Løst basert på Ted Joans

en tilslørt kvinne

hyggelig muslim, utdannet muslim, aldri muslim, somalisk muslim, flittig muslim, tyrkisk muslim, ekkel muslim, utilgivelig muslim, uforglemmelig muslim, unevnelig muslim, frekk muslim, slem muslim, moderat muslim moderat muslim moderat muslim moderat muslim, bevæpnet muslim, voldelig muslim, ekstrem muslim, terrorist muslim, sekulær muslim, feil muslim, attraktiv muslim, sexy muslim, erotisk muslim, forlokkende muslim, forloren muslim, dum muslim, dannet muslim, grasrotas muslim, konspiratorisk muslim, trendy muslim, stillig muslim, smilende muslim, kontaktsøkende muslim, apologetisk muslim, forsiktig muslim, prippen muslim, snobbete muslim, rettskaffen muslim, feilskaffen muslim, skinnhellig muslim, elskverdig muslim, løgnaktig muslim, naiv muslim, rik muslim, skarp muslim, farlig muslim, forbasket muslim, forbasket muslim, forbasket muslim, islamisert muslim, integrert muslim, progressiv muslim, mummifisert muslim, glad muslim, fredelig muslim, dansende muslim, arbeidsløs muslim, veltrent muslim, ambisiøs muslim, jeg skjønner meg ikke på denne muslimen-muslim, denne muslimen er overalt-muslim, landet vårt går ad undas-muslim, ekte muslim, halvveis muslim, nesten muslim, ligner på muslim –

– behandles som muslim.

Jazzpoeten Ted Joans ble i 1970 invitert til London for å fremføre sin lyrikk. Arrangørene introduserte ham som a nice coloured man. Introduksjonen inspirerte til diktet «Nice Colored Man» som begynner med «Nice nigger, educated nigger, never nigger…» og fortsetter til han har tømt seg for sinne og spilt blod.

And you’ve resisted me consistently so I thank you for your contribution

Please resist me

Colonise me, compromise me and conflict me

Please don’t risk me

If you see me at the airport please come and frisk me

Please resist me

Colonise me, compromise me and conflict me

Please don’t risk me

Please call me stupid

Because your resistance brings my evolution

Please resist me

Call me a wog

It’s brought us so close together I could call me a squad

Please resist me,

Lock me in solitary confinement

I’ll close my eyes and admire the quality of the silence

I’ll write rhymes in my mind honestly and define them,

Solidly redefine and memorise them,

Until like a diamond when I come out I’ll be better than when I arrived in

Please resist me

Arrest me, torture me for answers

Look at Barack Obama, it all started with Black Panthers

Please resist me,

Keep me under the thumb

Keep me down trodden keep me under the gun

Keep me working harder under thunder and sun

Son – haven’t you heard?

I’m becoming a gun

Please resist me

Because resistance brings evolution

And you’ve resisted me consistently so I thank you for your contribution

I’m a happy man your stupidity has made me strong

I’ve developed wings, a thick skin and this here opposable thumb

It holds my pen which loads my explodable tongue

So without loading a gun I’m killing high quotas of unemotional cunts/punks

Sorry – you also taught me to speak French

I learnt it when you kept keeping me at arms-length

And then I learnt Italian just to expand my head

And Greek to learn from where my ancestors had fled

And then I learnt some Yanyuwa to show the people of THIS land respect

You see it’s been your example that has led me to leave you for dead

So don’t trust me

I’m risky

Insurmountable, unaccountable

I’m an undeniable, unreliable, maniacal liability

I fire soliloquies and my liturgies literally leave a literary litany

When I was little

They told me I was

Illegitimate, illiterate and limited

Little did they know that in a minute I’d be killing it

I’m vivid like in cinemas so my synonym is vividness

I stick it like I’m cinnamon and kill it like a militant

I live it like a citizen – you live a life like imprisonment

Besides Indigenous, immigrant might be the most legitimate of citizens

So it’s better to live a life like us.

Isn’t it?

«my addresses are sentences etched in dreams, beating hearts joined by a smiling hope»

Dette er en vakker sang, og Hamza  El Din – må Allah velsigne ham for alt det han har tilført verden – er en av de fineste dikterne Afrika har produsert.


I’m a bird with a white heart,

and a thousand tongues.


I fly over creation singing,

for peace, for love, for humanity.



I am a bird with a white heart,

and a thousand tongues.

I fly over creation singing,

for peace, for love, for humanity.



I fly happily.



My addresses,

my addresses are sentences etched in dreams.

Beating hearts, joined by a smiling hope.


For people who wish well for other people at all times,

I sing, I smile, I cry.

My tears wash away the sadness.



wash away the sadness.


Our footsteps,

our footsteps are ships of desire,

that lead us around.


They go East one day,

they go West one day,

the lead us to habor.


And when the waves fight us,

and throw us around.

The echo of my voice,

in the middle of the night,

becomes a harbor and a safe place.



a safe place.


Our world,

our world the day,

we join hand in hand,

becomes a garden of roses,

that bloom on a Eid night;


and fills with hope,

and love,

and song.


I am the bird on the branches,

I sleep,

and dream,

and fly happily.


Another negroleader, on the steps of the White House. One kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs, negotiating coolly for his people.

