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Da det finnes en tråd med norske dikt, tenker jeg det er på sin plass å opprette en ny tråd for engelskspråklige dikt! Det kan være dikt som du liker veldig godt eller som du ellers av andre grunner vil gjerne dele. Forutsetningen er da at det må være dikt som opprinnelig er skrevet og utgitt på engelsk.

Kan selv starte med ett av Philip Larkin (1922 - 1985):



Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Sist endret av Jonta; 10. mai 2020 kl. 22:16. Grunn: Lenket til tråde med norske. Tittel endret på TS sin req
How I go to the woods

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone,
with not a single friend,
for they are all smilers and talkers
and therefore unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed
talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree.
I have my way of praying,
as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible.
I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned.
I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me,
I must love you very much.


― Mary Oliver
Queen of Blades
Jonta's Avatar
DonorCrew
Do not go gentle into that good night - Dylan Thomas. Fremført av Sir Anthony Hopkins (YouTube, 2 min)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
LIGHT

Did you say it's made of waves?
Yes, that's it.
I wonder what the waves are made of.
Oh, waves are made of waves.
Waves are what they are,
Shimmeringness,
Oscilliation,
Rythmical movement which is the inherent essence of all things.
Ultimately, there's only movement,
Nothing else.
The movement that light is
Comes out of the sun
And it's so gorgeous a thing
That nothing else is ever anything unless lit by it.


Margaret Tait
Sist endret av *pi; 9. mai 2020 kl. 13:41.
Ikke et dikt, men ofte sett på som verdens korteste novelle: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Hemingway.

Ellers har jeg alltid vært en stor fan av Oscar Wildes tidløse postulater. Alltid aktuelle, selv om de ble skrevet på 1800-tallet:
Be yourself; everyone else is already taken

I can resist everything except temptation.

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

I have nothing to declare except my genius.

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

Always forgive your enemies - nothing annoys them so much.

To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.

Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.
The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)
Sist endret av Havskilpadde; 10. mai 2020 kl. 11:14.
I dwell in Possibility

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –


Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
Liker Danny Deever, av Kipling veldig godt.

‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?' said Files-on-Parade.
‘To turn you out, to turn you out,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘What makes you look so white, so white?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The Regiment’s in ’ollow square—they’re hangin’ him to-day;
They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away,
An’ they're hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

‘What makes the rear-rank breathe so ’ard?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘It’s bitter cold, it's bitter cold,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘What makes that front-rank man fall down?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ’im round,
They ’ave ’alted Danny Deever by ’is coffin on the ground;
An’ ’e’ll swing in ’arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound—
O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin!’

‘’Is cot was right-’and cot to mine,’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ’im to ’is place,
For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’—you must look ’im in the face;
Nine ’undred of ’is county an’ the Regiment’s disgrace,
While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

‘What’s that so black agin the sun?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘It’s Danny fightin’ ’ard for life,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
‘What’s that that whimpers over’ead?’ said Files-on-Parade.
‘It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear the quickstep play,
The Regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day,
After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

Gunga Din. Også av Kipling.
Det er skrevet på ei Engelsk dialekt. På en måte som gjør det veldig kjeitete å lese.
Så her er en link til Jim Croces sang av diktet. (4.04)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34Vxqydpmus
Sist endret av Arex_x; 12. mai 2020 kl. 14:08. Grunn: Automatisk sammenslåing med etterfølgende innlegg.
▼ ... noen uker senere ... ▼
Strip-tease

Soft toys that make seem girls
In two whitewash with two coral
Valves of lip printing each others’ grease. …
A clockwork Cupid’s bow. Increase!
Their cherry-ripe hullo brims the open purse
Of eyes washed white by the marmoreal light;
So swaying as if on pyres they go
About the buried business of the night,
Cold witches of the elementary tease
Balanced on the horn of a supposed desire. …
Trees shed their leaves like some of these.



Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)
Valgfri brukertittel
meaculpaUIO's Avatar
Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day
BY DELMORE SCHWARTZ

( Utdrag)

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Sist endret av meaculpaUIO; 7. juni 2020 kl. 14:52.
▼ ... over et år senere ... ▼
A Fragile Thing We Call Trust by Melissa Paiz!
Five letters that make up one word, One word that we use to build a bond.
A bond that becomes a part of us as we create connections with the people we love and care for,
Five letters that construct the foundation - the base, of our various relationships
one word... trust. the very idea of trust can make us honest and vulnerable

but it can also set us up and allow someone to damage us,
trust is the first quality, the first link we all seek when we rely on other people who say
they`ve got our back. when we put our hearts, our dreams and ourselves on the line
because we belive everyone who says they`ve got us, will never hurt us
but the very person we would never hurt is secretly holding a knife
Ready to stab us in the back.

in moments such as those we start to wonder
who we can depend on and who we can`t we become cautious and fearful
that we`re giving our trust away to someone who will eventually do us wrong.
five letters that make up one word. one word that we use to build a bond.
people we want to stay in our lives, to stay with us until the day we die.
Family who we cherish.Friends who we adore. Lovers who we treasure.
and people who walk in and out of our door.

Angelic faces that can easily hide rotten hearts.
we turn a blind eye so we won`t be alone.
we deny,deny,deny. but once the truth comes out and a traitor is revealed
our trust in people shatters. our open minds are concealed.
and so we become weary of who we allow passed our wall because trust is so fragile.
Daily Conversations can turn to missed calls.
SammeFaenGårNokGreit
Absurd's Avatar
Daddy av Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
Sol Niger Within
Vartec's Avatar
Antigonish av William Hughes Mearns

"Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there!
He wasn't there again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away!"

