OK, everybody. As you may or may not know, I closed down my old and trusty poetry blog in late December. Not because I didn’t plan to continue writing, or because I wanted to stop publishing the things I had previously written, but because I wanted to change hosting provider – both in order to save money, and in order to be able to further develop the site.
So, here we are. This is the new site that I have just set up today! Don’t let the lack of content and style scare you away already; it is a good beginning. Now, I just need to transfer the content and develop the layout. And I am super motivated to do that, now that I finally can.
I am also really excited to know that I have a place to publish all the new poetry I have written since I last updated the old blog. Not that I couldn’t have published it there of course, but it was starting to look really dated, and searching the poems was impossible – also, the content became all the more muddled over time, as categorizing things as either poetry, translations or artwork was a near impossibility.
Finally, I am done with that – ready and able to start a new chapter!
So, what are the plans?
I can already start to share some thoughts on the future of the site as well. I am hoping to integrate a webshop in the near future. How near? I can’t say yet. It depends on how busy I’m going to be… But I am steadily working in that direction. When that is done, you will be able to purchase ebook versions of everything I have written – and I may also take a closer look at ‘Print on Demand’. I am also planning to expand the shop with some of my artwork – but I’ve got to start somewhere.
I hope you will come to like this new version of the site, and bear with me in the beginning until the setup is complete. Locate a comment form and give me a heads-up if you have ideas you’d personally like to see implemented – and otherwise, be patient for now and until I have it all sorted out.
Thank you for dropping in – and see you, hopefully, later. 🙂
Poems, poems everywhere!
So, this is just an update on how far I’ve gotten with the site, right? I spent the whole day yesterday editing texts and uploading them. Adding images. Writing info text. You name it. And the day before yesterday as well. So, I have most of the content up now, and I merely need to do something about the layout in order for the site to be fully functional.
Where Do We Go From Here?
The only things missing as of now are those poems / short stories / essays I keep as drafts because I need to re-read and edit them before they go live. Also, a bunch of internal links and some images would help.
Now, seeing as tomorrow is Monday and I also have a job to do, I can’t guarantee you anything about the finishing date – but I am continuously working on the site, and will keep you posted when something new happens.
I don’t claim to have all the answers
these are just my thoughts;
disorganized and fragmented
as they come.
A relentless stream that varies
from gibberish to genius.
But however smart they sound
at least at times
I do not claim to know the “truth” about anything
because “truth” is such a limiting concept.
It isn’t constant –
it changes based on point of view,
it changes over time,
it changes depending on who tells the story
and how they tell it.
It’s simply too confusing for me
to deal with.
So I don’t.
What do I do then?
I ask a ridiculous amount of questions
and let them speak for themselves.
There’s a tree left behind
in the rubble piles –
its branches wind upwards
among the bricks and tiles.
I remember it clearly
from childhood days
where it stood so proudly
right in the centre
of the playground –
steady and strong
and now it still stands
when all else is gone.
Humans come and go
but Nature carries on.
One could write of the future.
It’s just so hard.
Because you then accept in advance
that everything you write
has a built-in expiration date.
Since the date of your choice one day
will no longer be in the future.
One could also write of the past.
That’s even harder.
How much hasn’t been forgotten or altered
and how much isn’t altered
with every weighted word
written or spoken of times we haven’t lived through
and therefore don’t understand.
One could also write of the present.
But what is the present?
Isn’t it past already
once the reader picks up your book?
And how much do we actually notice
while it happens
rather than through
One could also just stop caring
Just write the time off.
It passes anyway
no matter what.
How about writing about something I know?
Something I care about?
How about not caring in advance whether the reader understands
or wants to understand
or whether or not it even matters?
How about settling for the idea
that everything matters
and that if I write about something that is
meaningful to me, heartfelt and genuine
that will shine through
and make every word count all the more?
What if I’m wrong…?
But what if I’m right!
How about writing about Lolland.
That’s the island I come from.
Why have I never written about it before?
Well, I have,
but never mentioned the name.
What if giving it its proper name
alienates certain readers
or makes the text less universal
(as if a text ever can be universal)
or makes it more difficult to relate to
or something like that?
But what if it doesn’t!
What if you try to write something universal
and end up with something insipid and vague
that nobody could possibly care for.
Why not write something personal?
Why not write of my home?
As if other people don’t have a home
and wouldn’t understand what it feels like
to long back to it.
Why even pretend that there is a difference
between the personal and the universal –
I want to write about Lolland.
It is an island in the south of Denmark.
It has 60.000 inhabitants.
It is very flat and fertile.
It is my home.
I don’t live there.
I haven’t lived there for ten years now.
It changes nothing.
The stone circle in progress
hums quietly to you
as hills through the mist
drift back into view.
The faces on the stones
observe you quietly
as you bravely traverse
this piece of history.
The peat bog winks you closer
with blinking, dim blue light;
the vapour trails that linger
will not be swept aside.
The peaceful hills at rest
protect our ancestors –
guarding the few remains
that’s all they left for us.
Look not to these round hills
for peace or solace – ever –
look, touch, observe – then pass –
but they remain forever.
The hill where nothing lives
broods over its past
by the beach without waves;
silence at last.
I want to write something beautiful.
I want to write something meaningful.
And perhaps that’s the entire problem.
Perhaps that’s why I never get to write
nearly as much as I think about writing.
Reality is just not that pretty.
And why write something
that doesn’t either reflect reality
or could become reality?
Perhaps keeping it real isn’t as boring as I used to think –
perhaps it’s the only way to get to say something
that is truly worthwhile
and could possibly stand the test of time.
I want to write about Lolland
because that’s where my heart is on most days.
Not about the beaches,
the dikes and the hills
or the lakes and the fjords.
Not per se at least.
But about the feeling of complete disconnect
from the rest of the world
caused by intense connection
with one single place
that assaults me
whenever I go there.
I will not use the phrase “go home”
because that’s too emotional
even for me.
I “go there” every once in awhile
to visit my family
and breathe that air
and walk that earth
for no particular reason.
At least no logical reason.
And so I cannot really describe it
because my mind is so
that it wants a logical reason
and balks at the lack of one.
I just “go there”, ok?
Every once in awhile
There’s mist in the valleys
between the hills
and the sunset
sets it on fire.
There’s foam on the waves
and breaking over
There’s hazy birdsong
towards us on the breeze.
There’s less than an hour
to a city
if you cannot handle such peace.
I want to believe
that I could create something
that could last beyond my years.
I know however
that would be.
I “go there” every once in awhile
and the streets remain the same
but the houses change
or disappear entirely
and people come and go,
locations change names –
the only constant there is
that I can always find
is the brooding barrows,
that reminisce a past
we don’t even remember;
something didn’t last
And here I am,
whining about the human want
to last – and last – and last –
to leave a mark,
to make a mark,
to be remembered…
As if it matters in the long run
who reads me once I’m gone.
The apparitions came for me again,
the ghastly, ghostly figures
came at dawn –
I do not have the time to think,
certainly not to mourn
a time that passed
and by and large
before I myself was born.
But on the remnant wisps of dream
they flutter by
and powerless to wake I’m forced to see
time slipping backwards,
ruins rebuilding themselves
while people shrink and disappear
and others wake from sleep.
Eventually the clock resumes its ticking –
the one that stopped –
not that it even matters,
as life itself is unwearied
by the ticking of a clock
and our thoughts of passing –
we are just like the weather,
here and there
we come and pass;
what matters is the climate
(sadly for us)
takes longer to assess –