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What is the greatest source of inspiration?
What can really make you contemplate
and urge you forward to complete something?

Well, if you’re happy and content
you might never see the point
of changing anything,

You cannot know the light
if that is all you’ve ever seen –
you will not understand it
or appreciate it’s there
until you have lived through a night –

  And what a night. I don’t plan to moralize, but I do plan to speak my mind. I lived through a night like I hope you’ll never have to. And you probably won’t have to. Most people don’t. I was just the one out of thousands who drew the shortest straw. And then I was stuck in a nightmare that lasted 25 years. A long, drawn-out sleep that left me with nothing in store and everything to rebuild.

  But I did have one thing through that time. One thing that carried and supported me. And that was poetry. If I had lived a happy life, I don’t think I’d ever have started to write. I don’t think I would’ve seen the point, since I would’ve lacked nothing.

  As it was, I lacked – not only material things – I lacked a voice and words to express my thoughts. I lacked expression. And humans are social beings. We have an innate need for words and speech, but I had no words and weren’t heard when I tried to speak. So I wrote. Everything I couldn’t say out loud I wrote – poem after poem, essay after essay – and found a voice along the way that seeped out into my everyday existence and coloured what I’d do and say.

  It’s been an amazing journey, but if I’d never had problems, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to move along the way – I’d probably just have wanted to stay where I was at the beginning. Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right?

  I have no regrets – I chose a path that advanced me, however slowly, towards an understanding of my abilities, and what I truly wanted at heart. It just so happens, that at the end of the road, what I wanted was to continue writing, since I had not yet nearly told everything I had to tell. And since I had come to be able to write fairly well, there seemed to be no reason to stop at all.

What is this stupid construct
the world calls happiness?
A soothing balm
to keep you in your place.

I’d rather feel the pain,
the sadness and the cold
the world too has to offer
instead of growing old
to see that I learned nothing
because I was content –
who on this Earth would truly
want that to be their end?

  Whenever I was at my lowest, no matter the circumstances, I always felt the urge to write. Mostly because no other solution was in sight. But that was what kept me going, and it was a sure and reliable guide to have at hand throughout that long and lonely night that was the uncertain stumbling steps I took towards the light.

  And the worse I felt, the better I wrote. Paradoxically. That’s how it goes.

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New Poem: “i would dance if i could”

i would dance if i could and the earth never shook
and the future never failed and became the past –
i would dance, but i can’t
since tomorrow’s unsure, and today won’t really begin –

i would dance if i thought that i could and i ought
and i had all the options i thought i should have –
i would dance but i can’t
since the world weighs down and kills all attempts at song –

i would dance if the world and i was young
but we’ve both petrified in our ways –
the days go by – they pale and die
and i can’t lift a foot – so i stay –

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Where Are My Sunsets?

Where are my sunrises?
Where are my sunsets?
Where are my days?
An endless night
has taken their place.

Where are my colours?
Where is the music?
Colourless it fades.
A blurry image of a world
now passes by – abates.

Where are my sunsets?
There’s no sun to make them.
A distant globe up high
whose light retreats
remains cold in the sky.

Where did you go?
Why did you go?
Now what of me?
What do I do?

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Doppelgänger – The Poet About the Woman

She speaks through me,
she looks like me
but I don’t want to know her –
and if she was able
to hear my voice
or heed my advice
there’s much I’d like to show her.

But turning gently
in her own sphere
she is here
but she’s not here –
No words can move
her shrunken heart
that beats a tune

And I presume
to know her mind
but I don’t understand
her kind.
And what she says
provides no clue
since nothing stays –
I guess because
nothing was true.

She confuses me –
her nonsensical speak –
her vague existence
yet more real than me.
I wish that I could do
without her altogether –
but that I cannot do
since we are bound together.

And since she does provide me
at least with inspiration
I try to be patient
I try to contain
her baser moods –
for a fashion –
and tolerate
her existence.

But how I wish that she
was more like me.

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The Poet Encounters the Prosaic

Someone once said to me: “Not all of your poems have to be good. After all, when you need to fill out a whole book, some of the material will inevitably just have to be fillers.”

Just no.

A chance meeting between a poet and the most prosaic person to ever live, possibly.

Undoubtedly a person who hasn’t written a single word that wasn’t a school assignment or a text message.

A person who doesn’t have much to say and insists on saying it loudly and with as many words as possible nevertheless.

Whereas I have spent years trying to say as much as I can with as few words as possible. Cutting to the bone and distilling the essence of a message.

