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Aldri så seint er det godt for noko: Her kjem marsdiktet. Det liknar på Hans Børli.


Med stammene vått mørke på solsiden
står trea nynnende i fønvinden
og holder det skjære lyset
stramt mellom seg.
Lik kvinner
som strekker linvask.

Svett svullis brenner
i solfallet. Frostsår
på de svarte hendene mine
går oppatt, tar til å gråte
sveavatn og blod. Men langt
inni mørket i meg et sted
rører gleden på seg, stille og stumt
som når nattevinden reiser fjærene
på vingen til en sovende fugl.

Frå Kyndelmesse, 1972

Oktober ved Pierce Ranch

Eg klatrar ned ei fjellkløft langs veggar som regnet har slite ned. Sjøsus. Det er fjøre sjø. Måker med skuggane på slep vandrar rundt mellom skjerf av tare på lange stivsinna bein; kroppane flyt som notar som aldri har vore skrivne ned.

Eg går ned dalen av sand med armane svingande, og eg kjenner meg oppglødd, klar til å hoppe opp i lufta, tygge sanden.

Men den andre i meg er ikkje oppglødd, men jublande, for han høyrer lydar som ikkje kjem frå blodet, reinare, djupare, villare.

Robert Bly

frå What have I ever lost by dying (1992), omdikta og utgjeve av Helge Torvund i Morgondikt (1999)

Sommaren er over, men ikkje sommarsongane. Her kjem ein skikkeleg ein. Bebel Gilberto sin August day song frå plata Tanto tempo frå 2000.

Seinsommaren, altså. Han kjem og går.

Tentei contar
Tentei cantar
Tentei just la la la ia

Tentei tocar
Também dançar
Assim, só para deixar

Só quero te dar
Se te falar
Se te just la la la ia

Só quero estar
Com seu cantar
Com seu just la la la ia

Just like this rainstorm
This August day song
I dream of places far beyond

Ouvindo a chuva cair
No cinza um brilho aqui
Fico sózinha, distraída

Mesmo tom
Mesmo som
Como é bom, tão bom

Just like this rainstorm
This August day song
I dream of places far beyond

Ouvindo a chuva cair
No pé um pingo aqui
Fico sózinha, tão distraída

Não vou chorar
Quando lembrar
Do seu eterno olhar

I like to sing
And do these things
With you just prá variar

I hear your voice
I sing for choice
With you just la la la ia

Mesmo tom
Mesmo som
Como é bom, tão bom


Februar er yndlingsmånaden. Då er det litt trist at Joan Baez/Dar Williams let fine February rime på triste solitary. Og scary.

Litt trist i det store og heile, men we’ll gather all our arms can carry!

I threw your keys in the water, I looked back
They’d frozen halfway down in the ice
They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners
Even after the anger, it all turned silent
And the everyday turned solitary, so we came to February

First we forgot where we’d planted those bulbs last year
And then we forgot that we’d planted it all
Then we forgot what plants are altogether
And I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting
And the nights were long and cold and scary, can we live through February?

You know I think Christmas was a long red glare
Shot up like a warning, we gave presents without cards
And then the snow, and then the snow came
We were always out shoveling and we dropped to sleep exhausted
Then we wake up, and it’s snowing

And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together
You stopped and pointed and you said, «That’s a crocus»
And I said, «What’s a crocus?»,
And you said, «It’s a flower», I tried to remember, but I said, «What’s a flower?»
You said, «I still love you»

The leaves were turning as we drove to the hardware store
My new lover made me keys to the house
And when we got home, well we just started chopping wood
Because you never know how next year will be
And we’ll gather all our arms can carry,
I have lost to February

(Gone from danger, 1997)

Dave Goulder sin januarmann. Kan til dømes høyrast i versjonen til Christy Moore. Koko video, fin song!

Oh the January man,
He walks the road in woollen coat
And boots of leather;
The February man still shakes the snow from off his hair
And blows his hands;
Oh the man of March, he sees the spring
And wonders what the year will bring,
And hopes for better weather.

Through April rain the man
Goes down to watch the birds come in
To share the summer;
The man of May stands very still
Watching the children dance away the day;
In June the man inside the man
Is young and wants to lend a hand,
And grins at each new colour.

And in July the man,
In cotton shirt, he sits and thinks
Of being idle;
The August man in thousands takes the road
To watch the sea and find the sun;
September man is standing near
To saddle up and leave the year,
And autumn is his bridle.

And the man of new October
Takes the reins, and early frost
Is on his shoulders;
The poor November man sees fire and rain and snow and mist
And a winter gale;
December man looks through the snow
To let eleven brothers know
They’re all a little older.

And the January man
Comes round again in woollen clothes,
And boots of leather,
To take another turn and walk along the icy road
He knows so well;
Oh the January man is here
For starting each and every year
Along the road forever.

Diktet om kuling i november (m.m.) er skrive av den walisiske lyrikaren og politikaren (m.m.) Waldo Williams (1904-1971). Ein fascinerande og viktig person. Diktet heiter «Mewn Dau Gae», omsett til «Between two fields» på engelsk. Den enkle løysinga på norsk er då «Mellom to felt».

