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Arkiv for kategorien 'Om dikt'

Skjermbilde 2015-04-15 kl. 00.21.52Skjermbilde 2015-04-15 kl. 00.18.09Skjermbilde 2015-04-15 kl. 00.32.02
Name ten things you wanna do before you die and then go do them.
Name ten places you really wanna be before you die and then go to them.
Name ten books you wanna read before you die and then go read them.
Name ten songs you wanna hear again before you die, get all of your friends together and scream them.
Because right now all you have is time, but someday that time will run out.
That’s the only thing you can be absolutely certain about.

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Think of all the things that are wrong with your life and then fix them.
Think of all the things that you love about your life and be thankful you are blessed with them.
Think of all the things that hold you back and realize that you don’t need them.
Think of all the mistakes you have made in your life and make sure that you never repeat them.
Because right now all you have is time, but someday that time will run out.
That’s the only thing you can be absolutely certain about.

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Name ten thousand reasons why you never wanna die and then go tell someone who might’ve forgotten.
Try to list the endless reasons why it’s good to be alive and then just smile for awhile about them.
Soon the sun will rise and another day will come.
Soon enough the sun will set and another day will be gone.
And right now all you have is time, but someday that time will run out.
That’s the only thing you can be absolutely certain about.

– Paul Baribeau, Ten Things

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We all wanted that high school sweetheart.
We wanted to be young in the fifties
with meatloafs and sock hops
and lawns so perfect
they looked like Clark Gable was kissing them.

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We wanted to be thirteen and alive
and meet a girl that was thirteen and alive.
To walk with her past the grandstands.
To sit and hold hands with, to sit and talk with,
to sit and kiss with, to sit and sit with
like this was something you lost and found.
But that never was.

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We once wanted to be poor but not too poor.
To connect this country like Kerouac and thumbs
pulling small town waitresses
into back seats and trailer parks homes
where the two of you would find passion expanding
between the locking of your bones
until morning would come to find you out on the road
with your pockets empty except for your hands.
But your hands would be overflowing with your soul.
But that’s not what happened.

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We once climbed into bed as though between the sheets
was a valley where dinosaurs still lived.
And how we would explore them with a flashlight
catching these triceratops and brontosauruses.
But even he was opened with the dripping teeth of reality.
With the smoke that rose out of the homes
on the corners we once climbed through –
the streets and footballs with which we once threw –
the school desks upon which we once drew –
the windows that sat open,
through which we once flew.
And the outside world of parking spaces and dead friends
came flooding on in, and we forgot what we wanted
and became what we become.
Waitresses and bartenders.
City employees and temp positions.
We are junkies and one-kiss poems
and we cry the stars.

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As we write our scars
on dumpsters and electric boxes –
because the only thing we can hear is our hearts
and the streets are the only ones listening
to this blood that breaths through the letters we leave.
We dream to rise out of these burning buildings,
but instead we get buried somewhere beneath them.
Because I know my life is like some high school kid’s notebook –
that kid who goes back and forth between school and home,
stacking the letters and the pictures too close
for anyone outside of his own imagination to read
because it’s through the ink that his heart beats,
that his heart breathes –
and we all wanted to pass these notes –
check if you like me
check if you don’t
check if you’ll date me
check if you won’t.
Because we all wanted the love songs to be true.

And we all once loved dinosaurs.

And we wanted the stars to hold our hands –
to lick the teeth
to fuck us
but they ended up fucking us.

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So let you smiles twist.
Like my heart dancing precariously
on the edge of my finger tips,
staining them like that same high school kid
licking his thoughts using his sharpie tip
writing, «I was here.»
I was here, motherfucker.
And ain’t none of y’all can write that
in the spot that I just wrote it in.
I am here motherfucker
and we all here motherfucker
and we all motherfuckers motherfucker.

