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torsdag 5. mai 2011


Foto: Kjersti Holst, tatt med iphone

Det kom  nå et vakkert dikt av Marge Piercy på poesiringen der jeg er medlem. Hun er en forfatter jeg husker fra 70-tallet som en feminist som skrev flotte bøker. Jeg leste boka hennes “small changes”, og den gjorde varig inntrykk.  Jeg visste ikke at hun skrev dikt før nå, og jeg syns dette var svært vakkert!

The tao of touch

What magic does touch create 
that we crave it so. That babies 
do not thrive without it. That 
the nurse who cuts tough nails 
and sands calluses on the elderly 
tells me sometimes men weep 
as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger 
the bumping or predatory thrust 
in the subway is like a slap. 
We long for the familiar, the open 
palm of love, its tender fingers. 
It is our hands that tamed cats 
into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror 
thinking, no one will ever touch 
me again, never. Not hold me. 
Not caress the softness of my 
breasts, my inner thighs, the swell 
of my belly. Do I still live 
if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many 
ways, in curiosity, in anger, 
to command attention, to soothe, 
to quiet, to rouse, to cure. 
Touch is our first language 
and often, our last as the breath 
ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.

- Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New & Selected Poems, 1980-2010, 2011

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