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Postar några dikter av en av mina favoritförfattare - orubbliga Allen Ginsberg, beatpoet extraordinär!

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Howl
Allen Ginsberg

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats
floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs
illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the
scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror
through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada &
Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront
boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks
of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of
wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of
brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate
Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State
out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of
hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on
the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in
Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no
broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively
vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown
rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard
to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and
ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their
dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos
wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild
cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering
their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond
& naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed
shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual
golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off
the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt
and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared
to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and
Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings &
especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up
out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open
to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of
the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates
of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of
gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their
heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where
they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up
clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of
sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the
ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on
negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic
European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears
and the blast of colossal steam whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or
Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find
out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver
& brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul
illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in
their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific
to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung
jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of
the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy
occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the
wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in
the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at
4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last
piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing
but a hopeful little bit of hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the
catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the
soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together
jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking
with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come
after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of
America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to
the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys
sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose
buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies!
Moloch whose breast is a canni- bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless
Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the
cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the
specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and
manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me
out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral
nations! invincible mad houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which
exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- spairs! Ten years'
animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the
roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of the actual pingpong of
the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against
the fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from
the superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- rades all together singing the final stanzas
of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs
all night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- lapse O skinny legions run
outside O starry spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

Sunflower Sutra
Allen Ginsberg

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur-
rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our-
selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-
rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber-
ance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail-
road and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomo-
tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomo-
tive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're bles-
sed by our own seed golden hairy naked ac-
complishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-
down vision.

Seascape With Sun and Eagle
Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Freer
than most birds
an eagle flies up
over San Francisco
freer than most places
soars high up
floats and glides high up
in the still
open spaces

flown from the mountains
floated down
far over ocean
where the sunset has begun
a mirror of itself

He sails high over
turning and turning
where seaplanes might turn
where warplanes might burn

He wheels about burning
in the red sun
climbs and glides
and doubles back upon himself
now over ocean
now over land
high over pinwheels suck in sand
where a rollercoaster used to stand

soaring eagle setting sun
All that is left of our wilderness

Mitt yndlingsdikt:

Du skal være tro.

Men ikke mot mennesker
som i gold grådighet
henger ved dine hender.

Ikke mot noe ideal
som svulmer i store bokstaver
uten å røre ved ditt hjerte.

Ikke mot noe bud
som gjør deg til en utlending
i ditt eget legeme.

Ikke mot noen drøm
du ikke selv har drømt....

når var du tro?

Var du tro
når du knelte i skyggen
av andres avgudsbilder? Var du tro
når dine handlinger overdøvet
lyden av ditt hjertesalg?

Var du tro
når du ikke bedrog
den du ikke elsket?

Var du tro
når din feighet forkledde seg
og kalte seg samvittighet?

Nei.

Men når det som rører ved deg
gav tone.
Når din egen puls
gav rytme til handling.
Når du var ett med det
som sitret i deg
da var du tro!

(André Bjerke)

Gud så fint dikt Hege Elisabeth! Skjønna godt at d e ditt yndlingsdikt!

"Ulva":

Gud så fint dikt Hege Elisabeth! Skjønna godt at d e ditt yndlingsdikt!

Ja det er sjeldent en tekst rører meg slik som denne. Men Andrè Bjerke har mye fint da.

Dette er nå en sang da, men synes den er så fin...

Samefolkets sang

Langt nord under Store Bjørnen
sakte stiger Samelandet:
Vidde seg bak vidde strekker,
sjø ved sjø hvor øyet rekker.
Lier, åser, snaue rabber
hever seg mot himmelbrynet.
Elver bruser, skoger suser,
stålgrå, steile fjell-nes skyter
mot det ville hav seg ut.

Vintertid med storm og kulde,
snøflokk uten mål og måte.
Sameslekten dog av hjertet
henger ved sitt hjem og yrke.
For en vandrer månen skinner,
nordlys flimrer, stjerner tindrer.
Reingrynt høres mellom krattet,
sus og brus fra sjø og slette,
pulkestøy langs vintervei.

