Oooh, release date for The Chamber of Secrets is 11 April. I know what I’m getting for my birthday this year (if no one buys it for me, I’ll get it as a present for myself…)

Ok, so it goes on. We’re on to appropriate poetry again. Nordahl Grieg’s “Til ungdommen” was written in 1936. Funny how little the world has changed.

Til ungdommen

Kringsatt av fiender,
gå inn i din tid!
Under en blodig storm –
vi deg til strid!

Kanskje du spør i angst,
udekket, åpen:
hva skal jeg kjempe med
hva er mitt våpen?

Her er ditt vern mot vold,
her er ditt sverd:
troen på livet vårt,
menneskets verd.

For all vår fremtids skyld,
søk det og dyrk det,
dø om du må – men:
øk det og styrk det!

Stilt går granatenes
glidende bånd.
Stans deres drift mot død
stans dem med ånd!

Krig er forakt for liv.
Fred er å skape.
Kast dine krefter inn:
døden skal tape!

Elsk og berik med drøm
alt stort som var!
Gå mot det ukjente
fravrist det svar.

Ubygde kraftverker,
ukjente stjerner.
Skap dem, med skånet livs
dristige hjerner!

Edelt er mennesket,
jorden er rik!
Finnes her nød og sult
skyldes det svik.

Knus det! I livets navn
skal urett falle.
Solskinn og brød og ånd
eies av alle.

Da synker våpnene
maktesløs ned!
Skaper vi menneskeverd
skaper vi fred.

Den som med høyre arm
bærer en byrde,
dyr og umistelig,
kan ikke myrde.

Dette er løftet vårt
fra bror til bror:
vi vil bli gode mot
menskenes jord.

Vi vil ta vare på
skjønnheten, varmen
som om vi bar et barn
varsomt på armen!

— Nordahl Grieg

I have failed to find a translation, but the literal meaning (no attempt at poetry here) of the most pertinent parts:

(verse 5&6) Quietly moves the rolling line of grenades. Stop their urge for death, stop them with spirit. War is contempt for life. Peace is to create. Throw your forces in, death shall be overcome.

(verse 9-12) Noble is man, the earth is wealthy! If there is need or hunger, it is caused by betrayal. Crush it! In the name of life, injustice shall fall. Sunshine, bread and water belongs to us all. Then the weapons are lowered, powerless. If we create human dignity, we create peace. He who, on his right arm, carries an invaluable and inalienable load cannot commit murder.

You’ll have to bear with me through another poem – well, those of you that understand either Italian (possibly archaic Italian, what do I know?) or Norwegian, anyway. Somewhat less appropriate to anything at all, but maybe that is just as well. Yeats was really just scary.

Anyway, I’ve just been adding some books to my database, and one of them was Dikt fra antikken til vår tid, an anthology designed primarily for students of comparative literature, I suspect, but then, I am one so that’s allright, isn’t it? Anyway, you know that lovely gift certificate I got to spend at Akademika last weekend? Well, I’ve been oogling this book for years, but it’s just a bit on the expensive side (well, it used to be when it was only available in hardback, the paperback is more affordable), so I thought this was as good an opportunity as any to get my hands on it.

The brilliant thing about it, besides it containing some very good poetry is that for all other languages than the three Scandinavian and English it has the poem both in the original and in translation. And this sonnet by Petrarch happens to be one of my favourites, the translation by Sigmund Skard seems to be very good (and I don’t even like SS’s own poetry much).

(First, the Italian:)

S’amor non �, che dunque � quel ch�io sento?
Ma s’egli � amor, per Dio, che cosa et quale?
Se bona, onde l’effecto aspro mortale?
Se ria, onde s� dolce ogni tormento?

S’a mia voglia ardo, onde ‘l pianto e lamento?
S’a mal mio grado, il lamentar che vale?
O viva morte, o dilectoso male,
come puoi tanto in me, s’io nol consento?

Et s’io ‘l consento, a gran torto mi doglio.
Fra s� contrari v�nti in frale barca
mi trovo in alto mar senza governo,

s� lieve di saver, d’error s� carca,
ch’i’ medesmo non so quel ch’io mi voglio,
e tremo a mezza state, ardendo il verno.

— Francesco Petrarca

(and the Norwegian – which, by the way, is “New Norwegian”, and not the language I actually write at all)

Er dette ikkje elsk, kva kan det vera?
Og er det elsk, å Gud, kva er det så?
Om godt, kvi er det daudebeiskt å få?
Om vondt, kvi er det endå søtt å bera?

Vil eg det sjølv, kva gagn kan tårer gjera?
Og vil eg ikkje, kvifor græt eg då?
å daudeliv! å frygd eg flyr ifrå!
Eg strir imot – kor kan du endå tæra?

