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llcb Sep 2015
Jeg husker tilbage på de uger, hvor mine ben var mørke og sko hvide. Nu sidder jeg med hvide ben og hvide sko mørke af ren snavs. Ironisk ik? Tid ændrer en hel del hvis ikke alting, og tiderne ændrer sig men aldrig tid i sig selv. Tid tager ikke hensyn til noget, men kører bare ud i en lang streng, uden sådan at se sig for. Det er der jo ikke tid til. Man burde ikke engang bruge sin tid på at tænke på eller læse om tid, det er jo spild af tid. Men det er bare svært når alting omhandler tid og tider. Også den tid du nu bruger på at læse om tid. Jeg tør ikke tænke på hvor dyrebart tid er. Det er jo en af de de få ting, som vi har tid til men ikke kan tæmme. Og så er det jo også noget af en ekstravagant gave, som til tider bliver taget for givet; din tid er jo en tid som du aldrig får tilbage.

Tak for din tid
Maja Klit Nov 2015
-
En Midlertidig Tid har taget Patent på Tiden
Styres af en Relativ Tid som ingen Oprigtigt kender til
Alle i Individuelle Tidszoner
Tilrettelagt efter Samfundets tikkende Lommeur
Min Tid er Uregerlig

Tik Tik Tak

Springer defekt Sekunder over
Tilføjer i Mellemtakterne
Kaninen der Løber opfatter ikke tabet af sin Tid
Den Tid jeg mistede Tilliden til da jeg mistede Min Tid
Nu er jeg efterladt i Mistillid til Midlertid
Marolle Aug 2015
Jeg ofre mig hele tiden
jeg giver mig selv til folk
som kun giver halvt tilbage
Kan du tage min arbejdsvagt? Ja
Vil du med i byen og 2 dage i streg? Ja
Vil du besøge mig og så spiser vi sammen? Ja
Din flis-jakke er hæslig, skal jeg lave en ny? Ja
Denne konstante cirkel
af ting jeg skal, gøre og nå
den gør mig sindssyg
Jeg vil hellere ligge i min seng  
føle spændingerne forlade min krop
og mærke hvor øm den egentlig er
af at jeg har glemt at lytte til mig selv
Jeg vil hellere se på skyer
eller bare på himlen
om den er lyserød, med skyer på eller blå
Jeg vil hellere trække vejret dybt
helt ned i lungerne, helt ned i maven
og mærke den friske luft inde i mig
Tankerne i mit hoved danser disco
og jeg er ikke selv inviteret
men det er ikke som at gå i byen
ikke som 2-dage-i-streg-bytur  
mere som en konstant orkan
hvor mit ydre er orkanens rolige øje
for hvordan kan du være så rolig, Maria?
Jeg ved det ikke
Jo det ved jeg
Har ikke haft tid til at tænke over det
fordi der er en ny ofring at bringe
Ingen tid til eftertanke
eller fortanke
Før jeg ved af det er cirklen startet igen
Forfra eller bagfra
Det er det med cirkler
lige meget hvor den starter
så vil den nå hele vejen rundt
Ingen tid til eftertanke

*(Marolle)
Naja Feb 2015
Tid
Tik, tak
En lille skrøbelig, men målrettet pind
Fra tal til tal, fra tid til tid
Når den er væk
Kommer den aldrig tilbage
Aldrig kan den stoppes.
Aldrig kan den forhastes.
Mennesker som skynder sig fra en selvopfundet og ueksisterende startlinje, til en uperfekt slutning som man aldrig når.  
En uopfundet og nødvendig grund for vores eksistens, og uden at være fysisk have mere tilstedeværelse end det egentlige menneske.
Hazel May 2017
Jeg er ved at dykke ned i den verden jeg frygter aller mest.
Den verden hvor alting vender op og ned på ALTING.
Jeg ved ikke om jeg skal dykke længere, for jeg er bange for at drukne.
Prøver at bevare roen, selvom at den ro jeg har inden i er en vedvarende uro.
Jo længere jeg dykker ned, jo mere bliver jeg kvalt i den ikke eksisterende tid.
Uforstående er vi vel begge to, mindre og mindre skal der til for at tid ligepludselig bliver eksistentiel og at vi begge ender på bunden kvalt og alene i hinandens tilstedeværelse.
-Hazel
ESSAYS ON
LEADERSHIP FRONTIERS OF AFRICAN LITERATURE
By
Alexander   k   Opicho




Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents                                                                                                                Page
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE 4
THE CURRENT EAST AFRICA IS NOT A LITERARY DESERT 27
AFRICAN WRITERS HAVE CULTURAL RIGHTS TO FORMULATE AND CREATE ENGLISH WORDS 31
LIKE PUSHKIN, AFRICAN WRITERS MUST CREATE THEIR OWN PROFFESSION OF LITERATURE 35
THERE IS POWER IN THE NAME ‘ALEXANDER’ 40
KENYAN COURTS AND PARLIAMENT ARE BETRAYERS OF HUMANE GOVERNANCE 47
AFRO-CHRISTIAN RESPONSE TO RADICAL LITERATURE IS GOOD AND SWAGGERISH 50
YUNUS’S SOCIAL BANKING IS A GOOD BENCHCMARK FOR THIRD WORLD ENTREPRENEURS 54
HEROISM IS NOT GREATNESS BUT HUMILITY IN SERVICE TO HUMANITY 57
KENYAN STUDENTS; YOUR MOBILE INTERNET CULTURE IS ANTI- ACADEMICS 61
WHAT IS THE MAGIC IN THE WORD ‘DRINKARD’ OF AMOS TUTUOLA 63
SOCIETIES IN AFRICA HAVE TO MENTOR BUT NOT CONDEMN THE LIKES OF JULIUS MALEMA 66
AMERICA WILL NOT WIN THE WAR ON GLOBAL TERRORISM 69
AFRICA CAN OVERCOME A MENACE OF **** IN EVERY 30 MINUTES 71
COMPARATIVE ROLES OF AFRICAN-BRAZILIAN LITERATURE IN THE POLITICS OF RACIAL AND GENDER DEMOCRACY 76
NEO-COLONIALISM IS NOT THE MAIN VICE TO THE GAMBIAN POLITICS 85
RELATIVE MEDIA OBJECTIVITY IS ACHIEVEABLE IN AFRICA AGAINST POWER CULTURE AND TYRANNIES OF TASTE 89
READING CULTURE IS GOOD FOR BOTH THE POOR AND THE RICH 96
VIOLENT DEATH IS THE BANE OF AFRICAN WRITERS AND ARTISTS 100
AFRICAN WRITTERS AND ARTISTS MUST ASPIRE BEYOND A NOBEL PRIZE 104
WHAT ARE CULTURAL RIGHTS OF AFRICAN ENGLISH SPEAKERS? 109
WHY IMPRISONMENT OF WRITERS CONTRIBUTED MOST TO AFRICAN LITERATURE 113
DORIS LESSING: A FEMINIST, POET, NOVELIST, WHITE-AFRICANIST AND NOBELITE UN-TIMELY PASSES ON 121
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS 153
AFRICAN LITERATURE WITHOUT POETRY IS LIKE LOVE WITHOUT VAGINAL *** 156



















PROLOGOMENA
BARRACK OBAMA READS MOBY ****
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?














CHAPTER ONE
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE

I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv
sabinasophie Mar 2016
tid
Jeg ventede for lang tid
Jeg mistede min chance

Nu er jeg her, forvirret og træt
Intet har slået mig så hårdt som den sandhed, mit ellers iskolde hjerte fremtryllede i gårsdagens nattetimer
Ej hvor gør det ondt alligevel
Dine fingre rør mig som glasskår mod min skrøbelige hud
Men smerten er næsten længeventet og rar for mig
Det sekund hvor du slipper dit greb omkring mig, kan jeg mærke at jeg lever lidt
Du lader dine hænder forsvinde fra min krop og du hiver mit hjerte med dig.
Det prøver at slå så godt det kan, men det bløder.
Jeg vil aller helst give op og smide det hele på gulvet også bare lade mine frostfarvede øjne erindre smerten
Jeg har fortjent al den smerte jeg kan få
Så vil du ikke nok gøre hvad du kan for at ødelægge mig, vil du ikke nok skære mine fejl ind i min hud, slå dumhederne ind i min hjerne og få mig til at græde så meget at mine øjne svier.
sabina sandager
llcb Dec 2014
Balancen er daglig mellem om vi efterlader et hul i den tid vi har fået os, eller om tidens dyne er lappet fra højre og venstre med oplevelser af træhuler med meterlange lyskæder og lidt for meget indomita vin en ydmyg tirsdag aften. Er der en ting jeg ved, så er det at vi ikke selv bestemmer start - og sluttidspunkter, og **** altså vi bestemmer nok heller ikke selv hvilke dage solen skal glo lidt på os, fordi den synes vi er smukke. Det er der en gud eller en tilfældighed eller en kærlighed eller måske min uvidenhed til at afgøre. Men jeg ved en ting, som forlyder således; din tid er til din disponering. Det er den gave tiden har givet dig, nu hvor den har dårlig samvittighed over at den er begrænset.  Du vælger selv for fanden, og du vælger dagligt. Hver dag, hele tiden. Så vælg det som er godt for dig. Kys dem du vil, fordi du for helvede fik for meget vin og elsker dem en lille smule det øjeblik. Lav den opgave om moskusokse i nordnorge, fordi viljen til fuldførelse gavner mere end du overhovedet aner. Skriv det læserbrev, fordi der skal gøres noget ved det problem og du har lysten til udførelsen af initiativet. Du kender dig og jeg kender mig, og tiden kan sku godt bruges på en velunderrettet og skøn, skøn, skøn måde samtidig. Så brug din tid, så du gør godt for smukke du.
AJ Aug 2013
Confession time,
Where's my priest?
When I was little I had it all planned out.
"In the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit, Amen.
It has been six months since my last confession and these are my sins."
I fought with my family.
I swore.
And I lied.
That is what I said for seven years.
I loved to throw a wrench in the machine.
When I was fourteen I added in a little tid bit to my routine.
"I am gay".
It was the longest pause I had ever heard.
And then it went completely ignored.
How rude of me to try and provoke you, father.
anonym Jan 2015
Jeg skal have dig ud af mit system
Men du har sat dig
Som en virus mit immunforsvar ikke kan fjerne
Mine tanker vender tilbage til dig
Hele tiden

