Saturday, 28 February 2015

Omtale; Bursdagsgaven av Sue Monk Kidd

Jeg har tidligere lest "Bienes hemmelige liv" av Sue Monk Kidd, og da jeg så at hun hadde kommet med boka "Bursdagsgaven", klarte jeg ikke å motstå fristelsen til å låne den på biblioteket. Vil og tro at boka passer inn under Dive Into Diversity-utfordringa jeg har blitt med på.

I Charleston 1803 er Grimké-familien samlet for å feire Sarah sin elleve års dag. Foreldrene gir henne den jevnaldrende slaven Hetty Handiful i bursdagsgave, men Sarah nekter å ta i mot. I flere år kommer Sarah til å kjempe for å avskaffe slaveriet, samtidig som Hetty drømmer om et liv i frihet utenfor slavegården.

"Kroppen min er en slave, men ikke tankene mine. For deg er det motsatt."

Jeg kan ikke nekte for at "Bursdagsgaven" er bra skrevet, og noe av det som gjorde det interessant var at en hadde fortellerstemmen til både Sarah og Hetty, slik at en fikk se ting fra flere synsvinkler. Det som irriterte meg bittelitt var at jeg følte det var "nok en slave-roman", selv om jeg vet at boka var inspirert av virkelige personer og hendelser.

Friday, 27 February 2015

Dikt; To Be In Love av Gwendolyn Brooks

To be in love
 Is to touch with a lighter hand.
 In yourself you stretch, you are well.
 You look at things
 Through his eyes.
 A cardinal is red.
 A sky is blue.
 Suddenly you know he knows too.
 He is not there but
 You know you are tasting together
 The winter, or a light spring weather.
 His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
 Too much to bear.
 You cannot look in his eyes
 Because your pulse must not say
 What must not be said.
 When he
 Shuts a door-
 Is not there_
 Your arms are water.
 And you are free
 With a ghastly freedom.
 You are the beautiful half
 Of a golden hurt.
 You remember and covet his mouth
 To touch, to whisper on.
 Oh when to declare
 Is certain Death!
 Oh when to apprize
 Is to mesmerize,
 To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
 Into the commonest ash.

Thursday, 26 February 2015

Omtale; Kampen mot superbitchene av Audhild Solberg

Leste litt på nettet om ungdomsboka "Kampen mot superbitchene" av Audhild Solberg, og fant ut at jeg kunne lese den i forbindelse med "Dive Into Diveristy"-utfordringa, så jeg reserverte den på biblioteket.

Anne Bea er tolv år og i bunnsjiktet i sjuende klasse og hun hadde vært helt hjelpeløs uten bestevennen Nils. Om noen få uker er årets happening på skolen; talentkampen og Anne Bea ender i skuddlinja til klassens populære jenter, som også er mobbere. Å være albino er ingen spøk, men hvis man har et skjult talent, en bestevenn og en kul tante, kan man være godt på vei.

Boka var tidvis noe klisjé-aktig med tanke på utskudd mot mobberne/de populære, men boka får frem de forskjellige lagene som kan finnes i en klasse, og for den saks skyld at en ikke bør undervurdere de som er "annerledes".

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

Dikt; Don't Go Far Off av Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
 and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
 when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.


Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
 then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
 the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
 into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
 may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
 Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
 I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
 Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Topp ti tirsdag; Ti favoritt heltinner fra bøker

Nok en tirsdag og nok en topp ti tirsdag, takket være The Broke and the Bookish. Denne ukens tema er litterære heltinner.



 (Emma Watson som Hermine Grang i Harry Potter serien)

 Min liste er;
  1. Hermine Grang (fra Harry Potter-serien av J. K. Rowling)
  2. Matilda (fra boka med samme navn av Roald Dahl)
  3. Ronja Røverdatter (fra boka med samme navn av Astrid Lindgren)
  4. Mina Harker/Murray (fra Dracula av Bram Stoker)
  5. Pippi Langstrømpe (fra boka med samme navn av Astrid Lindgren)
  6. Weetzie Bat (fra Weetzie Bat-serien av Francesca Lia Block)
  7. Lin (fra Vindeltorn av Tone Almhjell)
  8. Gunhild (fra Trolløya av Olaf Moriarty Solstrand)
  9. Alice (fra Alice i Eventyrland av Lewis Carroll)
  10. Siv (fra Lykkeravnene av Paul Durham)

(Winona Ryder som Mina Harker fra Bram Stoker's Dracula)

Monday, 23 February 2015

Omtale; Utopia av Thomas More

I forbindelse med Literary Movement Reading Challenge, endte jeg opp med å lese Utopia av Thomas More, siden temaet nå i Februar var renessansen.

