Saturday, 31 October 2015

Dikt; Dispatch from the Home Front: Halloween 2001 av Tony Brown

like every other year I sit outside with a guitar
while kids roam in small packs
from lit door to lit door

the costumes tonight are not that frightening

angels and fairies and superheroes abound
a few bloodsuckers and ghouls
a sprinkling of skeletons
no terrorists

the adults pretend to be scared

jessie (the giraffe from across the street)
solemnly hands me M & Ms from her stash
when I put the Snickers in her pumpkin
“honey,” I tell her
“it’s not a trade – it‘s a gift”
and she solemnly takes them back

the young girl in the bathrobe and curlers
wearing the sign that says
I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON
says to me
“I want to hear you play your prettyful music”

so
I hand her candy
and I pick up my guitar
to play a song appropriate to the season
(a song by the Grateful Dead)
for this world’s recent ghosts

this world
where unimaginable ashes
sift down on children’s beds

in one part of this world
the very rocks and baseballs
smell of abrasives, jet fuel, burning rubber, corpses

in another part of this world
they are making the mail glow white
long enough to kill what lives on the words

in another part of this world
this guitar would be
illegal

in that country a shrouded woman
has been carefully picking food from a minefield
(food that was airdropped in my name)

she runs and lifts her child from the ground
raising his head high up onto her shoulder
vainly trying to keep the frightening blood from spilling too much

it will take her years to fall asleep again

when she does fall asleep
she will dream of picking up a yellow bomblet
wrapping it in swaddling clothes
suckling it until it blooms hot and bright

but she will not cry
as she holds him in that dream

we all dream that dream these days
we all hold our children closer
while holding back tears

a dream like that
is not a gift
it is a trade
we have all already given
more than enough in return for this one
and you do not let go of your tears
when tears are all you have left

Halloween night
I am pushing aside the veil between the worlds
a mourning person waiting for dawn
pretending to be scared to cover real fear
while I give sweets and prettyful music
to my neighbors’children

we are all a long way from home

if I knew the way
I would take you home

Friday, 30 October 2015

Omtale; Det mørke huset av Tor Edvin Dahl

I forbindelse med Cloak and Dagger Mystery Challenge, fant jeg ut at jeg skulle låne Det mørke huset av Tor Edvin Dahl på biblioteket.

14 år gamle Arnstein skal treffe kompisen Ørjan, men utenfor huset til Ørjan er det biler og politifolk. Ryktene sier at Ørjan drepte faren sin og nå har Ørjan forsvunnet. To tiår senere har Arnstein blitt forfatter og en tysk teatergruppe dukker opp. Det er noe kjent med den ene i gruppa.

For min del var det en helt grei bok, hvor en hoppet litt frem og tilbake i tid, og avsløringene kom etter hvert.

Thursday, 29 October 2015

Book Blogger Hop; Bøker i stedet for godteri på Halloween

På tide med et nytt innlegg i forbindelse med Book Blogger Hop, arrangert av bloggen Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer. Denne ukens tema er "hvis jeg hadde gitt bøker i stedet for godteri til knask eller knep-ungene på Halloween, hvilke bøker hadde det vært?".



Noen av de bøkene det hadde vært en viss sjanse jeg hadde gitt er følgende;
Bøker i Grøsserne-serien av R. L. Stine
Anya's spøkelse av Vera Brosgol
Coraline av Neil Gaiman
The Dark-Thirty; Southern Tales of the Supernatural av Patricia C. Kissack og Brian Pinkney

Wednesday, 28 October 2015

Dikt; Sonnet 100 av Lord Brooke Fulke Greville

In night when colors all to black are cast,
Distinction lost, or gone down with the light;
The eye a watch to inward senses placed,
Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,

Gives vain alarums to the inward sense,
Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny,
Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense,
Doth forge and raise impossibility:

Such as in thick depriving darknesses,
Proper reflections of the error be,
And images of self-confusednesses,
Which hurt imaginations only see;

And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils,
Which but expressions be of inward evils.

Tuesday, 27 October 2015

Topp ti tirsdag; Skrekkromaner jeg har lyst å lese

Siden bokbloggen The Broke and the Bookish hadde valgfri topp ti liste, så lenge det var relatert til Halloween, tenkte jeg å skrive en liste over skrekkromaner jeg har lyst å lese.