Du er virussen
Der ikke vil forsvinde
Og alligevel
Har du ingen intentioner om at blive

Du ved det ikke selv
Men du er virussen der aldrig forsvinder
For jeg fodrer den med opmærksomhed

Hvordan
Kan mine tanker altid være hos dig
Når hele mit system ved
At intet nogensinde har været mere spild af tid
End at dedikerer min tid til dig

Jeg skal have dig ud af mit system
Men du har sat dig
Som hovedpulsåren jeg ville forbløde uden
Som virussen mit immunforsvar ikke kan bekæmpe
Som en opmærksomhedskrævende tanke
Jeg bliver ved med at vende tilbage til

For du er kærligheden jeg aldrig vil glemme
-men det har du allerede
carololololo Nov 2014
den mørke tid kommer os i møde
den møder os ikke med glæde og kram
nej
den møder dig ikke lige så varmt som da du
mødte ham
nej
den kommer med kulde
med blæst og uhygge
ingen kan føle sig trygge
nej
vi gemmer os
under facader
under smil og under grin
og endnu en gang forsøges
mørket at druknes med
den billige vin

*c.t
Anna Feb 2015
tid
tid er bare noget mennesker har skabt
så ens liv ikke virker mindre værd
end det faktisk er
for vi er omringet af uendelighed
der snart vil få en ende
Incipit Prohemium Secundi Libri.

Out of these blake wawes for to sayle,
O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth clere;
For in this see the boot hath swich travayle,
Of my conning, that unnethe I it stere:
This see clepe I the tempestous matere  
Of desespeyr that Troilus was inne:
But now of hope the calendes biginne.
O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse,
To ryme wel this book, til I have do;  
Me nedeth here noon other art to use.
For-why to every lovere I me excuse,
That of no sentement I this endyte,
But out of Latin in my tonge it wryte.

Wherfore I nil have neither thank ne blame  
Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely,
Disblameth me if any word be lame,
For as myn auctor seyde, so seye I.
Eek though I speke of love unfelingly,
No wondre is, for it no-thing of newe is;  
A blind man can nat Iuggen wel in hewis.

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge
With-inne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,  
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And for-thy if it happe in any wyse,
That here be any lovere in this place  
That herkneth, as the storie wol devyse,
How Troilus com to his lady grace,
And thenketh, so nolde I nat love purchace,
Or wondreth on his speche or his doinge,
I noot; but it is me no wonderinge;  

For every wight which that to Rome went,
Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere;
Eek in som lond were al the gamen shent,
If that they ferde in love as men don here,
As thus, in open doing or in chere,  
In visitinge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes;
For-thy men seyn, ech contree hath his lawes.

Eek scarsly been ther in this place three
That han in love seid lyk and doon in al;
For to thy purpos this may lyken thee,  
And thee right nought, yet al is seyd or shal;
Eek som men grave in tree, som in stoon wal,
As it bitit; but sin I have begonne,
Myn auctor shal I folwen, if I conne.

Exclipit prohemium Secundi Libri.

Incipit Liber Secundus.

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,  
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fleting every mede;
Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde  
As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,

That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche,
Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene,
That, coude he never so wel of loving preche,
It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene;  
So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene
In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,
And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.

The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay,
Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge,  
Why she forshapen was; and ever lay
Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe,
Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe
How Tereus gan forth hir suster take,
That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake;  

And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse,
Remembringe him his erand was to done
From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse;
And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone
To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone  
Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde;
Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde!

Whan he was come un-to his neces place,
'Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he;
And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace,  
And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she,
With-inne a paved parlour; and they three
Herden a mayden reden hem the geste
Of the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, 'Ma dame, god yow see,  
With al your book and al the companye!'
'Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she,
And up she roos, and by the hond in hye
She took him faste, and seyde, 'This night thrye,
To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!'  
And with that word she doun on bench him sette.

'Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,
If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;
'But I am sory that I have yow let
To herknen of your book ye preysen thus;  
For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us.
Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!'
'Uncle,' quod she, 'your maistresse is not here!'

With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,
'This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede;  
And we han herd how that king Laius deyde
Thurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;
And here we stenten at these lettres rede,
How the bisshop, as the book can telle,
Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.'  

