Kristin Berget (f. 1975) debuterte i 2007 med diktsamlingen loosing louise. Hun har siden det gitt ut fem diktsamlinger, samt miniatyr-romanen Sonja Sacre Coeur. Kristin Bergets poesi er oversatt til en rekke språk. Hun har vært innstilt til flere litterære priser, bl.a. Brage-prisen i 2017 for samlingen og når det blir lyst blir det helt fantastisk. I 2012 mottok hun Tanums kvinnestipend, og i 2014 ble hun tildelt Stig Sæterbakkens minnepris.

Over kan du høre poeten lese diktene hun har skrevet for Forfatternes klimaaksjon, og på de følgende sidene kan du lese dem. Vi takker Fritt Ord for støtten!

Sider: 1 2 3 4

YOU CAN READ THE POEM HERE

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James Byrne is a poet, editor, translator and visual artist. His most recent poetry collections are The Caprices, a response to Francisco Goya’s ‘Los Caprichos’ (Arc, 2019), Everything Broken Up Dances (Tupelo, US, 2015) and White Coins (Arc Publications, UK, 2015). He was the editor of The Wolf, an influential, internationally-minded literary magazine between 2002 and 2017. In 2012 he co-translated and co-edited Bones Will Crow, the first anthology of contemporary Burmese poetry to be published in English (Arc, 2012, Northern Illinois University Press, 2013) and he co-edited I am a Rohingya, the first book of Rohingya refugee poems in English. He is the co-editor of Atlantic Drift: An Anthology of Poetry and Poetics (Edge Hill University Press/Arc, 2017) and Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21^st Century, published by Bloodaxe in 2009. Byrne received a PhD from Edge Hill University and an MFA in Poetry from New York University, where he was given a Stein Fellowship (‘Extraordinary International Scholar’). He was the Poet in Residence at Clare Hall, University of Cambridge and is currently Reader in Contemporary Literature at Edge Hill University. Byrne has given readings in Libya and Syria and his Selected Poems / Poemas Escogidos are published by Buenos Aires Poetry. He has translated poems by Myanmar and Rohingya poets, among others. He is the International Editor for Arc Publications and his poems have been translated into several languages including Arabic, Burmese and Chinese. Forrest Gander writes that reading Everything Broken Up Dances is ‘like gulping firewater shots of the world’. John Kinsella declares Byrne ‘a complete original’.

// Photograph by Chris Routledge of original collage by James Byrne entitled ‘Life Raft Awaiting’ (Dhaka → Chittagong)’ 

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I COME FROM A PLACE SO DEEP INSIDE AMERICA IT CAN’T BE SEEN

White oaks thrash, moonlight drifts
the ceiling, as if I’m under water.
Propane coils, warms my bones.

Gone are the magics and songs,
all the things our grandmothers buried–
piles of feathers and angel bones,

inscribed by all who came before.
When I was twelve, my cousins
called me ugly, enough to make it last.

Les mer «I COME FROM A PLACE SO DEEP INSIDE AMERICA IT CAN’T BE SEEN / Kari Gunter-Seymour» →

Morning in March

Morning

in March

My heart

an oystercatcher

Flying

to you

Les mer «Morgun í mars / Video // Guðrið Helmsdal» →

Fotograf Mikkel Tjellesen / Digt oplæst af systemstemme (Sara) *

det sitrer i systemet af afmagt over systemet

en grønglimtende busk 

et sølvfarvet tog

som suser forbi

det skælver i systemet af afmagt over systemet 

busken svajer i vinden

det sitrer ryster i nervesystemet

virrer med grenene  

vindspils-klirrende 

fint og skarpt som barberblade 

Les mer «det sitrer i systemet / Mette Moestrup» →

Ud for bygdens mole ligger en foderstation og

pumper mel ud i opdrætsringe. Om natten anes

ringenes dybde; lysstofrør lyser op ulmende grønt

og blåt, aftagende nedad mod fjordens bund.

Og laksene ses som sammenvævende skygger.

Ringene er nedsænkede, flydende brønde. Melet

som pumpes ud uafbrudt, og som samler sig på

fjordens bund, en dyne.