Walisisk, altså. Det vert ikkje betre.


O ba le’r ymroliai’r môr goleuni

Oedd a’i waelod ar Weun Parc y Blawd a Parc y Blawd?

Ar ôl imi holi’n hir yn y tir tywyll,

O b’le deuai, yr un a fu erioed?

Neu pwy, pwy oedd y saethwr, yr eglurwr sydyn?

Bywiol heliwr y maes oedd rholiwr y môr.

Oddi fry uwch y chwibanwyr gloywbib, uwch callwib y cornicyllod,

Dygai i mi y llonyddwch mawr.


Rhoddai i mi’r cyffro lle nad oedd

Ond cyffro meddwl yr haul yn mydru’r tes,

Yr eithin aeddfed ar y cloddiau’n clecian,

Y brwyn lu yn breuddwydio’r wybren las.

Pwy sydd yn galw pan fo’r dychymyg yn dihuno?

Cyfod, cerdd, dawnsia, wele’r bydysawd.

Pwy sydd yn ymguddio ynghanol y geiriau?

Yr oedd hyn ar Weun Parc y Blawd a Parc y Blawd.


A phan fyddai’r cymylau mawr ffoadur a phererin

Yn goch gan heulwen hwyrol tymestl Tachwedd

Lawr yn yr ynn a’r masarn a rannai’r meysydd

Yr oedd cân y gwynt a dyfnder fel dyfnder distawrwydd.

Pwy sydd, ynghanol y rhwysg a’r rhemp?

Pwy sydd yn sefyll ac yn cynnwys?

Tyst pob tyst, cof pob cof, hoedl pob hoedl,

Tawel ostegwr helbul hunan.


Nes dyfod o’r hollfyd weithiau i’r tawelwch

Ac ar y ddau barc fe gerddai ei bobl,

A thrwyddynt, rhyngddynt, amdanynt ymdaenaiTachwedd

Awen yn codi o’r cudd, yn cydio’r cwbl,

Fel gyda ni’r ychydig pan fyddai’r cyrch picwerchi

Neu’r tynnu to deir draw ar y weun drom.

Mor agos at ei gilydd y deuem –

Yr oedd yr heliwr distaw yn bwrw ei rwyd amdanom.


O, trwy oesoedd y gwaed ar y gwellt a thrwy’r goleuni y galar

Pa chwiban nas clywai ond mynwes? O, pwy oedd?

Twyllwr pob traha, rhedwr pob trywydd,

Hai! y dihangwr o’r byddinoedd

Yn chwiban adnabod, adnabod nes bod adnabod.

Mawr oedd cydnaid calonnau wedi eu rhew rhyn.

Yr oedd rhyw ffynhonnau’n torri tua’r nefoedd

Ac yn syrthio’n ôl a’u dagrau fel dail pren.


Am hyn y myfyria’r dydd dan yr haul a’r cwmwl

A’r nos trwy’r celloedd i’w mawrfrig ymennydd.

Mor llonydd ydynt a hithau a’i hanadl

Dros Weun Parc y Blawd a Parc y Blawd heb ludd,

A’u gafael ar y gwrthrych, y perci llawn pobl.

Diau y daw’r dirhau, a pha awr yw hi

Y daw’r herwr, daw’r heliwr, daw’r hawliwr i’r bwlch,

Daw’r Brenin Alltud a’r brwyn yn hollti.


Ok, så finst det altså ei omsetjing til engelsk for oss som treng det. Den er av Rowan Williams:


Between two fields


These two fields a green sea-shore, the tide spilling

radiance across them, and who knows

where such waters rise? And I’d had years

in a dark land, looldng: where did it, where did he

come from then? Only he’d been there

all along. Who though? who

was this marksman loosing off bolts

of sudden light? One and the same the lightning

hunter across the field, the hand to tilt

and spill the sea, who from the vaults

above the bright-voiced whistlers, the keen darting ployers,

brought down on me such quiet, such


Quiet: enough to rouse me. Up to that day

nothing had worked but the hot sun to get me going,

stir up drowsy warm verses: like blossom

on gorse that cracldes in the ditches, or

like the army of dozy rushes, dreaming

of clear summer sky. But now: imagination

shakes off the night. Someone is shouting

(who?), Stand up and walk. Dance. Look.

Here is the world entire. And in the middle

of all the words, who is hiding? Like this

is how it was. There on the shores of light

between these fields, under these clouds.


Clouds: big clouds, pilgrims, refugees,

red with the evening sun of a November storm.

Down where the fields divide, and ash and maple

cluster, the wind’s sound, the sound of the deep,

is an abyss of silence. So who was it stood

there in the middle of this shameless glory, who

stood holding it all? Of every witness witness,

the memory of every memory, the life

of every life? who with a quiet word

calms the red storms of self, till all

the labours of the whole wide world

fold up into this silence.