Og vil eg sjølv, kva tener tårer til?
Slik stormar høgt mitt hav med skumkvit båre,
og styrelaus i skrale båten stend eg.

Så vesal er min visdom, dåre, dåre!
at ikkje sjølv eg veit kva sjølv eg vil,
eg frys i varmen, og i frosten brenn eg.

— Petrarca, transl. by Sigmund Skard

(First and last two lines in translation on this page.)

To celebrate St. Patrick’s Day (having rejected the idea of The Dubliner as unsound considering the mood I’m in and the massive need of getting to bed early due to Michael Moore having ruined my sleep completely last night) I thought: What more appropriate than some Yeats?

I thought I’d find a new poem to gush about (new to me, I mean) but came to The Second Coming and realised there was no getting past it. It’s too good. It’s way too appropriate. Not to St. Patrick’s, possibly, but certainly to Bowling for Columbine. So here we go:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot here the falconeer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand:
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

— William Butler Yeats

Voice on the stereo: Bjarne Brøndbo singing Va det du Jesus (equally appropriate, unfortunately)

What with all this socialising and meeting actual real people out in the real world, I feel the need to reaffirm my status as a geek. Does the fact that this cracks me up help?

This font walks into a bar.
Barman hits him and says:

“We don’t serve your type in here…”

So he called the serif.

(Originally found in the comments at not so soft, it has been hanging around in my notepad draft file for a week or two. I laugh every time I read it.)

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, by the way. A pint at the Dubliner would be in order, however, I suspect I am not the only person to have that idea today, and I’m not in a state to deal well with crowds, not even genial, Guiness-drinking crowds. If I could think of someone who’d come and have a pint with me on short notice, I may change my mind, however.

Voice in my head: Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow – “I put your picture away”

I’ve just seen Bowling for Columbine. It should probably be mandatory watching for all US citizens. You might then understand why the rest of us are not convinced that bombing Iraq to smithereens is going to help anyone at all.

It’s a powerful documentary. It reminded me of a lot of numbers and facts that I have known but had forgotten, or repressed. It made me feel sick to the stomach. I still feel sick to the stomack, in fact, and I badly need a hug. I want my father. Why do I live so far from my parents? I want to be three years old and be told that it was all a bad dream and it’s ok now. I don’t want to be all grown up and have to deal with the thought that tonight another Iraqi child will die in a bomb raid or from malnutrition or hunger, and in the US yet another person will be shot dead with a gun for no particularly good reason at all. In fact, rather more than one person, 11000 divided by 365 has got to be more than one.

11000 people every year? And you still think owning a gun will protect you? After 11 September, gun sales went up 70%. Could someone please explain to me what sort of good it would have done any of the victims had they owned a gun? Random numbers keep flashing before my eyes and they are all equally depressing.

Right now I wish I didn’t know anybody in the US. I know some terrific people in the US and I really do not want any freinds of mine to live in the kind of society that produces the statistics I’ve just seen.

Please be safe. And please, please, stop thinking that the world is something you need to protect yourself from.

And please, someone, come give me a hug. Anyone?

Voice in my head: Sting – “There’s no such thing as a winnable war, it’s a lie we don’t believe anymore. Mr. Reagan says: We will protect you. I don’t subscribe to his point of view.” (And that goes for you, too, Mr. Bush.)

It is! Really! It’s all sunny and mild outside, and I had my coat open and my scarf undone (mind you, I’ll probably get a cold, now, and that would be inconvenient, but who cares in such weather?) and really didn’t want to go sit in the office. I did anyway, though. But now I really do not want to stay any longer so I’ve transferred some files on to my laptop and will (no, really, I will) do some testing at home tomorrow.

Voice in my head: Murmurs “Still wanna know what it’s like to be a butterfly”

Via said forum, a test (in Norwegian), “How much do you know about sex”

My result:

Wow!

Du vet virkelig hva som er hva og hvor, både på din egen kropp og det motsattes kjønn.

Og enda bedre: Du vet nøyaktig hvordan du skal bruke kunnskapen din også!

Vær så snill å ikke skryt altfor mye av dette resultatet, det er så flaut for oss andre…

Which is really quite funny.

Well, that was fun.

I’ve just been to Rød Tomat with a whole bunch of people from this internet forum I occasionally frequent (and no, I’m not telling you where it is). One of them, a girl who tends to be broke a lot, had had money from her mother – due to said mother, apparently, being relieved that she was meeting some actual people for a change. I asked whether the fact that she knew all these actual people from the internet had been omitted from the explanation. It had…

Ooo, off to listen to “Liten og grø;nn”, I was early, so naturally I did end up stopping by Platekompaniet.

Voice in my head: Øystein Sunde, still, but now singing “Hvis dine ører henger ned” for some obscure reason