Bøkene jeg kunne tenkt meg å lese er som følger;

  1. The Reluctant Prophet av Gillian O'Rourke
  2. Dark Water av Koji Suzuki
  3. Prayer for the Dead av Nicki Scalise
  4. The Dead of Winter av Jack Night
  5. Dead Medium av Peter John
  6. Psycho av Robert Bloch
  7. Sherlock Holmes and the Whitechapel Vampire av Dean P. Turnbloom
  8. Dare to Dream av Carys Jones
  9. Krampus: The Yule Lord av Brom
  10. The Patchwork House av Richard Salter

Monday, 26 October 2015

Dikt; The Hag av Robert Herrick


    The Hag is astride,
    This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
    Through thick, and through thin,
    Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

    A Thorn or a Burr
    She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
    Through Brakes and through Bryars,
    O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

    No Beast, for his food,
    Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
    While mischiefs, by these,
    On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

    The storme will arise,
    And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
    The ghost from the Tomb
    Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

Sunday, 25 October 2015

Omtale; Krysset en natt elven av Izzet Celasin

For en liten stund siden lånte jeg Krysset en natt elven av Izzet Celasin og tenkte at den passet greit til Dive Into Diversity utfordringa.

I 1988 blir Abraham de Africa, en funksjonær ved den cubanske ambassaden, kjent med den tyrkiske flyktningen Adam som sitter i transittmottak i Beograd. Når Abraham skal møte Adam en kveld, blir Abraham utsatt for kidnappingsforsøk. Adam forsvinner og en anonym telefon forteller at det er en muldvarp ved ambassaden. For å finne Adam, og om ryktene stemmer, begynner Abraham å snakke med folk som kjente den tyrkiske flyktningen.

For min del var boka interessant lesing.

Saturday, 24 October 2015

Dikt; Spirits of the Dead av Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

Friday, 23 October 2015

Book Blogger Hop; Bok som fremdeles hjemsøker meg i dag

Denne ukens tema i forbindelse med Book Blogger Hop, arrangert av Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer er en bok jeg har lest tidligere, som fremdeles hjemsøker meg i dag.



Det er flere bøker jeg kunne ha valgt, men bestemte meg for Vinterfolket av Jennifer McMahon, som jeg har skrevet om tidligere. Her kommer handlingsreferatet jeg skrev i det innlegget;

"I West Hall, Vermont har flere personer forsvunnet på mystisk vis over lengre tid. Det hele begynte med Sara Harrison Shea, en mor som elsket dattera over alt på jord. Sara blir selv funnet død noen måneder etter dødsfallet til datttera. 100 år senere bor Ruthie og Fawn i huset sammen med moren, hvorpå sistnevnte plutselig forsvinner. Da døtrene leter etter spor, kommer de over Sara sine dagbøker."

Thursday, 22 October 2015

Omtale; Selected Poems 1908-1969 av Ezra Pound

I forbindelse med månedens epoke i Literary Movement Reading Challenge (Modernism), fant jeg ut at jeg skulle lese Selected Poems 1908-1969 av Ezra Pound.

Det er en lett blanding av forskjellige dikt, enten det er noen av de tidligere diktene hans eller større verk. Selv om det var varierende om jeg likte dem eller ikke, går de inn under modernismen, med tanke på eksperimentering med form.

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Dikt; Dream-Land av Edgar Allan Poe

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule —
From a wild weird clime, that lieth, sublime,
      Out of Space — out of Time.

  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
  And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods,
  With forms that no man can discover
  For the dews that drip all over;
  Mountains toppling evermore
  Into seas without a shore;
  Seas that restlessly aspire,
  Surging, unto skies of fire;
  Lakes that endlessly outspread
  Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
  Their still waters, still and chilly
  With the snows of the lolling lily.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule.

  By the lakes that thus outspread
  Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
  With the snows of the lolling lily, —
  By the mountains — near the river
  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, —
  By the gray woods, — by the swamp
  Where the toad and the newt encamp, —
  By the dismal tarns and pools
      Where dwell the Ghouls, —
  By each spot the most unholy —
  In each nook most melancholy, —
  There the traveller meets aghast
  Sheeted Memories of the Past —
  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
  As they pass the wanderer by —
  White-robed forms of friends long given,
  In agony, to the worms, and Heaven.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule —

  For the heart whose woes are legion
  ’T is a peaceful, soothing region —
  For the spirit that walks in shadow
  ’T is — oh ’t is an Eldorado!
  But the traveler, traveling through it,
  May not — dare not openly view it;
  Never its mysteries are exposed
  To the weak human eye unclosed;
  So wills its King, who hath forbid
  The uplifting of the fringéd lid;
  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have wandered home but newly
  From this ultimate dim Thule.

