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what's broken can always be fixed, what's fixed will always be broken" ur Jens Lekmans sång "your arms around me"




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MINA TEXTER, Arkiv 53 Texter

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Älskar poesi speciellt Adrienne Rich och W.B Yeats texter.

"North American Time":


When my dreams showed signs

of becoming

politically correct

no unruly images

escaping beyond borders

when walking in the street I found my

themes cut out for me

knew what I would not report

for fear of enemies’ usage

then I began to wonder


Everything we write

will be used against us

or against those we love.

These are the terms,

take them or leave them.

Poetry never stood a chance

of standing outside history.

One line typed twenty years ago

can be blazed on a wall in spraypaint

glorify art as detachment

or torture of those we

did not love but also

did not want to kill

We move but our words stand

become responsible

and this is verbal privilege


Try sitting at a typewriter

one calm summer evening

at a table by a window

in the country, try pretending

your time does not exist

that you are simply you

that the imagination simply strays

like a great moth, unintentional

try telling yourself

you are not accountable

to the life of your tribe

the breath of your planet


It doesn’t matter what you think.

Words are found responsible

all you can do is choose them

or choose

to remain silent. Or, you never had a choice,

which is why the words that do stand

are responsible

and this is verbal privilege


Suppose you want to write

of a woman braiding

another woman’s hair–

staightdown, or with beads and shells

in three-strand plaits or corn-rows–

you had better know the thickness

the length the pattern

why she decides to braid her hair

how it is done to her

what country it happens in

what else happens in that country

You have to know these things


Poet, sister: words–

whether we like it or not–

stand in a time of their own.

no use protesting I wrote that

before Kollontai was exiled

Rosa Luxembourg, Malcolm,

Anna Mae Aquash, murdered,

before Treblinka, Birkenau,

Hiroshima, before Sharpeville,

Biafra, Bangla Desh, Boston,

Atlanta, Soweto, Beirut, Assam

–those faces, names of places

sheared from the almanac

of North American time


I am thinking this in a country

where words are stolen out of mouths

as bread is stolen out of mouths

where poets don’t go to jail

for being poets, but for being

dark-skinned, female, poor.

I am writing this in a time

when anything we write

can be used against those we love

where the context is never given

though we try to explain, over and over

For the sake of poetry at least

I need to know these things


Sometimes, gliding at night

in a plane over New York City

I have felt like some messenger

called to enter, called to engage

this field of light and darkness.

A grandiose idea, born of flying.

But underneath the grandiose idea

is the thought that what I must engage

after the plane has rage onto the tarmac

after climbing my old stair, sitting down

at my old window

is meant to break my heart and reduce me to silence.


In North America time stumbles on

without moving, only releasing

a certain North American pain.

Julia de Burgos wrote:

That my grandfather was a slave

is my grief; had he been a master

that would have been my shame.

A poet’s words, hung over a door

in North America, in the year


The almost-full moon rises

timeless speaking of change

out of the Bronx, the Harlem River

the drowned towns of the Quabbin

the pilfered burial mounds

the toxic swamps, the testing-grounds

and I start to speak again.

Adrienne Rich poem from " Your Native Land, Your life Poems (1986)

O CLOUD-PALE eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes  
The poets labouring all their days  
To build a perfect beauty in rhyme  
Are overthrown by a woman’s gaze  
And by the unlabouring brood of the skies:          
And therefore my heart will bow, when dew  
Is dropping sleep, until God burn time,  
Before the unlabouring stars and you.

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939).  The Wind Among the Reeds.  1899.

Blev medlem april 2012

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