Quod Pandarus, 'Al this knowe I my-selve,
And al the assege of Thebes and the care;
For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: --
But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare;
Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare;  
Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce,
And lat us don to May som observaunce.'

'A! God forbede!' quod she. 'Be ye mad?
Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save?
By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad,  
Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave!
It sete me wel bet ay in a cave
To bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves;
Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.'

'As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus,  
'Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.'
'Now, uncle dere,' quod she, 'tel it us
For goddes love; is than the assege aweye?
I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.'
'Nay, nay,' quod he, 'as ever mote I thryve!  
It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.'

'Ye, holy god,' quod she, 'what thing is that?
What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis!
For al this world ne can I reden what
It sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this;  
And but your-selven telle us what it is,
My wit is for to arede it al to lene;
As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.'

'And I your borow, ne never shal, for me,
This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!'  
'And why so, uncle myn? Why so?' quod she.
'By god,' quod he, 'that wole I telle as blyve;
For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye;
I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!'  

Tho gan she wondren more than biforn
A thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste;
For never, sith the tyme that she was born,
To knowe thing desired she so faste;
And with a syk she seyde him at the laste,  
'Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese,
Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.'

So after this, with many wordes glade,
And freendly tales, and with mery chere,
Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade  
In many an unkouth glad and deep matere,
As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere;
Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde,
That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde.

'Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus,  
'Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde;
And eek his fresshe brother Troilus,
The wyse worthy Ector the secounde,
In whom that ever vertu list abounde,
As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse,  
Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.'

'In good feith, eem,' quod she, 'that lyketh me;
They faren wel, god save hem bothe two!
For trewely I holde it greet deyntee
A kinges sone in armes wel to do,  
And been of good condiciouns ther-to;
For greet power and moral vertu here
Is selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.'

'In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus;
'But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye,  
That is to mene, Ector and Troilus,
That certainly, though that I sholde deye,
They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye,
As any men that liveth under the sonne,
Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne.  

'Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle:
In al this world ther nis a bettre knight
Than he, that is of worthinesse welle;
And he wel more vertu hath than might.
This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight.  
The same prys of Troilus I seye,
God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.'

'By god,' quod she, 'of Ector that is sooth;
Of Troilus the same thing trowe I;
For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth  
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly
To every wight, that al the prys hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be.'

'Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus;  
'For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been,
He might have wondred up-on Troilus;
For never yet so thikke a swarm of been
Ne fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen;
And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere,  
Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!"

'Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste,
Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus,
Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste;
Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus:  
He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us;
That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde,
Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde.

'Therto he is the freendlieste man
Of grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve;  
And wher him list, best felawshipe can
To suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.'
And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,
He took his leve, and seyde, 'I wol go henne.'
'Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne.  

'What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone,
And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?
Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to done
With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.'
And every wight that was a-boute hem tho,  
That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde,
Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.

Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende,
Of hire estat and of hir governaunce,
Quod Pandarus, 'Now is it tyme I wende;  
But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce,
And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce:
What list yow thus your-self to disfigure,
Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?'

'A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she,  
'Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?'
'No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he,
'And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis,
If I it tolde, and ye it **** amis.
Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille  
Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille.

'For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve,
And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe,
And by the blisful Venus that I serve,
Ye been the womman in this world livinge,  
With-oute paramours, to my wittinge,
That I best love, and lothest am to greve,
And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.'

'Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, 'grant mercy;
Your freendship have I founden ever yit;  
I am to no man holden trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quit;
And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit,
As in my gilt I shal you never offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende.  

'But, for the love of god, I yow beseche,
As ye ben he that I love most and triste,
Lat be to me your fremde manere speche,
And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:'
And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste,  
And seyde, 'Gladly, leve nece dere,
Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.'

With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste,
And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte,
And seyde, 'Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste,  
How-so it be that som men hem delyte
With subtil art hir tales for to endyte,
Yet for al that, in hir entencioun
Hir tale is al for som conclusioun.

'And sithen thende is every tales strengthe,  
And this matere is so bihovely,
What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe
To yow, that been my freend so feithfully?'
And with that word he gan right inwardly
Biholden hir, and loken on hir face,  
And seyde, 'On suche a mirour goode grace!'

Than thoughte he thus: 'If I my tale endyte
Ought hard, or make a proces any whyle,
She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte,
And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle.  
For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle
Ther-as they can nat pleynly understonde;
For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde --'

And loked on hir in a besy wyse,
And she was war that he byheld hir so,  
And seyde, 'Lord! So faste ye me avyse!
Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?'
'Yes, yes,' quod he, 'and bet wole er I go;
But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye
Be fortunat, for now men shal it see.  

'For to every wight som goodly aventure
Som tyme is shape, if he it can receyven;
And if that he wol take of it no cure,
Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,
Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven,  
But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;
And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.

'Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye conne it take;
And, for the love of god, and eek of me,  
Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake.
What sholde I lenger proces of it make?
Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,
If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon.