I boka Utopia, greier Thomas More ut om det "perfekte" landet hvor en ikke eier noe, alle jobber seks timer om dagen, og det blir oppmuntrer til å holde på med lesing av filosofi, spille musikk og lignende "hjerneføde". Folk giftet seg av kjærlighet og opphetede politiske diskusjoner var eliminert, fordi det var forbud mot å diskutere politikk utenfor veggene til parlamentet.

Thomas More skrev Utopia under den britiske renessansen, og han gav noen spark til de politiske og sosiale "ondskapene" på den tiden (tidlig 1600-tallet). Siden Thomas More tross alt jobbet for Henry VIII, måtte han være litt forsiktig i ordlegginga, og brukte litt humor for å få frem poenget. Uavhengig av det, blandet han blant annet sosialisme og kristendom for å belyse humanist-ideene som kunne skape et "perfekt samfunn", og humanismen var tross alt et viktig element under renessansen.

"It's not what you've got for yourself, but what other people haven't that is important."

Sunday, 22 February 2015

Dikt; "One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—" av Emily Dickinson

One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
Material Place—

Far safer, of a midnight meeting
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
Ourself behind ourself, concealed—
The Body—borrows a Revolver—

External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting—
That Cooler Host—

The Stones a'chase—
Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter—
In lonesome Place—

Should startle most—
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.

He bolts the Door—
O'erlooking a superior spectre—
Or More—

Saturday, 21 February 2015

Omtale; Jordtårer av Frode Eie Larsen

Leste noe om krimromanen Jordtårer av Frode Eie Larsen på nettet og endte opp med å låne den på biblioteket.

Torstein har en forkjærlighet for å grave. Uheldigvis, for en dag kommer han over noen beinrester i en skogholt bak gården han bor. I løpet av få dager blir både en person drept og en baby blir kidnappet. Politiet prøver å finne ut av ting, og henger alt sammen på et vis?

Det er tredje boka i serien, men den første jeg har lest, så jeg vet jeg har lest i litt "feil" rekkefølge. Likte språket i boka, og med korte kapittel, samt flere fortellerstemmer gjorde at den kjapp og interessant lesing. Om ikke annet er jeg fristet til å lese de to første i serien.

"Det å elske kunne være himmelsk vakkert, samtidig gjøre forbasket vondt."

Friday, 20 February 2015

Dikt; Dancing of Sounds av Dejan Stojanovic

There is a moonlight note
In the Moonlight Sonata;
There is a thunder note
In an angry sky.

Sound unbound by nature
Becomes bounded by art.
There is no competition of sounds
Between a nightingale and a violin.

Nature rewards and punishes
By offering unpredictable ways;
Art is apotheosis;
Often, the complaint of beauty.

Nature is an outcry,
Unpolished truth;
The art—a euphemism—
Tamed wilderness.

Thursday, 19 February 2015

Omtale; Løp Svartøre løp av Rawdna Carita Eira

Diktsamlinga "Løp Svartøre løp" av Rawdna Carita Eira er en av flere diktsamlinger jeg har hatt liggende, som jeg på nyåret bestemte meg for å lese.

Samlinga er tospråklig, hvor den ene delen er på norsk, og den andre nordsamisk. I diktene kommer frem forholdet mellom reinsdyret Svartøre og jenta/kvinnen som er fortellerstemmen, samt forholdet mellom natur og mennesker. En av grunnene til at jeg leste nettopp denne diktsamlinga, er at den kunne brukes i Dive Into Diversity utfordringa, siden både forfatteren, og til dels fortellerstemmen, har samisk opprinnelse.

Personlig synes jeg at Løp Svartøre løp var en av de bedre diktsamlingene jeg har lest siden jeg har begynt på universitetet.

Wednesday, 18 February 2015

Dikt; As I Grew Older av Langston Hughes

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun—
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky—
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!

Tuesday, 17 February 2015

Omtale; To cubanske - Virgilio Piñera og Ángel Escobar i utval

For en liten stund siden hadde jeg et kick etter å lese diktsamlinger. Samlinga "To cubanske - Virgilio Piñera og Ángel Escobar i utval", gjendiktet av Tove Bakke var en av de samlingene jeg leste.