Boiling it, tending the fire beneath it until it was time to retrieve it – the few select cuts of words returned to me.

Go back and recreate the unnecessary left-overs?

Just no.

You can’t add fillers without destroying the picture. Who cares if the eyes are well drawn if the rest of the face is a cartoon?

Just no.

But then again – a person who would say such a thing in the first place is probably not likely to be either willing or able to read a poem in the first place.

That kind of people just want their heads filled with noise so that they don’t have to think.

The antithesis of my mission.

The beauty of such people lies only in the fact that their prosaic nature makes the poetic stand out in contrast all the starker and more visible – even to those with less discerning eyes.

I praise the prosaic. Without it, there would be no reason for poetry.

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The Endless Question

The question never ceases to surprise me –
the only one most men have wits to think of
when they hear that I write poetry.

“So, you write love poems, don’t you?”
over and over – always the same –
never anything smarter – nothing new.

I’m tired of having to answer: “No”
but since I do not write of things
I don’t have knowledge of, it must be so!

Granted, in youthful folly, I once tried –
but that endlessly repeated question saw to it
that the impulse very quickly died…

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I Can Resist This! –

Tenuous grip on sanity –
that scent of man –
tendons on a turned neck –
the gesture of a hand –

Flex of muscles on a leg –
– I can resist this! –
To long – it’s been too long –
– I don’t need this! –

A hand is raked through hair –
a thought, a hope, a wish –
wispy clouds of breath
in winter air; mine, his –

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Idealism In Hindsight

Though said that I have principles, ideals
and dreams of better futures worth the building,
is the truth not rather, somehow still,
that no thought of mine ever soared so high
that I didn’t, beneath it, secretly yearn
to shear my roots and shake off destiny
rather than transform society?

How easy to be free
when nothing holds you back.
How easy to reject the norms
when no-one cares
or perceives it as a lack –
except oneself.

So easy
except for yourself.

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There’s a Nightmare Afoot

There’s a nightmare afoot
and I cannot tell if it is a dream
or reality rearing its ugly head
intent on breaking the spell –

Something dropped and then picked up
only to be dropped again –
play that on repeat for eight hours of sleep
and you’ll be wishing for the end –

Only to wake up for work – REPEAT –
like yesterday and the day before;
nothing new to do, nothing new to see
and no chance to really plan for more –

Only sleep to remind you,
honestly at least,
that there is a part of you
that always yearns for more –

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Whatever Comes Of It, At Least I Tried, I Did

I would write,
I would write but I am tired and the words don’t come –
perhaps tomorrow
or any other day but today.
But if I say that every day
I may never get to write again
and that thought is so scary
that I try – at least try –

Because what else would I do?
How else would I express myself?
I would explode eventually
with all those words inside me
that cannot make their way out
unless I write them down
and hand them to you.

So I write –
so I try to write
and whatever comes of it
at least I tried,
I did.

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What I Am

I am a stray cat nobody wants to feed –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

I am a shadow in the darkness of the night –
I am a planet knocked off course
and hidden from the light –

I am an epiphyte high on a branch, alone –
I am disguised to look like my surroundings,
so you pass me by, unknown –

I am an eye that follows you around –
I am a presence that you barely can detect,
a movement; subtle, slight

I am a shade dissolving in your light –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

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The Restless Darkness

I am a civilized woman, am I not?
A product of a state who never lets me go.
A product of millennia of development,
and paths that others had to go.

Then why does the darkness within remain?
The drive that makes me restless,
angry, fearful of myself
time and again?

Is this the best that I can be?

A clenching fist that never gets release –
a thousand angry thoughts
that no amount of words can ease –

A core of smoldering darkness
unseen within –
a hand stained red
with paint
from a canvas torn in anger
at my failure as a human being –

Why is that I can’t get to express
anything worthwhile to anyone –
the silence, the civility
it only feeds the darkness
it festers deep within
yet still remains unseen by everyone –

The breaking point –
I don’t know where it is
since I am weighed down by society –
all I do know
is that there is
such a thing as too much civility –

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What Is the Value of Life If This Is All It Is Reduced To?

A quiet but merciless
centrifugal force
of inarticulate gibberish
burst from people’s lips
around me.
There is no respite
from the meaning
I fail to discern
in their murmurings.
There is no peace
to be had from moving lips
and flailing hands
that corner me.
There is no life
that doesn’t include
this meaningless
Then what’s the value
of a life
if this is all
it is reduced to?