Jeg skal ikke forstå meg ihjel på konteksten til dette stykket. Diktet er, uavhengig av tid og sted, rasistisk og antisemittisk. Dette er ekstrem afrosentrisme. Men diktet er også, uavhengig av tid og sted, uavhengig av politisk ståsted og verdisyn, et som slår ut tennene på deg. Et som plasserer en knyttneve mellom pupillene dine. Et som sparker deg i magen. Et som ber deg om noe du ikke vet hva er. Og, ikke minst, et som  er akkompagnert av Albert Aylers saksofon.

Spennende analyse av diktet finner du her.

Black Art

Poems are bullshit unless they are

teeth or trees or lemons piled

on a step. Or black ladies dying

of men leaving nickel hearts

beating them down.

Fuck poems

and they are useful, would they shoot

come at you, love what you are,

breathe like wrestlers, or shudder

strangely after peeing.

We want live words of the hip world

live flesh and cursing blood.



souls splintering fire.

We want poems,

like fists beating niggers out of Jocks

or dagger poems in the slimy bellies

of the owner-jews.

Black poems to

smear on girdlemamma mulatto bitches

whose brains are red jelly stuck

between ‘lizabeth taylor’s toes.

Stinking Whores!

We want «poems that kill.»

Assassin poems.

Poems that shoot guns.

Poems that wrestle cops into alleys,

and take their weapons leaving them dead,

with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland.

Knockoff poems for dope selling wops

or slick halfwhite


Airplane poems, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh

. . .rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .

Setting fire and death to

whities ass.

Look at the liberal spokesman for the jews

clutch his throat and puke himself into eternity

. . . rrrrrrrr

There’s a negroleader pinned to

a bar stool in Sardi’s,

eyeballs melting in hot flame.

Another negroleader,

on the steps of the White House.

One kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs,

negotiating coolly for his people.

Aggh . . . stumbles across the room . . .

Put it on him, poem.

Strip him naked to the world!

Another bad poem cracking

steel knuckles in a jewlady’s mouth.

Poem, scream poison gas on beasts in green berets.

Clean out the world for virtue and love.

Let there be no love poems written,

until love can exist freely and


Let Black people understand

that they are the lovers and the sons,

of warriors and sons

of warriors,

are poems and poets and,

all the loveliness here in the world

We want a black poem.

And a black world.

Let the world be a black poem,

and let all black people speak this poem.


or loud.

«Oh Somalia, only if your beautiful wasn’t so black. The world has grown accustom to watching you die » – Jeg gråter.

black faces
white tongues
the smell of sea water
taunts with sarcasm
drink me

oh somalia
im sorry i couldnt be there for you
but while you were trying to to get your daughter
to drink her urine
a singer died
while your children
were falling from the tree of life
scattered bushels of rotten fruit
some whiter children were shot

oh somalia
only if your beautiful wasnt so black
only if you were
gaza or
libya or
bahrain or
egypt or
norway or
england or
japan or
or the moon
i would mention you in a poem

only if you had
oil or
poppy or
timber or
rubber or
white people
i would mention you in my prayers

oh somalia
only if your beautiful wasnt so black
the world has grown accustom to watching you die
since i was a child
somalia – synonymous with suffering
african meant adversity
an african struggling was like
a fish swimming
a dog barking
somalia meant starvation

nevermind the magic in your poetry
or the glowing saints rising from your lands like a thousand moons

nevermind the beauty of your beaches
or the utter perfection in the hips of your women

oh somalia
only if you didnt wear the resemblance of eve
like an ornate funeral shroud
we wouldnt see you as our sin
and avert our gazes
in shame
turn our faces
to blame
only if your lack of the worldy
didnt remind us
of our lack of the other-worldly
perhaps then we would mention you

oh somalia
only if your beautiful wasnt so black

«Men vita skal me/og vone visst/at ånd må vinne/på troll til sist./»

Ja lat oss stride,

og lat oss tru,

og byggje med tankar

ei bivre-bru

til den heilage, høge framtid!



Me lìver midt i

ei villmanns-tid

med blinkande knivar

og nevestrid;

og livet er som ein bloddraum.



Men vìta skal me

og vone visst,

at ånd må vinne

på troll til sist,

og vìt på den varge villskap.



So lat oss tru

og stride som menn!

For trui er,

som det skrìvi stend,

den magt som vinner på verdi.

Strid for fred – Arne Garborg

Kvæde (1908)

«you cold unimaginable thing»

Dear Moon

We blame you for floods

for the flush of blood

for men who are also wolves

and even though you could pull

the tide in by its hair

we tell people that we walked all

over you

we blame you for the night

for the dark

for the ghosts

you cold unimaginable thing

following us home,

we use you

to see each others frail

naked bodies beneath your blue light,

we let you watch; you

swollen against the glass

breath a halo of steam

as we move against one another

wet and desperate

like fish under

a waterlogged sky.

dear moon – warsan shire


Verden er ingen teori, den er open

så blir den teori

verden er ikkje deg ikkje meg

verden er open

verden er meg er deg

og sanneleg, tenker vi, er ikkje du ein god

teori verdig

«Verden er ingen teori» – Eldrid Lunden