Det var en fullt representativ samling av dikt fra to av de større cubanske poetene, selv om jeg kanskje hadde utelatt eller byttet ut noen av de diktene som var der. Det var i tillegg noen fotnoter på ting som en kanskje kunne lure på underveis, og i etterordet får en også mer informasjon om poetene. En av de største bonusene derimot var det at de hadde blitt gjendiktet på nynorsk.

Monday, 16 February 2015

Dikt; I Thought of You av Sara Teasdale

 I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
 And walking up the long beach all alone
 I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
 As you and I once heard their monotone.

 Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me
 The cold and sparkling silver of the sea --
 We two will pass through death and ages lengthen
 Before you hear that sound again with me.

Sunday, 15 February 2015

Omtale; Det er ikke vår, det er global oppvarming av Rune F. Hjemås

Jeg har hatt diktsamlinga "Det er ikke vår, det er global oppvarming" av Rune F. Hjemås liggende en stund og bestemte meg til slutt for å lese den.

Samlinga var tre-delt, og personlig følte jeg at diktene var noe sprikende i kvaliteten, men jeg vil tro at med litt mer skriving, kan forfatteren utvikle seg noe mer. I tillegg tror jeg at diktene hadde hatt en annen (og kanskje bedre) "lyd" hadde de vært skrevet på nynorsk.

Saturday, 14 February 2015

Dikt; A Valentine av Edgar Allan Poe

For her this rhyme is penned,
 whose luminous eyes,
 Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
 Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
 Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
 Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
 Divine- a talisman- an amulet
 That must be worn at heart.
 Search well the measure-
 The words- the syllables! Do not forget
 The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
 And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
 Which one might not undo without a sabre,
 If one could merely comprehend the plot.
 Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
 Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
 Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
 Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
 Its letters, although naturally lying
 Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
 Still form a synonym for
 Truth- Cease trying!
 You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

Friday, 13 February 2015

Omtale; Beyond the Pale Motel av Francesca Lia Block

For en stund siden var jeg så heldig at jeg fikk et leseeksemplar av boka Beyond the Pale Motel av Francesca Lia Block, og jeg leste den for litt siden i forbindelse med 2015 Cloak and Dagger Mystery Reading Challenge.

Catt og Bree driver frisørsalongen Head Hunter i LA, og de begge har vært edru i over ti år. Men når Dash, Catt's ektemann forlater henne og en av naboene blir drept av The Hollywood Serial Killer, begynner Catt's liv å gå nedover. I tillegg registrerer Catt at flere av ofrene ligner på Bree og hun lurer på om venninna kanskje står for tur.

Dette er en bok som jeg leste på under fire timer en kveld, rett og slett fordi jeg slet med å legge den fra meg, såpass spennende var den.

Thursday, 12 February 2015

Dikt; Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night av Dylan Thomas

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 that 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.

Wednesday, 11 February 2015

Wishlist Wednesday; Steve & Me av Terri Irwin

Siden det er onsdag igjen, tenkte jeg at det kanskje var på tide med nok et Wishlist Wednesday innlegg, takket være bloggen Pen to Paper. Boka jeg skal ta for meg denne uka, er Steve & Me av Terri Irwin.



Da Terri var i midten av 20-årene, reise hun til Australia på ferie, noe som skulle forandre resten av livet hennes. I en liten park med villdyr, møtte hun på Steve og innen ett år var de gift, samt hun ble med ham i konserveringsarbeidet med reptiler og utrydningstruede dyr. I boka forteller hun om en del av det de gjorde, enten det var å redde krokodiller fra krypskyttere til å svømme med hvaler.


Kjenner jeg meg selv riktig, kommer jeg sikkert til å kjøpe boka før eller siden, med tanke på at jeg halvveis vokste opp med dokumentar-serien de to hadde på Animal Planet.

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

Omtale; Unnskyld av Ida Hegazi Høyer

Siden romanen "Unnskyld" av Ida Hegazi Høyer var på kortlista for årets roman i forbindelse med bokbloggerprisen, bestemte jeg meg for å låne den på biblioteket.

To unge personer møter på hverandre og bestemmer seg for å flytte sammen etter ekstremt kort tid. De er totalt oppslukt av hverandre, men etter hvert kommer små tegn på at de kanskje ikke vet så mye om hverandre som de kanskje burde.

Boka får frem det som begynner i en forelskelse, men som ender i en besettelse for å opprettholde tosomheten i et relativt destruktivt forhold, og som leser følte ihvertfall jeg at en ble dratt inn i det.

Monday, 9 February 2015

Dikt; The Mask of Anarchy av Percy Bysshe Shelley

(Written on the occasion of the massacre at Manchester.)