Les mer «Rúni Weihe / Dikt» →

A BREACH

We are engaged in a great civil war
over the future of the land
upon which this nation of varied peoples stand,
of the land that has up to now nourished
and nurtured the people who
borrow from it their sustenance
– Anonymous

Open now the crystal fountain,
Whence the healing stream doth flow.   
– William Williams 1717-1791

THROUGH A LITTLE HOLE        

I        

            It’s been hand-signals, shouts all afternoon but now Roy lets in the clutch, turns the key, and the whirring slap of the Allis Chalmers’ idle is stilled.  I can hardly see for the sweat, brush the chaff from my sleeve, and drag the flannel across my face.  I notice Roy lift his cap to do the same.
            The sudden silence is godly.  Thunderclouds are lifting in the west.
            Good thing we got her done.
            I nod my head—too whipped to speak:  three hundred bales, two men, and this last sixty yet to get to the barn and into the mow.
            Roy’s eighty-two, but he slips off the metal seat like a teenager and lopes toward the trees below the far side of the knoll.  His back to me, he lifts a hand for me to follow.  Though I didn’t think I could move, I tramp behind him several hundred yards into the shade but even here it’s still hot—ninety degrees forecast—perfect for hay but takes it out of you.  I’d hayed with Roy several summers but never this back field off the point.
            Though we descend lower along the hill, we’re not headed for the run.  Eventually, he stops:  Listen.  And when the cicada overhead cuts its droning screed, I hear it, a steady, small splashing onto stone and, ducking under a tangle of briars, there’s the spring flowing out of its metal pipe.  I learn later Roy’s dad set it half a century ago into this mossy sandstone bank our path had skirted these last few minutes.  Looped over a sycamore branch hangs a single, blue enamel cup.  Roy’s bony, bronze hand slips it off, fills it, and hands it to me— holy hell, is it ever cold…  I have to sip to keep it from numbing my teeth.  But …my lovely Jesus – how can water be this sweet?  
            For the first time in hours, I cool off and, handing the cup back to Roy, slip down, my back against the uneven bank and feel my shoulders loosen, and I breathe.  We sit like this for a little eternity, lulled by the sound of this liquid God-gift, crystal-pure, raw- perfect and sacred water… I will remember this.  Even hours later, scratchy, throwing that last bale into the dark corner of the dusty mow, I will remember and know my thirst was slaked…. by water pouring free through a little hole in a pipe, through a little hole in the earth.

.

.

Les mer «Marc Harshman / A Breach» →

1

først sakte

nede

nær lydgrensen

så storme

men uten skrekk

løpe

om så på kne

vi som kan puste

danser for isen

tirilltunger

steinsopper

sisiker

ennå

Les mer «ennå / Wera Sæther» →

kære corona

virus betyder gift

på menneskesprog

men du er ikke en gift 

for denne planet

.

du er en del

af klodens immunforsvar

du er moder jords 

modgift mod mennesket

Les mer «Rasmus Lund / Digt» →

TEMPEL
klokkene klang. Buddha 
smiler. Jesus
blør. Buddha

snakker
om 
lidelse. Jesus
om 

frelse. Buddha 
snakker om veien. Jesus
om
målet.   

Les mer «SPEILET VET IKKE. HAVET VET / JAN ERIK VOLD» →

Ishion Hutchinson was born in Port Antonio, Jamaica. He is the author of Far District and House of Lords and Commons. Hutchinson directs the graduate writing program at Cornell University.

Les mer «Habakkuk / Ishion Hutchinson» →

           

…the necropastoral…these strange meetings occur in a lightless, mucoid, digestive, altering, mutating, flora-and-fauna-rich field of uncertain conditions…

                                  Joyelle McSweeney

Lyset får fjeldsiderne omkring fjorden til at flimre i orange variationer over i gult. Fjeldene er sorte i bunden med flere hundrede meters lodret stigning af sne og is i toppen. 

Les mer «Kim Simonsen / Dødspastorale» →

//

Line Nagell Ylvisåker er journalist og bur i Longyearbyen med mann og to born. Ho jobba i Svalbardposten frå 2006 til 2018, og gav våren 2020 ut sakprosaboka Verda mi smeltar. Å leve med klimaendringar på Svalbard.

Foto: Ragnhild Utne/Samlaget

Les mer «Restar av ungdom / Line Nagell Ylvisåker» →

You can read the poem here: A Jonah

//

Nickole Brown is an American poet who lives in North Carolina. Her first book, Sister, was originally published in 2007h, but a new edition was reissued by Sibling Rivalry Press in 2018. Her second, Fanny Says, came out from BOA Editions and won the Weatherford Award for Appalachian Poetry in 2015. The audiobook of that collection became available in 2017. She teaches at a number of places, including the Sewanee School of Letters MFA Program. She lives with her wife, poet Jessica Jacobs in Asheville, where she periodically volunteers at three different animal sanctuaries. Currently, she’s at work on a bestiary of sorts about these animals, but it won’t consist of the kind of pastorals that always made her (and most of the working-class folks she knows) feel shut out of nature and the writing about it—these poems speak in a queer, Southern-trash-talking kind of way about nature beautiful, damaged, dangerous, and in desperate need of saving. A chapbook of these poems called To Those Who Were Our First Gods won the 2018 Rattle Chapbook Prize, and another sequence called The Donkey Elegies was published as a chapbook by Sibling Rivalry Press in early 2020.