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Tag Archives: poetry

Smakebit ~ the princess saves herself in this one

14 søndag aug 2022

Posted by astridterese in Ukategorisert

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Amanda Lovelace, Dikt, poem, poetry, the princess saves herself in this one, the witch doesn't burn in this one

En smakebit på søndagGod søndag og velkommen til nye smakebiter!

I dag har jeg en rydde og vaskedag. Skikkelig kjedelig, men nødvendig innimellom. Mannen min er avgårde og lager mat i et bryllup, så jeg kan gjøre hva jeg vil. Jeg regner med det ender opp med enten lesing eller dataspilling når jeg går tom for krefter for i dag.

Jeg skal lese the witch doesn’t burn in this one av Amanda Lovelace. Fordi jeg bare elsket den forrige diktsamlingen: the princess saves herself in this one. For dere som følger meg på Instaram (astridterese) har dere allerede sett dikt av Amanda Lovelace. Men jeg deler dem her likevel. Dette er de diktene jeg likte best i the princess saves herself in this one. Leser du dikt?

Denne bildekrusellen krever javaskript.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


The Jailer – Sylvia Plath

17 onsdag nov 2021

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

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Tags

Dikt, poem, poetry, Sylvia Plath

fengsel

My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?

I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.

Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.

O little gimlets—
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He his been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.

All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armor of fakery.

His high cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety—
Hung, starved, burned, hooked.

I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems, is the impossibility.

That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath1932-1963

Sylvia Plath var en amerikansk forfatter. Hun var født i Boston av en tysk far og en østerriksk-amerikansk mor. Hun ble regnet for å være et begavet barn, og allerede som åtteåring publiserte hun sitt første dikt. Hun skrev senere både romaner, noveller, dikt og essay. Hennes mest kjente verk, romanen Glassklokken, var en semi-biografisk beretning om hennes kamp mot klinisk depresjon. Plath begikk selvmord i 1963, og hun har etter det fått en tilnærmet ikonisk status i enkelte miljøer.  (fra Wikipedia)

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A Glimpse – Walt Whitman

10 onsdag nov 2021

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

a glimpse, Dikt, poem, poetry, Walt Whitman

par

A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night–And I unremark’d seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going–of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman1819-1892

Walt Whitman var en amerikansk dikter. Whitman skrev på fri verseform, og hans skrivestil er preget av et stort språklig overskudd og en voldsom hengivenhet til både naturen og mennesket. (fra Wikipedia)

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Alone – Edgar Allan Poe

10 søndag okt 2021

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

alone, Dikt, Edgar Allan Poe, poem, poetry

Alene

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe

1809-1849
Edgar Allan Poe var en amerikansk forfatter, poet, redaktør og litterær kritiker, betraktet som en del av den amerikanske romantiske bevegelse, og han er best kjent for sine fortellinger om det mystiske og makabre. (fra Wikipedia)

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Television – Roald Dahl

30 fredag jul 2021

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Dikt, poem, poetry, Roald Dahl, television, tv

bilde fra Pixabay

The most important thing we’ve learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set —
Or better still, just don’t install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we’ve been,
We’ve watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone’s place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they’re hypnotised by it,
Until they’re absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don’t climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink —
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK — HE ONLY SEES!
‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!’
We’ll answer this by asking you,
‘What used the darling ones to do?
‘How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?’
Have you forgotten? Don’t you know?
We’ll say it very loud and slow:
THEY … USED … TO … READ! They’d READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching ’round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it’s Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They’ll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start — oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They’ll grow so keen
They’ll wonder what they’d ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Roald Dahl

Roald Dahl1916-1990

Roald Dahl var en norsk-britisk forfatter som blant annet har skrevet en rekke novellesamlinger preget av en utsøkt svart humor med overraskende vendinger, foruten rundt 30 burleske og fantastiske barnebøker hvor mange er blitt filmatisert. (fra Wikipedia)

 

 

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Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day

18 fredag jun 2021

Posted by astridterese in Dikt

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Dikt, poem, poetry, shali i compare thee to a summer's day, sonnet 18, William Shakespeare

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day (Sonnet 18)

Blomst

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare

Shakespeare

1564-1616

William Shakespeare var en engelsk poet og skuespillforfatter. Han betraktes som den største engelskspråklige forfatter. Han kalles Englands nasjonalpoet og «skalden fra Avon» – eller simpelthen «skalden». (fra Wikipedia)

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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)

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2025 Reading Challenge

2025 Reading Challenge
Astrid Terese has

read 87 books toward her goal of 450 books.

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87 of 450 (19%)
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Tegneserier

26 / 200 tegneserier. 13% done!

Ebøker

15 / 30 ebøker. 50% done!

1001-bøker/klassikere

1 / 12 1001-bøker/klassikere. 8% done!

Bøker fra egen hylle

26 / 100 bøker fra egen hylle. 26% done!

Astrid Terese’s books

Håpets vinger
really liked it
Håpets vinger
by Natalie Normann
Drømmen som brast
really liked it
Drømmen som brast
by Natalie Normann
The Cat Who Saved Books
really liked it
The Cat Who Saved Books
by Sōsuke Natsukawa
Zero In
really liked it
Zero In
by Dean Koontz
Corkscrew
really liked it
Corkscrew
by Dean Koontz

 


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