'And sith I speke of good entencioun,  
As I to yow have told wel here-biforn,
And love as wel your honour and renoun
As creature in al this world y-born;
By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,
And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye,  
Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye.

'Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to?
Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe;
For hardely the werste of this is do;
And though my tale as now be to yow newe,  
Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe;
And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge,
To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.'

'Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,'
Quod she, 'com of, and tel me what it is;  
For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye,
And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis.
For whether it be wel or be amis,
Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:'
'So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle:  

'Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone,
The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free,
Which alwey for to do wel is his wone,
The noble Troilus, so loveth thee,
That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be.  
Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye?
Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye.

'But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve;
Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen;
Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve --'  
With that the teres braste out of his yen,
And seyde, 'If that ye doon us bothe dyen,
Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire;
What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre?

'Allas! He which that is my lord so dere,  
That trewe man, that noble gentil knight,
That nought desireth but your freendly chere,
I see him deye, ther he goth up-right,
And hasteth him, with al his fulle might,
For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente;  
Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente!

'If it be so that ye so cruel be,
That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche,
That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see,
No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche,  
If ye be swich, your beautee may not strecche
To make amendes of so cruel a dede;
Avysement is good bifore the nede.

'Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!
Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote!  
Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees!
Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!
And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote,
If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe,
Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe!  

'And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;
For me were lever, thou and I and he
Were hanged, than I sholde been his baude,
As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see:
I am thyn eem, the shame were to me,  
As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente,
Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente.

'Now understond, for I yow nought requere,
To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste,
But only that ye make him bettre chere  
Than ye han doon er this, and more feste,
So that his lyf be saved, at the leste;
This al and som, and playnly our entente;
God help me so, I never other mente.

'Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis,  
Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.
I sette the worste that ye dredden this,
Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon:
Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon,
That every wight, but he be fool of kinde,  
Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde.

'What? Who wol deme, though he see a man
To temple go, that he the images eteth?
Thenk eek how wel and wy
AnnaStorm Dec 2014
Som programmerede robotter søger vi efter drenge
For vi vil gerne glemme at vi er robotter
Stivnede stål i en tid fuld af uopdaget blødt guld
Men guldet er sjældent hvor vi er nu
Sammen ruster vi i vores bløde senge
Værelser med kvindetøj og madrasser
Som at glemme hvem der kunne være
Og hvad vi ér udenfor sengene
Vi er ramt af en tid hvor ure går bedre end os
Og hvor vi langsomt irre og bliver grønne
Nu, er nu hvor vi må elske unge
Fordi guld ikke ruster
Kampklar
og så rækker du sølvgrå hænder ud
som de siger, jeg skal holde fast i
men jeg har ikke kraften til at fastholde, og du er smukkere, når
du ikke taler
så vi siger ikke så meget, men
lyden af åndedrag gør mig nervøs
så jeg ryster, men siger bare, at jeg
fryser, selvom det snart er forår igen
jeg har ikke sovet siden den nat, du sagde, jeg spildte min tid på ord og skæve digte, jeg aldrig læste højt
du gemmer gin i tasken, men så længe jeg er vågen
og ser solen gabe i røde nuancer,
ved jeg i det mindste, at du er alt
jeg spilder min tid på, men jeg lever af tidsfordriv, og med dig går tiden så
hurtigt
llcb Dec 2014
Petrichor lugten af eftertænksomhed.
De dage hvor du åbner dit vindue en lille anelse
minder dig om alle de store dele – såsom du er en lille del af en del.
Universets uendelighed som er uendeligt ubegribeligt og uhåndterligt.
Tid og tider, som kan betænkes i større uendeligheder en selve stjerners hjem.

De stjerner som minder dig om at almægtige ting findes uden at prale.
De lyser jo kun når alt andet sover.

Fortæller dig alt uden egentlig at fortælle dig noget.

Kun fra åben himmel mindes du om; at storme og solskin, ravmørke og blændende lys eksisterer under samme åbne tag.
Kun fra åben himmel mindes du om; at verden skal erfares ud fra din erfaring om at erindringer skaber erfaring om eksistensen.
Den smukke eksistens, som du kender men kun eftermæles når du åbner ud til og ser med mere en bare blå små nethinder.

Jeg byder CO2 og alverdens støj velkommen, så længe at reinkarneret regn og vild vind trænger gennem mit vindues sprække og stjerner fra tid til anden praler for mig i mørket, når man som jeg synes at natten bruges bedre med en Marlboro cigaret og halvkold kaffe i hånden, end dagen med stress i sindet.

