgar Allan Poe

09 lørdag jun 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

a dream, Dikt, Edgar Allan Poe, poem, poetry

bilde fra Pixabay

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) var en amerikansk forfatter, poet, redaktør og litterær kritiker, betraktet som en del av den amerikanske romantiske bevegelse. Han er best kjent for sine fortellinger om det mystiske og makabre. Han var en av de første amerikanere som utviklet novellen og betraktet som oppfinner av krimsjangeren med en detektiv. Han er ytterligere kreditert for spede bidrag til den kommende sjangeren science fiction. Poe var den første velkjente amerikanske forfatteren som forsøkte å tjene til livsopphold gjennom sin skribentvirksomhet alene, noe som førte til et økonomisk vanskelig liv og karriere. (fra Wikipedia)

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Alone – Maya Angelou

25 fredag mai 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

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alone, Dikt, Maya Angelou, poem, poetry

Alene

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Maya Angelou

 

Maya Angelou
1928-2014
Maya Angelou var en amerikansk poet, forfatter, danser, film- og TV-produsent, regissør, dramatiker og skuespiller. (fra Wikipedia)

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if I can stop one heart from breaking

04 fredag mai 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Dikt, Emily Dickinson, if I can stop one heart from breaking, poem, poetry

If I can stop one heart from breaking;
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching.
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

~ Emily Dickinson

the Lady of Shalott

21 lørdag apr 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Alfred Tennyson, Dikt, John William Waterhouse, Lord Tennyson, poem, poetry, the lady of shalott

The Lady of Shalott av John William Waterhouse

The Lady of Shalott av John William Waterhouse

On either side of the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the world and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road run by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “’tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott.”

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay,
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The Knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady Of Shalott.

~ Lord Alfred Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1. baron Tennyson (1809 – 1892) var en britisk lyriker og en av de mest populære engelske poeter noensinne. Han betraktes som hovedrepresentant for lyrikken under viktoriansk tid. Mesteparten av Tennysons poesi var basert på klassiske eller mytologiske tema. Et antall fraser fra Tennysons poesi har gått inn og blitt vanlige i det engelske språk, blant annet «nature, red in tooth and claw», «better to have loved and lost», «Theirs not to reason why,/Theirs but to do and die», og «My strength is as the strength of ten,/Because my heart is pure». Tennyson var en briljant versemaker i Wordsworth-tradisjonen som visste å spille på viktoriatidens konvensjoner, preget av konservativ nasjonalisme og preferanser. I samtiden var det forventninger til at Tennyson skulle bli den nye Lord Byron, men ettertiden har dog minsket hans betydning. (Wikipedia)

A Character – William Wordsworth

17 onsdag jan 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

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a character, Dikt, poem, poetry, William Wordsworth

AnsiktI marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There’s thought and no thought,
and there’s paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There’s weakness,
and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper
that’s soft to disease,
Would be rational peace–a philosopher’s ease.

There’s indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there’s no envy, there’s so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There’s freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she’s there,
There’s virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth1770-1850

William Wordsworth var en engelsk dikter som sammen med Samuel Taylor Coleridge satte igang den romantiske perioden i engelsk litteratur ved at de i 1798 gav ut diktsamlingen Lyrical Ballads.(fra Wikipedia)

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So You Want To Be A Writer

11 torsdag jan 2018

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

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Tags

Charles Bukowski, Dikt, poem, poetry, so you want to be a writer

Skriving

If it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski1920-1994

Henry Charles Bukowski var en amerikansk forfatter. Hans far var en amerikansk soldat og hans mor var tysk. Da Charles var tre år gammel ble han tatt med til USA og vokste opp i Los Angeles, hvor han bodde i femti år. (fra Wikipedia)

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2021 Reading Challenge

2021 Reading Challenge
Astrid Terese has
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73 of 250 (29%)
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