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way—
He had a mask like Castlereagh—
Very smooth he looked, yet grim ;
Seven blood-hounds followed him :

All were fat ; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Lord Eldon, an ermined gown ;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with The Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, and spies.

Last came Anarchy : he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood ;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown ;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone ;
On his brow this mark I saw—
‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.

And with a mighty troop around
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down ;
Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For from pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.

‘We have waited weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’

Lawyers and priests a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed ;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering—‘Thou art Law and God.’—

Then all cried with one accord,
‘Thou art King, and God, and Lord ;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!’

And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his ;
His the sceptre, crown, and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said :
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air :

‘My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day ;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

‘He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me—
Misery, oh, Misery!’

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose.
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale :

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky.

It grew—a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper’s scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning’s, lay ;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed
O’er the heads of men—so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked,—but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,
As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude
Looked—and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien :

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth ;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt—and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother’s throe

Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,—
As if her heart cried out aloud :

‘Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another ;

‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number.
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.

‘What is Freedom?—ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well—
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

‘’Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants’ use to dwell,

‘So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

‘’Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak,—
They are dying whilst I speak.

‘’Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye ;

‘’Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e’er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

‘Paper coin—that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something from the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

‘’Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

‘And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
’Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew
Ride over your wives and you—
Blood is on the grass like dew.

‘Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood—and wrong for wrong—
Do not thus when ye are strong.

‘Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest ;
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.

‘Horses, oxen, have a home,
When from daily toil they come ;
Household dogs, when the wind roars,
Find a home within warm doors.’

‘Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed ;
All things have a home but one—
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none !

‘This is Slavery—savage men,
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do—
But such ills they never knew.

‘What art thou, Freedom ? O ! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand—tyrants would flee
Like a dream’s imagery :

‘Thou are not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.

‘For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.

‘Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude—
No—in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.

‘To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.

‘Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England—thou
Shield’st alike both high and low.

‘Thou art Wisdom—Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

‘Thou art Peace—never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

‘What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood ?
It availed, Oh, Liberty.
To dim, but not extinguish thee.

‘Thou art Love—the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,

‘Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud—whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.

‘Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps ; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.

‘Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou—let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.

‘Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.

‘Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.

‘From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast ;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan
For others’ misery or their own,

‘From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold—

‘From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares—

‘Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around

‘Those prison halls of wealth and fashion.
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale—

‘Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold—

‘Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free—

‘Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.

‘Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.

‘Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses’ heels.

‘Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.

‘Let the horsemen’s scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.

‘Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

‘And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.

‘Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,

‘The old laws of England—they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day ;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo—Liberty !

‘On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.

‘And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, —
What they like, that let them do.

‘With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.’

‘Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood THUS shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.

‘Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand—
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

‘And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.

‘And that slaughter to the nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular ;
A volcano heard afar.

‘And these words shall then become
Like Oppression’s thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain.
Heard again—again—again—

‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number—
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.’

Sunday, 8 February 2015

Omtale; Jaybird Redet av Lauri og Jaakko Ahonen

For en liten stund siden fikk jeg tak i et leseeksemplar av tegneserieromanen Jaybird Redet av Lauri og Jaakko Ahonen via forlaget.

En edderkopp som skuler på en fra gjemmeplasser og dystre nedstøvede portretter med avdøde slektninger på veggene. Vinduer og dører er låst og gjenspikret, men virkeligheten kan allikevel ikke bli utestengt for alltid, spesielt ikke for han som må pleie sin sengeliggende mor.

Det var minimalt med dialog i romanen, og følte at den til en viss grad hadde et visst Kafka-preg over seg. Jaybird er kanskje ikke noe hyggelig sengelektyre, men den er allikevel verdt lesinga, spesielt med tanke på tegningene.

Saturday, 7 February 2015

Dikt; A Valentine av Lewis Carroll

And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find your heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.

Friday, 6 February 2015

Omtale; Where the Poppies Now Grow av Hilary Robinson og Martin Impey

I forbindelse med utfordringa I Love Picture Books bestemte jeg meg for å lese Where the Poppies Now Grow av Hilary Robinson og Martin Impey.

Boka forteller om barndomsvennene Ben og Ray som i voksen alder, blir soldater i første verdenskrig. Historien blir fortalt i rim, og blir fint illustrert.

Boka kan være en grei begynnelse angående å fortelle om første verdenskrig, selv om jeg fant det noe irriterende at enkelte setninger ble repetert litt vel mange ganger.