Mit vindue står ihvertfald åbent, fordi eftertænksomheden skal erfares.
Nikoline Oct 2014
da vi først mødtes
plantede du liljer
på min altan
og roser
i mit sind
og over sommeren
kom du gerne forbi
for at pleje og vande dem
og elskede
at se dem vokse
men det blev oktober
og ikke alle blomster
kan klare kulden
og langsomt visnede alt
nu
er liljerne
faldet sammen
og jeg går ikke ud
på min altan længere
rosenbladene
er faldet af
der er kun torne
tilbage i mit sind
og jeg kan mærke
at jeg slår rødder
Marolle Dec 2014
Jeg drejer min antikke globus
hvor skal turen gå hen?
Et sted fjernt, et sted opdigtet eller et sted i mit sind?
Et sted med kærlighed?
Et sted med fred?
Et sted med lykke?
Et sted med overskud?
Et sted uden savn?
Et sted uden tårer?
Min sjæl hungrer efter alle disse ting
Jeg ved godt jeg er elsket
og jeg ved godt jeg ikke er alene
det gør bare så fandens ondt
når livet er noget rod
og man føler det hele sejler
og bølgerne er lige så store
som på det åbne, kolde og dybe hav.
Derfor drejer jeg min globus og drømmer
og håber på bedre tider

*(Marolle)
Marolle May 2015
drømmen om storbyslivet og drømmen om ****
mareridt om landsbylivet og mareridt om hvile
det var sådan jeg havde forestillet mig det
livet i byen versus livet i landet
min forestilling var korrekt i starten
nyt hjem, ny hverdag, nye bekendtskaber
jeg faldt på plads, jeg etablerede mig, jeg integrerede mig
jeg blev det menneske jeg ikke ville være
det menneske der altid er forjaget
det menneske der ikke har tid til at smile til folk på gaden
det menneske der ikke kan andet end at smalltalke
jeg blev det menneske jeg ikke ville være
endelig opdager jeg denne forvandling af mig selv
jeg husker, hvem jeg var engang
jeg husker de stille morgener, med den friske luft
jeg husker gåtur med mine forældres labrador
jeg husker roen
jeg husker smilene
jeg husker minder
jeg savner
jeg holder disse minder i live
jeg bliver mindet om dem ofte
specielt når jeg har de dårlige dage
når jeg så tilbringer tid med mine home-girls
da opdager jeg, at det er der jeg har gemt dem
alle minderne vi deler, alle minderne om drømmene
disse er splittet mellem personer fra landsbylivet
personer der kender mig fra mit gamle liv
disse personer søger jeg til på dårlige dage
for jeg blev det menneske jeg ikke ville være
nye bekendtskaber forsøger at forstå mine minder
og omvendt forsøger jeg at forstå deres
men det kan aldrig blive det samme
for vi har levet forskellige liv før vi mødtes
og forståelsen vil derfor aldrig være fuldendt
man kan snakke om her og nu begivenheder
og forsøge at skabe fælles minder
der kan snøre os sammen som et spindelvæv
eller et ekstra sikkerhedsnet
men nye bekendtskaber vil forevig og altid
minde mig om den jeg engang var og den jeg er blevet
for jeg er blevet det menneske jeg ikke ville være  

*(Marolle)
Kan ikke længere kende mig selv og føler ikke jeg har forandret mig til noget bedre og nyere. I går mødtes jeg med en barndomsveninde og følelsen af hjemme og gamle minder var fantastisk. Det kurerede mig for en tid, indtil nu.
Frederik B Dec 2014
Når først det har stået på i nogen tid, så begynder det at kede mig. Uanset følelse, varighed, eller pris.
Så vil det aldrig være nok.
Dette gælder både mit
Kærlighedsliv
Dobbeltliv
Byliv

Når først det har kedet mig i nogen tid, så begynder det at ødelægge mig. Uanset betydning, konsekvens  eller mængde.
Så vil det aldrig holde op.
Dette gælder både min
Dysfunktion
Frustration
Depression

*(f.b)
LIGE SÅ LIGEGYLDIGT SOM ALLE MINE ANDRE DIGTE, MEN DET TÆLLER VEL SÅ LÆNGE FOLK LÆSER DET - IK?
ungdomspoet Apr 2015
tid
sammen med dig
stoppede tiden
alt stod helt stille
alene uden dig
startede tiden
alt gik meget langsomt
du planter så mange blomster
langs min gane, og selvom de
dufter, kan jeg stadig ikke trække
vejret ordentligt
du planter så meget kærlighed
omkring mit hjerte, og selvom jeg
vil leve hele mit liv med dig,
kvæles jeg hver gang, du ser på
mig i for lang tid ad gangen
andenrangs poet Apr 2015
angstens afgrund er
meget dyb
og jeg har forvandlet mig til
et af de mennesker der altid
sidder i vindueskarmen
og ser verden suse forbi
mens jeg blot bliver siddende
i frygt for at de tynde stankelben
skal vakle og vælte
blandt fremmede og aldrig blive set
af nogen eller noget

din tid går
min står stille

jeg har prøvet at skifte mit blod
ud med tør hvidvin og jeg har prøvet
at samle spyttet i min mund og lade
det sive ud af mundvigen og ned i mit skød
men det eneste der kommer ud er
små lodne edderkopper
der får det til at klø og kradse
over hele kroppen
mens små minder af glas
flyver om min krop og
sætter sig som små blødende
sår der aldrig bliver til ar