And on the silent sea-floor of these fields,

his people stroll. Somewhere between them,

through them, around them, there is a new voice

rising and spilling from its hiding place

to hold them, a new voice, call it the poet’s

as it was for some of us, the little group

who’d been all day mounting assault

against the harvest with our forks, dragging

the roof-thatch over the heavy meadow. So near,

we came so near then to each other, the quiet huntsman

spreading his net around us.

Listen! you can

just catch his whistling, hear it?


Whistling, across the centuries of blood

on the grass, and the hard light of pain; whistling

only your heart hears. Who was it then, for God’s sake?

mocking our boasts, tracking our every trail and slìpping past

all our recruitìng sergeants? Don’t you know?

says the whistling, Don’t you remember?

don’t you recognise? it says; until we do.

And then, our ice age over, think of the force

of hearts released, springing together, think

of the fountains brealdng out, reaching up

after the sky, and falling back, showers

of falling leaves, waters of autumn.


Think every day, under the sun,

under these clouds, think every night of this,

with every cell of your mind’s branching swelling shoots;

but with the quiet, the same quiet, the steady breath,

the steady gaze across the two fields, holding still

the yision: fair fields full of folk;

for it will come, dawn of his longed-for coming,

and what a dawn to long for. He will arrive, the outlaw,

the huntsman, the lost heir making good his claim

to no-man’s land, the exiled king

is coming home one day; the rushes sweep aside

to let him through.




It’s mid-September. In the evenings, when Stan goes for a stroll around the block, he wears a fleece jacket. A few leaves have fallen on the lawn already; he rakes them up in the early mornings, before breakfast. Not many people around at that hour. Just the odd black Surveillance car, gliding past silently as a shark.

Frå innleiinga til kapittelet «Scooter» i Margaret Atwoods The heart goes last (2015), eigd av kjekkaste norrønfilologen i Vestlandsregionen.

At junidiktet kjem langt ut i juli, skuldast ein omfattande helgelands- og saltentur. Heldigvis var det ein tur som inneheldt så mange lokasjonar for både klassikarar i den nordnorske viseskatten og i den norske salmeboka, at eg kan dra til med ei av desse perlene som kompensasjon for seindrektigheiti.

Somme vil likevel påstå at Kjerringøy som stad er betre enn Kjerringøy som vise, iallfall den til Halvdan Sivertsen, og difor har me starta med med eit bilete av ei lita kjering på den store Kjerringøystrondi.

Og så vidare til Sivertsens «Kjerringøy» frå Førr ei dame (1989):

Å gå i land på Kjerringøy den første junidagen
Mens sommern enda nøle og står nervøs og var
Mens vårn har pynta podiet og står med sug i magen
Og sjøfuglan og sola si at lyd og lys e klar

Det skjer førr åpen scene her når mai ska bli tell juni
Når vår og sommer møtes i heftig kjærlighet
Æ går omkring i underet, finn fuglereir med dun i
Så møte æ en maler, en som bor her, en som vet

Her ser æ hus full av levd liv og lengsel
En drøm om ei mjukere tid
Som æ går og leve i

Æ går langs kvite strender nu og trur på morradagen
På havørna og himmeln som blir her når æ drar
Å gå i land på Kjerringøy og stå med sug i magen
Mens sjøfuglan og sola si at lyd og lys e klar

På plata A woman a man walked by av PJ Harvey og John Parish finn me April. Kor ho syng, den dama.

April, how could
I not have seen
April, you coming
April how could I’ve
worn inappropriate clothing?
April, all that careful stepping,
rounding of my soul

And now your rain
April, I feel you leaving

I don’t know what silence means
It could mean anything

April, won’t you answer me?
These days just seem to crush me
Hatching, collapsing, tumbling down
April, what if I drown?
I drown?

April, I see you leaving
I don’t know what silence means
It could mean anything

I dream
I dream

April, April
Did I want you?
Did I want change?

April, your rain overcomes me


«On the road, between Toledo & Cincinnati, late June» heiter dette trykkjande diktet av Sebastian Matthews. Eg har òg køyrt den vegen, Matthews veit kva han pratar om.

Somewhere dead center in the day’s drive
through this relentlessly flat state, the sky
darkens and fills up deepend blue,
and the word «rain» comes to your lips
twenty seconds before the first waterballoon
droplets hit; and before you can think
or turn and say «storm» here it comes
spilling out of its box like a load of grain.
The woman in the passenger seat
of a raggedly elegant convertible, top down,
laughs merrily, purse held over her head.
Motorcycles cluster under the awnings
of bridges, five, six, a whole family of Harleys:
Middle Americans for a brief spell
hobos, gathering around the fire
of manageable happenstance. We’ll all
make it through. No twister coming to life
out of the yellowing swirl. No pile-up crash
in our cards. The rain subsiding, wipers
knocked back to intermittent, you drive on
through the burgeoning heat: crows
congregating in the backyards of trees,
fireworks stockpiling in the beds of pickups,
young girls towed behind speedboats
in inner tubes, shouting to each other
as they pass over the rotting corpse
of a deer that, a year-rounder told,
finally fell after a long winter
through the melting ice and settled
uneasily on the lake bottom.

Frå We Generous, 2007

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