Tuesday, 20 October 2015

Topp ti tirsdag; Ti ønsker jeg ville spurt bokånden om den kunne innvilge

Ny tirsdag og på tide med en ny topp ti liste, takket være The Broke and the Bookish. Denne ukens tema er ti ønsker jeg ville spurt bokånden om den kunne innvilge.

Min liste er som følger;

  1. Tid nok til å lese
  2. Nok plass til å oppbevare alle bøkene mine
  3. Det "perfekte" private biblioteket i form av massive bokhyller, mørkerøde vegger, god sofa etc. (tenk viktoriansk "study")
  4. Hvis ikke nummer tre ble innvilget; biblioteket til Udyret fra Disney-filmatiseringen av "Skjønnheten og Udyret"
  5. Bo i gå-avstand (og jobbe på) Trinity College, Dublin, slik at jeg hadde tilgang til universitetsbiblioteket der
  6. Nok penger så jeg kunne kjøpe alle de bøkene jeg ønsker meg, uten å tenke på om jeg har råd til dem
  7. Besøke Kahlil Gibran museet i Besharre, Libanon
  8. Være på Deventer Book Fair, Nederland
  9. Være på Jaipur Literary Festival, India
  10. Være på Frankfurt bokmessa, Tyskland

Monday, 19 October 2015

Dikt; Haunted Houses av Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Sunday, 18 October 2015

Omtale; Minnesota og støvet av Kjartan Hjulstad

I forbindelse med Dive Into Diversity-utfordringa, lånte jeg Minnesota og støvet av Kjartan Hjulstad på biblioteket.

Daniel ser opp til broren sin Moses, og har alltid fulgt i hans fotspor der de vokser opp i indianerreservatet. Livet er ikke alltid like enkelt imellom dop, familievold, rasisme og alkoholisme, men det finnes familie- og søskenkjærlighet allikevel. Men når Moses får en fot inn i reservatets ungdomsgjeng, må Daniel finne mot og ta valg.

Det er en fullt brukbar bok om en oppvekst i et indianerreservat, men føler at det "alltid" er en kjærlighetshistorie med i en ungdomsbok.

Saturday, 17 October 2015

Dikt; The Haunted Oak av Paul Laurence Dunbar

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
   Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
   Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
   And sap ran free in my veins,
But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird
   A guiltless victim’s pains.

I bent me down to hear his sigh;
   I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
   And left him here alone.

They’d charged him with the old, old crime,
   And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
   And why does the night wind wail?

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
   And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
    And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night,
   Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
   What is the galling goad?

And now they beat at the prison door,
   "Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
   And we fain would take him away

"From those who ride fast on our heels
   With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
   And the rope they bear is long."

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
   They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
   And the great door open flies.

Now they have taken him from the jail, 
   And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
   As they halt my trunk beside.

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
   And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
   Was curiously bedight.

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
   ’Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
   The mem’ry of your face.

I feel the rope against my bark,
   And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
   The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth
   On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
   From the curse of a guiltless man.

And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
   And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
   In the guise of a mortal fear.

And ever the man he rides me hard,
   And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
   On the trunk of a haunted tree.

Friday, 16 October 2015

Book Blogger Hop; Kostyme fest med temaet "bok karakterer"

På tide med nytt innlegg i forbindelse med Book Blogger Hop, arrangert av Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer. Denne ukens tema er situasjonen "Du har kostyme fest med temaet "bok karakterer". Hva ville du gått som?".



Siden det er disse Halloween-tider, ville jeg mest sannsynligvis gått som Madam Bellatrix Lestrange fra Harry Potter serien.


Thursday, 15 October 2015

Dikt; The Vampire av Conrad Aiken

She rose among us where we lay.
She wept, we put our work away.
She chilled our laughter, stilled our play;
And spread a silence there.
And darkness shot across the sky,
And once, and twice, we heard her cry;
And saw her lift white hands on high
And toss her troubled hair.

What shape was this who came to us,
With basilisk eyes so ominous,
With mouth so sweet, so poisonous,
And tortured hands so pale?
We saw her wavering to and fro,
Through dark and wind we saw her go;
Yet what her name was did not know;
And felt our spirits fail.