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The Moth Inside

The moth inside me yearns
towards the people in the crowd
with their invisible light –
the aura of their company invisible by sight –
although each contact only causes me to burn.

Yet still I find myself
dwell on their presence by me
though from a safe, slight distance –
their presence cast the only light in sight
and so I must return – if only once again to burn.

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Teacher Totally Disenchanted

The more I know,
the less you seem to know.

I used to think you knew everything.
Now I know that you know a few things.
And fake a good many.

Now I know that I could teach you.
Yet I shouldn’t brag – since after all
you were the one who taught me
the foundations which I took off
and overtook you from –

I could’ve kept respecting you
perhaps indefinitely
if you didn’t so insistently
keep claiming to know more than you know
now that I know you do.

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I Shrink Down Next To You

Blanketed by darkness
that nestles itself
around my heart –
probing my brain
with foggy tentacles
for light left –

Leaden arms and legs
that feel unlike my own
and a voice that speaks
through my mouth
though I can’t hear the words
or stop the sound –

Did the world always
turn so slowly?
Was the light always
this dull?
How come you don’t see
the changes
while I shrink down
next to you?

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As the World Forgets My Existence

A scorching summer’s sun
making way for
pale pink ribbons
into inky bluish black –

We stood here once
your back not turned –

Do you remember
who I am?
Did that memory
or does a trace –
at least –

A faint ribbon
vaguely through your brain –
to fade.

I feel myself fade –
I dissolve
swirling into the pink
that vanishes
with the sun
as the world
my existence.

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The Darkness Approaches

The darkness approaches,
I struggle to fight it –
it prods and it pushes –
deny it; deny it!
there’s part of my soul
that it clings onto tightly –
I cannot escape it –
release me; release me!

The sun brings its light with it
back in the Spring,
but it has no power
to scare off the night
that lurks still inside me –
fight it; fight it
with all of the cold
and the darkness of winter.

I may or I may not
be acting like others;
my strife may or may not
be easy to see –
I don’t have the energy
to bother hide it
with all of this turmoil
inside of me.

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The Prospect of Ageing

Time heals,
time mends,
time lets you

That grey hair
wasn’t there

Don’t fight
with nature,
you are it;
ever sure –

unbreakable –
intertwined with nature
you will endure…

But that wrinkle –
too early…
Isn’t fair!

But YOU, you can relax;
you are not me,
so I am free
to tell you all is well –

I say to you;
embrace the cycles
nature binds us to –

And just ignore me
dyeing my hair
over here –

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The Restless Wind Rustles the Wheat

The restless wind rustles the wheat
today; sunshine – yesterday; sleet,
a sun that dares to show its face
for once
and deigns to filter through the branches’ lace –

A lazy tune that’s being hummed in vain
with nobody to hear it – save the grain –
a person moving slowly, lazily
for once
and taking in the ambiance and scenery –

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The Known vs. The Felt

I know you’re gone
and I am left alone
to carry on.

But how can you be gone
when you take shape
time and again
within my head?

Do you live on
within the neurons
of my brain?

Do you have shape
that could be seen
on a brain scan?

Did you not die
but simply transition
to another form of life?

A dull response
passed along
the neural networks –
determined to carry on?

I know you’re there
knocking on my skull
from within
time and again –

It’s just that I don’t know
if you are aware
that you’re there

And so I’d better try
to let you go

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The Poet Takes Pains to Reflect

Grasping at the strings attached to everything in life –
seeking out the meaning wishing that it wouldn’t hide
(or that at least I knew that it existed)
writing down my findings – although I first resisted

The good, the bad in everything –
composed, compressed, compiled –
I smile, I hurt; yet through it all
I only search for words
so that I might recall –

And filed away beneath it all
is the humanity that brought it forth
– against my will, according to my nature –
for what it may be worth

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The Words Don’t Wait

The words don’t come
when I want them to –
they drift through my mind
there, then gone.

I can’t remember them
as soon as they’ve moved on –
a spark of inspiration
there, then gone.

Then one drifts slowly by,
slow enough for me to grasp
and examine, and the words
materialize at last –

and the very first sentence
has made its way to paper
when somebody knocks the door…
And then I stand here later

Looking at that paper –
but the words couldn’t wait,
they’ve moved beyond my reach
and again it is too late.