Og når sommersolen gyller
fjell og skoger, hav og strende,
fiskere i gull-glans gynger,
gynger stilt på hav og innsjø.
Gyllent glinser svømmefugler
og som selv de store elver.
Staker glimter, årer glitrer,
folket under sang det farer
gjennom stiller, stryk og foss.

Samelandets ætt og stamme
utholdt har og tålt så mange
herjingstokter, bannskaps-
handler,
frekke, falske skattefuter.
Hill deg, seige samestamme!
Hill deg, fredens rot og flamme!
Aldri er der kamper kjempet,
aldri broder-blod har runnet
i den stille sameslekt.

Våre fedre før har seiret
over dem som urett øvet.
La oss også motstå, brødre,
dem som oss vil underkue !
Solens sønner seige avkom !
Aldri skal du overvinnes,
om det gylne språk du vokter,
husker dine fedres tale:
Sameland for samene!

(Isak Saba)

Noen som har den på samisk?

Dette var kjempeinteressant. Denne sangen har alltid vært spesiell for meg fordi det var en strid mellom Isak Sabas familie og min mors. Det blir nemlig påstått at min morfar laget teksten, han var en flink dikter og hadde en bok i en kommodeskuff som ingen i familien fikk se. Men under krigen skulle han redde boken sin, og andre eiendeler i huset før tyskerne brant hele Finnmark. Han ble tatt - familien lå i skjul oppe i en provisorisk gamme på fjellet, og morfar ble skutt. De bandt ham fast og kastet ham inn i huset de hadde tent på. Min mor var da 15 år gammel og fra skjulestedet på fjelet kunne de høre tre skudd. Dagen etter fant min mor og mormor liket av morfar. V¨år familie vet inderlig godt at morfar har skrevet denne teksten. Han het Mattis Iversen, og kjente Isak Saba og hans familie veldig godt. Men jeg tror at Isak Saba har laget melodien til teksten, sp de har begge en del av æren for denne.

Og forresten, kanskje jeg kan skaffe den på samisk. Sangen er kjempevakker!!!

Ja om du kan skaffe den på samisk hadde vært bra! Er enig med deg, sangen er kjempe nydelig!! 

Svar til Hege Elisabeth:

Det du skriver om samefolkets sang og striden mellom Isak Saba og din familie er interessante opplysninger. Jeg har aldri hørt om dette før, jeg tror heller ikke at så mange andre kjenner til det. I alle fall ikke av dagens samegenerasjon.  Jeg ønsker dette kan avklares mer. Finnes mer dokumentasjon, finnes flere muntlige kilder, siden jeg forstår at de skriftlige er brent og borte...

Om det du sier er sant,  vil det kunne bety det somme som om noen bestred at det var andre enn Bjørnson som skrev norges nasjonale sang.

Ailo Mvh.

Jo Ailo, det skal finnes dokumentasjon på striden i alle fall. For mange år siden - da jeg var liten - så ble en av mine tanter intervjuet på Samii Radio angående sangen og striden mellom familiene. Jeg husker også at hun sang den på radioen. Intervjuet skjønte jeg ikke så mye av, siden det gikk på samisk, og jeg behersker desverre ikke språket. Takk for e-post forresten, har gitt deg et mer utfyllende svar der

"Ulva":

Ja om du kan skaffe den på samisk hadde vært bra! Er enig med deg, sangen er kjempe nydelig!! 

Sámi soga lávlla

Guhkkin davvin Dávggáid vuolde
sabmá suolggai Sámieanan.
Duottar leabbá duoddar duohkin,
jávri seabbá jávrri lahka.
Čohkat čilggin, čorut čearuin
allanaddet almmi vuostái.
Šávvet jogat, šuvvet vuovddit,
cáhket ceakko stállenjárggat
máraideaddji mearaide.

Dálvit dáppe buolašbiekkat,
muohtaborggat meariheamit.
Sámisohka sieluin mielain
eahccá datte eatnamiiddis:
Mátkálažžii mánuheabit,
giđđodeaddji guovssahasat, -
ruoškkas, ruovggas rođuin gullo,
juhca jávrriin, jalgadasain,
geresskálla máđiid miel.