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall,
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door...

Last night I saw upon the stair,
A little man who wasn't there,
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away....
Ikke helt sikkert på om det går under "dikt", da det er mer typ spoken word, men husker første gang jeg så denne. Ganske mektig syntes jeg.

"Neil Hilborn - OCD"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s

Leses veldig fint også, men ingen tvil om at performancen hans selger det.

The first time I saw her…
Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek —
the eyelash on her cheek —
the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her…

But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.

When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked —
when she talked —
when she talked —
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was
just making her late for work…
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking…
When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.

Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her;that this whole thing was a mistake, but…
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t — I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars…

And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she’s opening a safe.
How she blows out candles —
blows out candles —
blows out candles —
blows out candles —
blows out candles —
blows out…

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad…
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.
SammeFaenGårNokGreit
Absurd's Avatar
Er ikke heeelt fan av formateringen på diktet her men bukowski fortjener vel en plass i tråden her..

I went to the worst of bars
hoping to get
killed.
but all I could do was to
get drunk
again.
worse, the bar patrons even
ended up
liking me.
there I was trying to get
pushed over the dark
edge
and I ended up with
free drinks
while somewhere else
some poor
son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital
bed,
tubes sticking out all over
him
as he fought like hell
to live.
nobody would help me
die as
the drinks kept
coming,
as the next day
waited for me
with its steel clamps,
its stinking
anonymity,
its incogitant
attitude.
death doesn't always
come running
when you call
it,
not even if you
call it
from a shining
castle
or from an ocean liner
or from the best bar
on earth (or the
worst).
such impertinence
only makes the gods
hesitate and
delay.
ask me: I'm
72.
▼ ... over en uke senere ... ▼
Uh.. uh.. uh..
New York streets where killers'll walk like Pistol Pete
And Pappy Mason, gave the young boys admiration
Prince from Queens and Fritz from Harlem
Street legends, the drugs kept the hood from starvin'
Pushin' cars, Nicky Barnes was the '70s
But there's a long list of high-profile celebrities
Worldwide on the thorough side of things
Livest kings, some died, one guy, one time
One day grabs me, as I'm about to blast heat
40-side of Vernon, I turned while he asked me
"What you up to? The cops gon' bust you."
I was a teen drunk off brew
Stumbled I wondered if God sent him
'Cause two squad cars entered the block
And looked at us; I ain't flinch when they watched
I took it upstairs, the bathroom mirror, brushed my hair
Starin' at a young disciple
I almost gave my life to what the dice do
Yeah man, throwin' them bones
Hopin' my ace get his case thrown
His girl ain't wait for him, she in the world straight hoein'
While he lookin' at centerfolds of pretty girls showin'
They little cooch; gangstas don't die, he's living proof
The D.A. who tried him was lyin'
A white dude, killed his mother during the case
Hung jury, now the D.A. is being replaced
Pre-trial hearing is over, it's real for the soldier
Walks in the courtroom, the look in his eyes is wild
Triple-homicide, I sit in the back aisle
I wanna crack a smile when I see him
Throw up a fist for Black Power, 'cause all we want is his freedom
He grabbed a court officer's gun and started squeezin'
Then he grabbed the judge, screams out, "Nobody leavin'
Everybody—"
Get Down
NAS

Don't look don't move don't talk about it
Don't wait don't rush don't think about it
If you can't then you won't when you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught, don't think about it
Don't feel don't touch don't lie about it
Don't walk don't run don't live without it
If you're real then you're gone
When you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught
Don't think about it
Antichrist
You know you might
Break the seal
On all you feel
In human form
I see you torn
Dead as night
You're out of sight
Don't look don't move don't talk about it
Don't wait don't rush don't think about it
If you can't then you won't when you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught, don't think about it
Don't feel don't touch don't lie about it
Don't walk don't run don't live without it
If you're real then you're gone
When you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught
Don't think about it
We'll double back
All in black
It's for real
What you feel
You sell your soul
For what you stole
But after that
You're coming back
Don't look don't move don't talk about it
Don't wait don't rush don't think about it
If you can't then you won't when you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught, don't think about it
Don't feel don't touch don't lie about it
Don't walk don't run don't live without it
If you're real then you're gone
When you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught
Don't think about it
Don't look don't move don't talk about it
Don't wait don't rush don't think about it
If you can't then you won't when you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught, don't think about it
Don't feel don't touch don't lie about it
Don't walk don't run don't live without it
If you're real then you're gone
When you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught
Don't think about it
Don't look don't move don't talk about it
Don't wait don't rush don't think about it
If you can't then you won't when you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught, don't think about it
Don't feel don't touch don't lie about it
Don't walk don't run don't live without it
If you're real then you're gone
When you're off you're on it
If you're not you've been caught
Don't think about it
Circ
Don't Think About It
Sist endret av vindaloo; 4 uker siden kl. 01:04. Grunn: Automatisk sammenslåing med etterfølgende innlegg.
This week on Yankee and The Brave
Back at it like a crack addict
Mr. Black Magic, crack a bitch back
Chiropractic, Craftmatic big daddy smokin' big Cali
In the black alley, in a black Grand Natty
Rollin' down, ole natty hair

Run The Jewels Yankee And The Brave