Thursday, 5 February 2015

Dikt; I Cry av Tupac Shakur

Sometimes when I'm alone
 I Cry,
 Cause I am on my own.
 The tears I cry are bitter and warm.
 They flow with life but take no form
 I Cry because my heart is torn.
 I find it difficult to carry on.
 If I had an ear to confide in,
 I would cry among my treasured friend,
 but who do you know that stops that long,
 to help another carry on.
 The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.
 Then to stop and see what makes one cry,
 so painful and sad.
 And sometimes...
 I Cry
 and no one cares about why.

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

Wishlist Wednesday; Carly’s Voice: Breaking Through Autism av Arthur og Carly Fleischmann

Siden det er onsdag igjen, tenkte jeg at det kanskje var på tide med nok et Wishlist Wednesday innlegg, takket være bloggen Pen to Paper. Boka jeg skal ta for meg denne uka, er Carly’s Voice: Breaking Through Autism av Arthur og Carly Fleischmann.



I en alder av to, ble Carly diagnosert med alvorlig autisme og legene trodde hun aldri ville utvikle seg lengre enn til å ha evnene til en liten unge. Carly var hovedsakelig ”unåelig” i flere år, frem til hun var rundt ti, da det kom et gjennombrudd med at hun var i stand til å skrive med dataen at hun hadde vondt i tennene.


Selv om hun per i dag fremdeles har problemer med autismesymptomene, er hun i stand til å ha samtaler med andre personer gjennom å bruke datamaskinen som talerør.

English version;
Since it is Wednesday again, I thought it was perhaps time for another ”Wishlist Wednesday” post, thanks to the blog Pen to Paper. The book I’ll write about this week is ”Carly’s Voice: Breaking Through Autism” by Arthur and Carly Fleischmann.

Age two, Carly got diagnosed with severe autism and the doctors thought she would not develop more than having the gifts of a toddler. Carly was mainly ”un-reachable” for several years until around the age of ten, when a breakthrough came with her being capable of writing with the computer she had pains in her teeth.

Even though she as for today still has difficulties with the symptoms of autism, she is capable of having conversations with other people, using the computer as a tool.


Tuesday, 3 February 2015

Topp ti tirsdag; Bøker jeg ikke kan tro at jeg ikke har lest fra diktsamling sjangeren

Ny tirsdag og ny topp ti liste, takket være bokbloggen The Broke and the Bookish. Denne ukens tema er "topp ti bøker jeg ikke kan tro jeg ikke har lest fra X sjanger", og personlig bestemte jeg meg for dikt(samlinger).



Min liste er som følger;

  1. Poisoned Apples: Poems for You, My Pretty av Christine Hepperman
  2. The Anatomy of Being av Shinji Moon
  3. Dirty Pretty Things av Michael Faudet
  4. All Things Painful av Dax Christopher
  5. When Afternoons Taper to Mortality and Other Poems av Richard Walne
  6. Chasers of the Light: Poems from the Typerwriter Series av Tyler Knott Gregson
  7. A Night Without Armor: Poems av Jewel
  8. Lullabies av Lang Leav
  9. The Rose that Grew from Concrete av Tupac Shakur
  10. Things I Have to Tell You: Poems and Writings by Teenage Girls av Betsy Franco/Nina Nickles

Monday, 2 February 2015

Dikt; I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings av Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
 on the back of the wind
 and floats downstream
 till the current ends
 and dips his wings
 in the orange sun rays
 and dares to claim the sky.


But a bird that stalks
 down his narrow cage
 can seldom see through
 his bars of rage
 his wings are clipped and
 his feet are tied
 so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
 with fearful trill
 of the things unknown
 but longed for still
 and his tune is heard
 on the distant hill
 for the caged bird
 sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
 and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
 and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
 and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
 his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
 his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
 so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
 with a fearful trill
 of things unknown
 but longed for still
 and his tune is heard
 on the distant hill
 for the caged bird
 sings of freedom.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

Omtale; Ett arabiskt vemod av Abdellah Taïa

For en liten stund siden fikk jeg muligheten til å lese selvbiografien Ett arabiskt vemod av Abdellah Taïa via en bokring på Bookcrossing.

I en alder av 12 blir forfatteren et offer for gruppevoldtekt og blir etterpå kalt for den feminine gutten. Etterpå begynner en febrilsk søken etter å finne seg selv, enten det er i andre personer, andre plasser, eller i seg selv. I tillegg er Taïa Marokko's første åpne homofile forfatter og boka var i bunn og grunn interessant lesing.