Ja go geassibeaivváš gollut
mehciid, mearaid, mearragáttiid,
golli siste guollebivdit
suilot mearain, suilot jávrriin.
Gollin čuvget čáhcelottit,
silban šovvot sámieanut,
šelgot čuoimmit, šleđgot áirrut,
luitet olbmát lávllodemiin
geavgŋáid, guoikkaid, goatniliid.

Sámieatnan sohkagoddi –
dat lea gierdan doddjokeahttá
goddi čuđiid, garrogávppiid,
viehkes vearre-vearroválddiid.
Dearvva dutnje, sitkes sohka!
Dearvva dutnje, ráfi ruohtas!
Eai leat doarut dorrojuvvon,
eai leat vieljain varat vardán
sámi siivo soga sis.

Máttarádját mis leat dovle
vuoitán vearredahkkiid badjel.
Vuostálastot, vieljat, miige
sitkatvuođain soardiideamet!
Beaivvi bártniid nana nálli!
Eai du vuoitte vašálaččat,
jos fal gáhttet gollegielat,
muittát máttarmáttuid sáni:
Sámieatnan sámiide!

Flott!!!   

Hej alle

Som en klog mand engang sagde:

GIV UDTRYK FOR HVEM DU ER

Vor dybeste frygt er ikke at vi er utilstrækkelige.
Vor dybeste frygt er at vi er mægtigere end vi kan gøre os begreb om.
Det er vort lys, ikke vort mørke der skræmmer os mest.
Vi spørger os selv: "hvordan kan jeg tillade mig at være begavet, storslået og talentfuld?"
Men hvorfor skulle du ikke være det?

Det tjener ikke verden at du leger lille
Der er intet oplyst ved at gøre dig mindre, så andre ikke kommer til at føle sig utrygge sammen dig.
Vi er født til at manifestere den Guds herlighed, der er i os. Den er ikke blot i nogle af os. Den er i os alle.
Når vi tillader vort lys at skinne, giver vi ubevidst andre tilladelse til at gøre det samme. Idet vi bliver befriet fra vor egen frygt, virker vort nærvær automatisk befriende på andre.

Nielson Mandela

Mit favorit digt/citat

Hilsen Shamanen 

Fler dikt?

Ah, du har Ginsberg her allerede! 

Jeg var så heldig å få oppleve ham i Trondheim, diktopplesning og chanting m.m

En helt!   

Verkligen en helt! 

Verkligen en hjälte! 

Jeg leste hans biografi som 19-åring i Praha, på "bohem-turnè" med to kompiser. De åpne skildringene av alle slags aktiviteter var relativt sjokkerende, og hjalp meg nok til en viss åpenhet og toleranse. (Jeg la ikke boka vekk, men kjempet meg videre. Fyllesyk og kvalm..)

I Trondheim deklamerte han diktet "Kaddish" (?) som er meget sterkt, samt flere andre. "Howl" ville han ikke lese, noen av publikum tok til å mase om det. Han bare overhørte det. Man maser ikke på en 65-årig forkjølet legende, hvorfor skal han bare festes til et dikt..tenkte jeg.

Det var gjennom Ginsberg jeg først fikk lese og høre om den rabiate tibetanske vismannen Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, en sterk åndelig skikkelse med stor sans for sterke drikkevarer, kvinnelige elever og militæruniformer (!!).

Verden er gal, det er slik vi liker den best   

Jeg og har lest hans biografi. Kraftfullt og interresant. jeg satt som et frågetecken efter å ha lest den. må vel forsøke å lese den en gang til. gikk jeg i baret?
fikk jeg ikke med innholdet? Var også I Praha i 1998. heftigt og utydelig tyckte jag...