We tried to turn away; but still
Above we heard her sorrow thrill;
And those that slept, they dreamed of ill
And dreadful things:
Of skies grown red with rending flames
And shuddering hills that cracked their frames;
Of twilights foul with wings;

And skeletons dancing to a tune;
And cries of children stifled soon;
And over all a blood-red moon
A dull and nightmare size.
They woke, and sought to go their ways,
Yet everywhere they met her gaze,
Her fixed and burning eyes.

Who are you now, —we cried to her—
Spirit so strange, so sinister?
We felt dead winds above us stir;
And in the darkness heard
A voice fall, singing, cloying sweet,
Heavily dropping, though that heat,
Heavy as honeyed pulses beat,
Slow word by anguished word.

And through the night strange music went
With voice and cry so darkly blent
We could not fathom what they meant;
Save only that they seemed
To thin the blood along our veins,
Foretelling vile, delirious pains,
And clouds divulging blood-red rains
Upon a hill undreamed.

And this we heard: “Who dies for me,
He shall possess me secretly,
My terrible beauty he shall see,
And slake my body‘s flame.
But who denies me cursed shall be,
And slain, and buried loathsomely,
And slimed upon with shame.”

And darkness fell. And like a sea
Of stumbling deaths we followed, we
Who dared not stay behind.
There all night long beneath a cloud
We rose and fell, we struck and bowed,
We were the ploughman and the ploughed,
Our eyes were red and blind.

And some, they said, had touched her side,
Before she fled us there;
And some had taken her to bride;
And some lain down for her and died;
Who had not touched her hair,
Ran to and fro and cursed and cried
And sought her everywhere.

“Her eyes have feasted on the dead,
And small and shapely is her head,
And dark and small her mouth,” they said,
“And beautiful to kiss;
Her mouth is sinister and red
As blood in moonlight is.”

Then poets forgot their jeweled words
And cut the sky with glittering swords;
And innocent souls turned carrion birds
To perch upon the dead.
Sweet daisy fields were drenched with death,
The air became a charnel breath,
Pale stones were splashed with red.

Green leaves were dappled bright with blood
And fruit trees murdered in the bud;
And when at length the dawn
Came green as twilight from the east,
And all that heaving horror ceased,
Silent was every bird and beast,
And that dark voice was gone.

No word was there, no song, no bell,
No furious tongue that dream to tell;
Only the dead, who rose and fell
Above the wounded men;
And whisperings and wails of pain
Blown slowly from the wounded grain,
Blown slowly from the smoking plain;
And silence fallen again.

Until at dusk, from God knows where,
Beneath dark birds that filled the air,
Like one who did not hear or care,
Under a blood-red cloud,
An aged ploughman came alone
And drove his share through flesh and bone,
And turned them under to mould and stone;
All night long he ploughed.

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

Omtale; Prinsesse Bari av Hwang Sok-Yong

Siden jeg hadde lest litt om romanen Prinsesse Bari på Internett, endte jeg opp med å låne den på biblioteket. Til en viss grad passer den også inn i Dive Into Diversity-utfordringa.

Bari ble født inn i en stor søskenflokk i Nord-Korea, og i 1990-årene mister hun hele familien som følge av sult- og flomkatastrofer. Hun søker tilflukt i Kina, og smugles videre med skip til London hvor hun får tak i en jobb som fotmassør. Det er bare et fåtall som vet at Bari kan mer enn å massere føtter, hun har arvet farmorens evne til å sette seg inn i andre mennesker sine lidelser, og reise i tid.

For min del var Prinsesse Bari en av de bedre bøkene jeg har lest i år.

Monday, 12 October 2015

Omtale; Sanger til Gry av Lars Helle

Med Cloak and Dagger Mystery Challenge i bakhodet, leste jeg Sanger til Gry av Lars Helle.

"Det er ikke sant at tiden leger alle sår. Noen ganger legger den bare på et plaster - det svir forjævlig når det blir revet av."

I 1983 eksploderer en båt uti en fjord og ombord er blant annet kona til politietterforsker Gunnar Holt. Ifølge etterforskningen, var det en ulykke, men hvorfor får da politietterforskeren et kort med en nøkkel hvert år på dødsdagen? Rett før foreldelsesfristen går ut, setter Gunnar Holt i gang sin egen etterforskning av saken.

"Et av Rogalands mest fascinerende trekk. Det skal ikke mer enn en sving til før du støter på en sau."

Jeg har lest en bok tidligere av Lars Helle, og jeg får mer sans for forfatteren, jo mer jeg leser. Noe av det jeg liker med forfatteren, er språket.

"En mann med vaner unngår å bli skuffet, sa far bestandig."