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The Stranglehold My Soul Has On My Body

The silence that chokes me
is the stranglehold
my soul has on my body –
kept captive and fettered
it smolders inside
it longs to burn through
its containing hide –
It answers my call
that it alone hears
since I can’t make it heard
beyond myself at all –
It burns unsteadily,
colder, then hotter,
dimmer, then brighter
and sooner or later
it will cause me
to burst into flames.
But what might be seen
as the breaking of chains
is really just the end
since the flames cannot burn
without the fuel
my body provides them.

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The Seer – The Seen

She sits alone in darkness
around her there is light
and she hears happy voices
but they are out of sight –

There’s many degrees of darkness,
there’s many shades of shade,
there’s much to be absorbed by
in the absence of the light –

A life in an eternal night –

And she is right beside you
but hidden in the shade
that neither sees the other through –

I see – I see – I see you –
I see you thinking I don’t see,
I see you thinking I miss out
on life –
And yes!, All that I do is see
since that is all I am allowed
but I am not the one who’s
missing out –
I am the only one of us who sees –

“What do you see?”
“I’d rather keep you happy
by not letting it
shine through.”

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The Cure

I am not depressed.
I am realistic.

Your idea of curing me
is to make me sick.

I would rather see the truth
than soak in fake happiness.

I would rather feel pain
than imagine fake joy.

I would rather live
whatever that entails –
I would rather know
than fake beliefs –
I would rather think
than fake agreement –

I am not depressed –
I just have sharper vision than you.

You can’t cure me
since you spread the disease.

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Just a Drop of Water

I am nothing unique, really –
I am a drop of water
in the river of society,
like any other.

We’re headed somewhere collectively
but that is not a place I wish to see –
the fear is always there;
being hidden in the stream of history,
drowned among the others and forgot
like so many – most –
who lived and shaped our lives today
but still, whose thoughts and names were lost.

I am nothing unique, really –
just another drop of water
that evaporates eventually,
like any other.

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On the Nature of Faces

I am what I am
and nothing more
(yet nothing less) –

a faceless voice
praising a world
made out of faces –

always scorned
for things I can’t control,
alter or make undone

but never praised
for those things that I can –
not for a single righted wrong.

The faces of the world
never turn my way –
they do not heed my words.

But I praise myself to say
that I don’t turn from anyone
since I don’t have a face to turn away.

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For All the Flaws of Our Life On Earth

Could I earn a place in Heaven –
by what means
and what might it do to me?
What if I found that once there, then
not only had I ceased to be
but too that Heaven isn’t as it seems?

That is to say, what good is to be had
cut off from everything –
what good to learn when nothing
resembles a chance to ever meet the bad?

For all the flaws of our life on Earth
I must say –
I’d choose this life, right here and now
over a place in Heaven any day.
For all the dreary, and for what it’s worth,
no other place provides a chance for growth.

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Light creeps in everywhere
to burn away
its detractors –
the shade runs for cover
and I with it –
the day struggles
with the night
and only reluctantly
allows it life –
the day recuperates
to resume the fight –

Too many colours,
too much light –
it drains one’s life
to sustain itself –

No, give me night!
Give me winter’s cold
so that my thoughts can clear –
this light muddles it
and hides the thoughts
that I must want to hear;
the fears, the doubt, the questions
that define me –
this light blinds me
and hides them from me –
Now who am I?

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Reality Check

Liberated consciousness,
self-realization –
not really.
Somehow realizing the “self”
always has consequences
for others –
preventing others
from realizing themselves.

Escape your comfort zone
(to boast about it)
forgetting in your haste
that your comfort zone
does not exist
in a vacuum
but overlaps the comfort zones
of those around you
whom you may not
have consulted
about the escape –

Your dream.
Someone’s nightmare.
What makes you think
your dream
is what’s more real?

Humans are flawed –
more so because they
ignore the real flaws
and invent other –
unimportant –
“flaws” they’d rather improve.

“Move fast and break things.”
Why is it
that I always have the feeling
of trailing behind
the rest of humanity
with a broom –
trying to tidy up
at least an inch-wide path
through the mess
you all leave behind
for future generations
to struggle through
or drown in?

I am Chiron –
I can make you feel better
about yourself
at the cost of myself –

I am Cassandra –
but wise enough to not speak
and only write
since most people
are too lazy to read
and even fewer
intelligent enough
to understand –
whereas if you speak out loud
everybody thinks they understand you
even though the smartest
only scrape the surface
of the words
obscuring meaning –

I am King Midas
(dressed as a woman)
with the exception
that I don’t turn things to gold
but to poetry –
equally impractical
but much less lucrative –

I would much rather be myself
but the rest of humanity
cuts the queue
and butts me out the way
declaring their right
to self-realization –
(it must be a lonely search -)
and I have not the arrogance
of humans
so I stay quiet
and write –

Stay in the heat –
Play the game –
Oh, I’d do it for inspiration!
But only because
your idiosyncrasy
makes for good poetry!