Gutten kom frå nord,frå Pohja,
Klarsynt barn frå Klarsynt Land,
Vrenger jakka mi,Snur Lua
Indre ut og Bak-Fram.
Hugu mett er sætt på Staka.
Vis dæ nå,min LuontoÅnd!
Skugge grå bak tørhala,
Komme nå min SkytsÅnd!
Ukko,Høgste gud bak Skyen,
Himmelgubbe,gamle far!
Slø di Hirmukraft mot Hiisi
Skyen hølder i det høge,
Driver sagte over Himmeln.
Ukkovaki,gudeVaki
Alle Krefter Vaki Kraften,
Kom tel Mæ og Kom tel Mine
Åndefølje hjelper Sine.
Vern mæ,gi mæ Hjelp frå Hine!
Løft så gutten opp i Sida,
Før å støtte mæ i Strida,
Før å Tala i min Sak,
Sitter på mi høgre Skulder,
Er dein vinstre skugge Bak.

                                                                    Fra Karhun Emuu. Runesanger fra Finnskogen av Sinikka Langeland.

"Shamanen":

Som en klog mand engang sagde:
[....]
Nielson [sic!] Mandela

Nei, det er ikke Nelson Mandela. For ca. femte og siste gang her inne:

http://sjaman.com/forum/http://sjaman.c ... 498#p36498

http://sjaman.com/forum/http://sjaman.c ... 493#p36493


Hilsen Passopp i vårrengjøringslune.

Red.: Linkene korrigert!

"torstein":

Det var gjennom Ginsberg jeg først fikk lese og høre om den rabiate tibetanske vismannen Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, en sterk åndelig skikkelse med stor sans for sterke drikkevarer, kvinnelige elever og militæruniformer (!!).
Verden er gal, det er slik vi liker den best     :respect:

I tillegg til hva Torstein her forteller, fortalte en ledende norsk buddhist for en del år siden følgende på et seminar: "CTR likte også ... mannlige elever. Hans kronprins og etterfølger døde av AIDS. Hvor mange han rakk å smitte med HIV før det, vites ikke." Jeg er ikke sikker på om jeg for min del liker en slik gal verden. Jeg har alle CTR sine bøker, men jeg fikk problemer med å lese i dem etter at jeg fikk vite dette.

Og hva døde egentlig CTR av? På Internett finner jeg en artikkel hvor det tre ganger skrives om hans død:
1. "There he died of liver failure on April 4, 1987." 2. "He was also known for his drinking of alcohol, which almost certainly contributed to his early death at 48 (although the cause of death was heart failure, not liver failure)" 3. "1987: Dies on April 4th (alcoholism related) in Halifax."

Se: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chogyam_Trungpa_Rinpoche

Værsågo bi tullåt! Hva vet du om denne "vismannen" og hans liv samt dertil hørende død, Torstein?

En rekke steder fortelles det om hans etterfølger som smittet andre med HIV før han sjøl døde av AIDS:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vajradhatu
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osel_Tendzin

Mer om CTR og hans lære, samt om begivenheter i hans og andre Crazy Wisdom-guruers kjølvann
(ikke kjølevann, gutter og jenter!):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shambhala_Buddhism

Dette nettstedet her har nå så absolutt sin egen vri på alt, men jeg siterer litt:
http://www.kheper.net/topics/gurus/Chogyam_Trungpa.html

Trungpa introduced a whole lexicon of new words that became influentiual in the alternative and intehgral movement - spiritual materialism, crazy wisdom, idiot compassion. Some of these words have been seriously misinterpreted and abused.

http://www.kheper.net/topics/gurus/crazy_wisdom.html

Crazy Wisdom
I have criticised the crazy wisdom idea in Part 2b of my essay on Integral World. As it appears in the New Age, the Integral Movement, etc, it is a rationalisation that so-called Gurus use to justify their abusive behavior of their disciples and devotees, and/or their own weakness and lack of control in oneself.

It is however quite likely that at one time in ancient Tibet it really did mean something. So it is important not to throw the baby out with the bathwater, and disregard the idea outright. In Sufism also there is the concept of crazy wisdom, which is used in a very constructive, creative and compassionate way. They tell funny stories, for instance; the Mulla Nasruddin stories are a great example of crazy wisdom. Crazy wisdom doesn't have to mean violence and abuse.