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Because every breath I breath brings me closer
to the day when my mother will die.
And every breath I take
takes me a second further
from the moment she caught my father’s eye.
And every word I carry
is another stone to put into place
in the foundation I’m building to ease the days
and help erase something I never saw –
what all of us wanted and what none of us got –
what we all had and have and what we all forgot –
that we all wanted to be something –
that we all became something.
And it may not be what we once thought it would be,
but something is still something
and like some cats say,
something’s better than nothing.
Feet are smarter than an engine,
and dreams are stronger than thighs.
And questions are the only answers we need
to know that we are as alive
as a time when I held the mind of a child asking:
Why is 2 + 3 always equal to 5?
Where do people go when they die?
What made the beauty of the moon –
the beauty of the sea?
Did that beauty make you?
Did that beauty make me?
Will it make me something?

Will I be something?

Am I something?

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And the answer comes:

You already are.
You always were.
And you still have time to be.

Anis Mojgani, Here Am I

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rewrap me in your white sheets
give me a flashlight
make me glow
grow me peaches
feed them to me
tell me what the sky can mean
show me how to jump into the middle of the lake
show me how to get the stones from the deepest part
and how to then leave them on the shore
make me want to make a child
make me firebomb a building with a bullhorn and a poem

draw me a picture of what smoking a cigarette feels like
kiss me with how much you love the giraffe
give me a hug
a smile shaped like a zoo
show me how to make cotton candy
tell me a story
tell me something you’ve never told anyone else
help me remember the things I’ve never told anyone else

the trees outside curve like they have nothing else to say to one another
while behind them the cars keep driving north

– Anis Mojgani, Girl

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After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure.
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn.
With every goodbye you learn.

– Veronica A. Shoffstall

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This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.

This is for the schoolyard wimps and for the childhood bullies that tormented them. For the former prom queen and for the milk crate ballplayers. For the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters.

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Shake the dust.

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This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them.
For the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns. For the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children for the nighttime schoolers and for the midnight bike riders trying to fly.

Shake the dust.

This is for the 2-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-God. Shake the dust.
For the boys with the beautiful, beautiful sisters.

Shake the dust.

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For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy.
For those gym class wallflowers, and the 12-year-olds afraid of taking public showers.
For the kid who’s always late to class because he forgets the combination to his locker.
For the girl who loves somebody else.

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Shake the dust.

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This is for the hard men who want love but know that it won’t come. For the ones who are forgotten. The ones the amendments do not stand up for. For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself. Do not let one moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats thousands of times every single day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make every one of you oceans.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and for the dust to collect in your veins.

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This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling. For the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone. For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jagger’s singing lips, and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips.
For the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.

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This is for the tired and for the dreamers.
For the families that will never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the bigots, for the sexists, for the killers, for the big house jail-sentenced cats becoming redeemers, and for the springtime that somehow always seems to know to show up after every one of our winters.

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This is for you.

Make sure that by the time the fisherman returns you are gone. Because just like the days I burn at both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes, I am cutting out parts of myself just to give them to you. So shake the dust.
And take me with you when you do. For none of this has ever been for me. All that pushes and pulls it pushes for you.

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So grab this world by its clothespins, and shake it out again and again. And jump on top and take it for a spin.
And when you hop off, shake it again. For this is yours.

Make my words worth it.

Make this not just another poem that I write. Not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all. Walk into it. Breath it in. Let it crash through the halls of your arms like the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood, pumping and pushing, making you live, shaking the dust. So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob tightly and open on up. And run forward. Run forward as fast and as far as you must. Run into its widespread greeting arms with your hands outstretched before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.

– Anis Mojgani, Shake the Dust

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«I think I fall in love with people,
a little too much,
just in the way they sound at 4am
or how they look when they smile.
And it’s so addicting,
when their eyes light up,
because you’ve remembered something
they may have said.
I think I grow attached,
to people, who I know,
will leave.
But I can’t help it,
because I see all that you are,
when you don’t really see it yourself.
And sometimes I wonder how someone’s heart,
grows so cold,
and I think, that maybe it’s because
for a while, it was left out in the rain.
You know some days I struggle,
when there’s nothing left to say,
because I still don’t know how to convince you,
that out of everyone,
and all the ones that leave,
I’m always the one still standing there,
with an umbrella,
just big enough,
to cover your heart.»

– C.P