Arkiv för mars 2011

Eva Ribich – Ljuset kommer in underifrån   Leave a comment

Eva Ribich läser ur sin diktsamling ”Ljuset kommer in underifrån”

Postat mars 31, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

Katarina Frostenson – Tal och regn   Leave a comment

Katarina Frostenson läser ur sin diktsamling ”Tal och regn”

Postat mars 31, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

Mia Ajvide – Om en flicka vill försvinna   Leave a comment

Mia Ajvide läser ur sin diktsamling ”Om en flicka vill försvinna

Boken kan beställas här: adlibris

Postat mars 31, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

Johan Jönson – Efter arbetsschema   Leave a comment

Johan Jönson läser ur sin diktsamlingen ”Efter arbetsschema”

Postat mars 31, 2011 av estraden i svenska diktare

Langston Hughes – The Negro Speaks of Rivers   Leave a comment

Langston Hughes
The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

from ”The Voice of Langston Hughes”
Folkways Records

Postat mars 30, 2011 av estraden i poets from English-speaking regions

Wallace Stevens – The Idea of Order at Key West   Leave a comment

Wallace Stevens reads his poem The Idea of Order at Key West

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

Audio Clip from Wallace Stevens Reads
From Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens by Wallace Stevens.

Postat mars 27, 2011 av estraden i poets from English-speaking regions

Anne Sexton – Her Kind   Leave a comment

Anne Sexton reads her poem ”Her Kind”

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

From The Complete Poems by Anne Sexton

Postat mars 27, 2011 av estraden i poets from English-speaking regions