og jeg bliver siddende i min vindueskarm
for jeg ved at mine tynde stankelben
vil vakle og vælte
og gulvet vil brase sammen under mig

de siger allesammen jeg skal vågne op
...men angstens afgrund er dyb
så jeg bliver siddende her i min vindueskarm
mens din tid går og min står stille
AnnaStorm Dec 2014
S-togene er proppet af en stivnet mænge
På perronen splintres glas som et vandfald af reflektioner
Øjnene skjult bag briller, stiger han af toget
Han møder én på perronen
De spotter hinanden fra lang afstand
Kvinden i sort og med solbriller skyggende for øjnene af glas
En øredøvende larm får dem i trance hånd i hånd
Ventende på S-tog og med briller for øjnene
Scanner sig ind og ud og undslipper den frosne forsamling
Skrider i gruset
Hvorom alting er, er de to brillebærere forelsket
I en tid fuld af S-toge og glas
Kan man være forelsket i en sådan tid?
og det var sådan en morgen
hvor solen strakte sig i hver en
strengformet sene
jeg kunne mærke sygdommen
havde forladt min krop
jeg lod aldrig tanker omkring
dit spindelvævssind gro fast
i længere tid, vidste det ville
sætte sig som ar på sjælen
den slags man påstår ikke kan
smitte ved berøring
den slags påstande jeg påstår
de forkerte mennesker har påstået
du gjorde mig mere syg end rask
rev celler i stykker og efterlod
bidemærker langs min rygsøjle
jeg græd oftere end jeg grinte
sommetider med tårer i øjnene
andre gange med metalsakse
i håret og øjne af granit
jeg glemte helt hvordan det var
at være alene
da du havde forladt min krop
jeg glemte helt, jeg var sindssyg
- digte om et papmachesind
det her digt er lavet af det, du ikke kan fortrænge
han havde mælkehvid hud og duftede af jordplantager,
da han sagde dit navn til din syttenårs fødselsdag
dengang du troede, ord var lavet af papmache
kan du huske, hvordan novembervinden rev i din
hud, hvordan dine negle skar mod dine ribben
det her digt er lavet af vaser, du har smadret
og nyvaskede lagner, du væltede sort kaffe udover
har du synder i dine håndflader fra alle de nætter,
du glemte at drømme?
det her digt er lavet af det, du ikke kan fortrænge
ligesom det faktum, at du voksede op i en tid, hvor
kræft er mere almindeligt
end ordet
"undskyld"
Nikoline Jun 2014
du har brugt to år på at fortælle mig
at regnen på din rude, lyden af dråberne, der faldt tungt,
lød som mit grin; beroligende og uendeligt
at bladene, der falder til jorden, midt i oktober, så sørgelige ud, og du svor på
at sådan en sorg, den mangel af glæde og lys, sådan skulle jeg aldrig føle
og smagen af kaffe, dit yndlings drug, var præcis som du så mig;
varm, stærk, vedvarende og efterlod dig med tanken om, hvornår du kunne få mere
tre uger har jeg nu været foruden disse ord
din berøring
dit nærvær
tre uger fyldt med kaffe, regn og efterår, men intet har jeg hørt

måske du skulle have brugt mindre tid på at snakke
og mere tid på at elske mig
jeg vil jo allerhelst lade dig flakke urørt forbi mit
keramikhjerte, der er placeret tilfældigt med søvnige
hænder fra sidste fredag nat, hvor du gik uden ord
jeg vil allerhelst pakke de ting ind, jeg allerede
har forvildet mig ud i at pakke op,  men tiden
overhæler mig, indhenter mig, forhindrer mig
og  alligevel føler jeg, at jeg har mistet tid jeg ikke kan
få tilbage igen, tynget af de transparente vægge og nu føles
glæden omkring mig så iscenesat og irrelevant
det smager af løgne, når jeg tygger på det længe nok
og samtidig så tætsiddende, klistrende, omfavnende at jeg
bliver bange for, det er ægte
jeg er malplaceret og falsk, mens jeg kæderyger og
snakker med vinden, fordi den slår igen med kolde
stød, som ingen andre tør fortælle mig, jeg fortjener
jeg siger, jeg ikke er bange for noget, og at gul
neglelak er det eneste, der kan gøre mig glad, men
jeg er bange for overraskelser, for den formiddag,
du ringede, rystede mine hænder som skælvende blade