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Does Chaos Count as an Emotion?

Does chaos count as an emotion?
Or is it just another lie
we tell ourselves to hide
the fact of holes in our understanding
of the workings of the mind?

I look at you and all I feel is chaos –
a mingling of what is and was,
what could be had and lost
and what I truly feel hides there behind –
an answer that my mind won’t let me find.

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Light Requires Darkness

I carry with me a darkness
that prevents me from taking flight,
a burden of thoughts that possess
and bars me from the light.

I thought that I should name it
to understand and will it away
but names tend to bind things
and so might make it stay…

Instead I tell myself
and the whole dispassionate world
that light requires darkness
in order to ever unfold.

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I Have No Voice That You Can Hear

I heard your question.
I strove to answer.

The words swelled in my throat,
they got stuck, wiggling their way out,
writhing, tearing at my windpipe –

You just stood there.
You just stared at me.

But the words were there –
it wasn’t for lack of trying –
it’s just that I have no voice
that you can hear.

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On the Verge

I am waiting to disperse,
I’m almost on the verge of dissipating –
let my components find rest
if that’s the only kind of rest to find…
I’m ready to slip past
the past, the present, and into the future,
a future waiting in the dark
in which I may or may not play a part…
I will flit away someday –
I will run with the sun
over this small globe
on light feet, light-headed, freed
from the chains my body imposes
knowing neither joys nor pains –
would that be happiness?
Or would it simply be a change
from one form to another,
yet again, and yet again,
proving once again
all higher thoughts in vain?

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In the MAKING –

The desire to MAKE –
that is the human curse I carry –
the MAKING of art
in a futile attempt to carry
myself into a future
without me –

My hands want creation –
if my mind wants peace
it has come to the wrong place –
this world is ours
for the MAKING –

For those of us who have
sufficiently little of ourselves
to value art
that’s what we MAKE –

For those who live instead
they MAKE themselves
and others in their image –

And we shall MAKE
a world without us
through our restless creation –
a world in our image
as barren as the average mind
that brought it down –

Meanwhile I’ll MAKE
some poetry and hope
some sense might yet be found –

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I Am the Poet of Transience

I am the poet of transience.
I am a voice that shouts unheard into a wall of noise.
I am a light that flares up, indistinguishable in the face of the sun.
I am a leaf that unfolds only to wither.

But then, aren’t we all?

I am the voice of distilled thought and feeling.
I am an experiment of Nature –
I am a being attempting to be more than I am.
I am a longing, aimed at unattainable truth and certainty.

All in all, I am human.

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How I Long To Believe –

How I long to believe in something –
how the world lets me down each time I try –
everything I believe in
seems destined to wither and die –

My heart remains full of visions
as my mind stays full of songs –
but the words die on my lips
when I ponder the past gone wrong.

I admire the certainty heard
in the voices of other people –
so sure of themselves they drown out
my voice; so frail and feeble –

How I long to believe in something –
but life has taught me – and harshly:
no truth stays truthful for long;
there is no such thing as certainty

So I maintain my silent vigil
over dreams buried and gone
and scoff at the people around me
who thinks they are right and I’m wrong

How I wish that I never believed –
that I never allowed hope to stain
my mind with its reveries…
How I wish it hadn’t all been in vain.

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Spring Burst Forth

The Spring announced itself today –
the 3rd of April –
with a flash of light
and an angry roar
it washed the winter off the ground
as it were –

And underneath the winter
suddenly the flowers, tough,
exploded from their hides
announcing: “We have had enough!”,
with birds in happy chorus chanting with them:
“Finally! Now we may live again!”

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The Arrival of Spring

Spring arrived
or so I decided

The dark fog
hovering in my head
I willed away.

At least for now
the sun shines
and the air is clear –

the cold awakens thoughts
and silences
the nightmares –

The snow of yesterday
already melted,

it took with it all traces
of our movements there –

the sludge seeps through my shoes,
no longer waterproof.
It’s good,
it helps me stay awake –

I hung away my winter coat
this morning
since I choose
not to allow the winter to go on –

and if the winter disagrees
so be it –
I’d rather catch a cold
than stay inside

My feet are freezing
but it helps me breathe –
it helps maintaining focus,
not to feel

and I will walk today
and stay outside
and try to think

and I won’t sleep until
the thinking
has been done

Spring arrived today
because I need it now –
I cannot wait two weeks
for clarity of mind.