The perversion of the crazy wisdom meme seems to have come about in the modern secular West with the coterie of abusive and narcissistic gurus who like to use it as a justification for their own lack of authentic spirituality and self-discipline. Chogyam Trungpa, Osho Rajneesh, Da Free John/Adi Da, and, to a lesser degree, Andrew Cohen, are examples of so-called "crazy wisdom" gurus. Here the term "crazy wisdom" is used by them and/or by their followers to justify substance abuse (Trungpa, Da), extreme narcicissism (Cohen, Wilber), and sexual (Trungpa, Rajneesh, Da), emotional (Da, Cohen), and financial (Rajneesh, Da, Cohen) manipulation and abuse of devotees and disciples. These activities are light years away from true spirituality and true Divinity.

En annen forfatter, Geoffrey D. Falk, har lagt ut en hel bok på nettet:
Stripping the Gurus: Sex, Violence, Abuse and Enlightenment
http://www.strippingthegurus.com/index.html

Her får både CTR og "Crazy Wisdom"-ideologien gjennomgå:
http://www.strippingthegurus.com/stgsam ... rungpa.asp
Falk siterer Andrew Harvey (The Return of the Mother, 2000) slik:

In general, I think that nearly all of what passes for “crazy wisdom” and is justified as “crazy wisdom” by both master and enraptured disciple is really cruelty and exploitation, not enlightened wisdom at all. In the name of “crazy wisdom” appalling crimes have been rationalized by master and disciple alike, and many lives have been partly or completely devastated.

Til slutt da, godbiten som ingen venter på:
http://sealevel.ns.ca/ctr/
Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche — Internet Resource Links
Mange linker her, den nest øverste går hit:
http://60sfurther.com/Guest-HippieGoddess.htm

Dette MÅ da være Vårkvinnen som Ailo nylig skrev en artikkel om på framsiden av Sjamansonen!!!

Jo, det stemmer, jeg mener å ha lest og hørt alt det der før Passopp! Takk for din iherdige innsamlingsiver, men pass opp (  ) nå så du ikke nærmer deg Oddvar Stenstrøm`s domene. Samlet sammen slik, blir det nokså massive skandaleoppslag.

Trungpa`s sønn som nå leder geskjeften, løfter jern og springer maraton, så på det viset falt eplet langt fra stammen.

Verden er en dualisme, når man gjør sine valg, må man samtidig passe på ikke å bli "helt for" eller "helt mot", dårlig formulert no på morraskvisten...det jeg mener er at det føles godt å ikke gå seg helt fast i "for" eller "mot". Tenk det fundamentalistkristne Amerika, her kommer en buddhistlærer som holder elevene sine på en diett av sprit og poker...Kan ikke for det, men jeg synes det er fornøyelig. (Sjøl liker jeg ikke alkohol, og har aldri lært andre kortspill enn "idiot"...)

En annen ting som slår meg som en absolutt sikkerhet i denne verden er at gransker man ethvert menneske nøye nok (inkl "guruene"), så kan man finne noe "latterlig"...det mest suspekte blir derfor , i mine øyne, de som pusser fasadene sine og er "rene og pene".

Og få nå med alt det gode den gale Trungpa gjorde. Han opprettet en institusjon for høyere utdanning - Naropa Institute...det kan være et tips for de studentene som synes de norske universiteter blir kjedelige og forutsigbare. Gå inn på Naropa`s sine nettsider og sjekk ut. Til og med jeg får lyst å bli student når jeg ser endel av de pensumene.

Ha en god dag!

Takk for info om ""vismannen"" Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche.
Jeg mener nå at en såkalt vis mann har et enda større ansvar
enn andre. Han har tross alt en hale tilhengere etter seg,
som gjør alt hva han befaler...

Og ... Mmfhihi, jeg skjønner du blir gal, når du driver og rydder i krokene helt tilbake fra 9. april 2005

"Passopp":

"Shamanen":

Som en klog mand engang sagde:
[....]
Nielson [sic!] Mandela

Nei, det er ikke Nelson Mandela.