lad mig drukne i cirkler af dårlig samvittighed, ja selv
samme samvittighed jeg i tirsdags sagde, jeg ikke ejede
få mig ud og i vandet, hvor tilværelsen kun kan se på
klip mine vinger og lad mig drukne i stemmerne, der
fortæller mig, jeg skulle have vidst bedre og vidst mere
for vi afslutter hinandens sætninger og cigaretter, og
jeg ved godt,
det er min skyld nu
- digte om onsdage
AnnaStorm Dec 2014
Jeg glemmer tid og sted
Jeg glemmer hvem og hvor
Jeg glemmer alt klogt
Jeg husker intet vigtigt
Jeg husker kun dig
Din hele dig, du som hel
Din lugt, din sved, din øl, dit fedtede hår
Du husker tid og sted
Du husker hvem og hvor
Du husker alt vigtigt
Du husker ikke mig
Du husker kun dig
Din hele dig, du som hel
Din lugt, din sved, din øl, dit fedtede hår
Isn't it odd how the less you want me, the more I want you?
Or how the less you're available, the more I want to see you?
How the more I think of you, the less I think of him?
And yet somehow I still love him so much.
I do not want to let him go, but I want you too.
Evil me.
Synnical me.
Stupid,
immature,
despicable me.
I love him with all of my heart, but somehow I still have feelings for you.
But you and I have never been together,
And at this rate never will be.
And this little tid bit of information drives me crazy.
I know for a fact you like me.
Though I don't say it.
You know for a fact I like you,
But you hide it.
I show to the world I love him,
We both know it.
So why do we play these flirty little games?
Texting all night, walking together in the hallways,
Songs on the radio remind me of you,
So flirty, so fun, exciting and new.
But he is one person I will not betray.
I love him so much, even more each day.
But for some reason you have the power to thwart our love.
Just enough to make me ponder, to puzzle.
What is it with you that gives off so much chemistry?
Especially when I am in love with another? it scares me.
You scare me in fact, no other way to say it.
I fear you because I am in fact so drawn to you.
Here in lies the danger,
Of human nature.
Jeg tager det stille og roligt denne gang,
jeg forventer intet af fremtiden,
men jeg forventer troskab og ærlighed, hvis jeg skal blive i det.

Jeg vil være der for ham og støtte ham,
men jeg vil hverken kontrollere ham eller bestemme over ham,
jeg vil stole på ham og lade ham nyde sit liv med sine venner og veninder, men jeg forventer han kun vil have min kærlighed og det er nok for ham.

Jeg kan virkelig godt lide ham, jeg er stolt af ham og elsker hans personlighed, han er helt sig selv og han er ikke bange for hvad andre tænker.

Jeg elsker når han kysser mig når vi vågner, nusser mig og putter sig helt op ad mig, hele natten, ligemeget hvor varmt det er, er han altid helt tæt på mig hele natten.

Han er fantastisk og han fandt mig og omvendt i en svær tid, men den tid har ændret mig både fysisk og psykisk. Jeg elsker mit nye jeg og det er sikkert også derfor det her er rigtigt denne gang, fordi jeg endelig har fundet mig selv og jeg elsker mig selv
Kara Maroney Mar 2013
I met you.
You were a stranger.
A stranger that I needed to acquaint.
Soon, your voice was enough to make me forget all that haunted me.
Now your voice is the ghost.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep.
Maybe it’s the last traces of THC tickling my senses
Or maybe I really am crazy
But I can’t finish a ******* thought without another coursing through me
Everything about you courses through me.
Your stare
Your touch. Your soft, gentle touch.
The way you perform magic on my body, just because I know you’re on your way.
Today, you sat next to me.
You sat close which was nice.
You could have sat farther.
But instead your knee touched mine. Your shoulder touched mine.
But still, I couldn’t look at you.
Before I couldn’t look at you for fear of blushing.
Now I can’t bear to look you in the eye
For fear of you knowing just how much I care.
And not seeing that same deepness in yours.

Now, every once in a while I get a glimmer of hope.
Just a bit.
Enough to know what we had wasn’t a hoax.
But then again
Every once in a while I also feel a stab
Right in the heart,
Every time I feel your rejection
Perfectly sober now.
And I still can’t think clearly
Some say you’re an *******
Some say you’re great
You think you’re terrible.
I think
I think
I think
No.
No one really cares about what I think.
They understand, yes.
But it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter that I’m in love with you.
All that matters is that you do not belong to me.
All that matters is that you hurt me.
Why do these things, the things that are the only ones that matter to others,
Get pushed away by me?
The one that does matter?
I guess I might be losing control every day.
Losing you, losing the feelings you had for me.
Losing my sanity along with it.
I guess I shouldn’t give you that much credit though.
You aren’t all that makes me Krayzee.
Exams, dwindling of grades, and being broke probably have something to do with it too.
However,
I’d be lying if I said that ghost of a voice didn’t make me shiver
That just the memory of being in your car didn’t make me quiver
That every time I made you smile didn’t make me feel on top of this demented world.
They say people’s opinion of the world reflects their opinion on themselves.
Demented.
Definition?
de·ment·ed [dih-men-tid]
adjective
1.crazy; insane; mad
How ironic.
Guess I am Crazy Kara.
But I guess you’re already there as well.

— The End —