I’ll air out my brain
and will the darkness away
and see what I can find –

perhaps some energy
that I thought lost –

perhaps a way to will away
the nightmares of the past –

perhaps a flower sprouting
in a pool of half-thawed
ice-encrusted mud –

perhaps to catch a cold –
that would be something new to think about –
perhaps I could –

perhaps a beam of sun
that cannot yet be felt –

perhaps a stray thought
that could help me write a poem
again –

perhaps some lungfuls of the air
might help me sleep
a healthy sleep
with no nightmares –

My feet have led me
out into the park
where they sink
into the thawing soil –

the earth seemingly knows
that I need to feel grounded –

With feet like icicles
I proceed
ahead –

the Spring of my making,
right here and now,
a stuttering breath –

an interlude between darkness
and darkness –
light, cold and wet –

alive –

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I Have Not the Arrogance of Humans

I have not the arrogance
of humans –
mine is not the voice
of presumption –
I walk among them
in silence
and they do not sense
my presence –

I have not the bearing
of them –
not their arrogance,
pretense –
not their wild-eyed fury
at ideas
that scatter in the wind
around the bend –

I have not their beliefs
and dreams –
their hopes and fears
and follies –
I won’t purport to understand
their ways.
I understand enough
not to try –

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Thoughts. Slipping.

’bout what?
No knowing.

What for?
No knowing.

What for?
No knowing.

Too early.

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Early Morning – Fog

Heavy dampness in the air,
whiteness everywhere –
muffled sounds from far away
as morning wakes to day –

Tentative light that tries to poke
its fingers through the fog of sleep –
the war of Spring on Winter
leaves everything to soak
in clouds it dragged down deep –

The sun fights with the whiteness
and wafts it gently by –
yet something still remains
to cloud my mind and eye –

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You Called Me Forth

You called me forth
and I stumbled out
into this light
that blinds me.

“Well, here I am –
what is it that you wanted out of me?
Not what you get?
I see.”

Well, here I stay
mindful of the glares
that no-one dares
aim at my face
directly –

If only they could see my mind –
there’s truths in there they cannot face –

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Brace Yourselves: New Poetry Collection on Monday!

My new poetry collection is finally ready!

Starting Monday the 23rd, ‘Light Requires Darkness’ will come dripping down the pipe one poem a day (a two-month process).

If you feel impatient, a downloadable PDF-file will be made available of the collection as well. You can find this (on Monday) on the ‘Downloads’ page.

Continue reading Brace Yourselves: New Poetry Collection on Monday!

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New Poem: “Present Past”

This new poem is contemplating the history of humanity and how we came to be – and for that reason it has been excluded from my up-coming poetry collection “Light Requires Darkness” as it simply didn’t align with the rest of the content. It is way too philosophical and not nearly personal enough, one might say.

However, despite that, I’d hate letting it go to waste, as I really wrung my brain attempting to write it in the first place. So, here you have it (and the collection will start to follow one poem at a time in the near future).

Continue reading New Poem: “Present Past”

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Plans for the Next 3+ Months

Okay, everybody. I have been working hard on finishing up a lot of things recently – not least of all, the website you’re currently at. Now that I mostly have that out of the way, I can start focusing on making my new poetry (and other writings) available.

Next Up: My Next Poetry Collection

First of all, I have a new poetry collection coming up called “Light Requires Darkness”. All the content is finished, so now I just need to decide in which order I want to present the poems, and to decide on a release date. I can promise you that you will have that before the 1st of July.

Other Writing Projects I Am Wrapping Up

I am working, slowly, on a short story collection with the working title “I MELT”. I would say that I am about 1/3 through, so I can’t say for sure when you will be able to read that – but I am crossing my fingers it will be finished before the 1st of September.

And then there’s the big one: “The Infinite Loop”. It is a novel that I am about half done with. I will have it finished by the end of the year, and I plan to self-publish it as an e-Book. However, if at all possible, I should also like to publish it as a weekly serial on this website. We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted about that. If all goes well, I would like to begin doing that between October and December of this year.

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Edvard Søderberg: Denmark

In Denmark you’ll find house by house,
some thousand small ones on a line,
with reddish roofs and chimney smoke
which smells of dinner time.

Some thousand yards with flowerbeds
where herbs and asters grow –
church towers behind hillsides,
and small sailboats on the fjord.

In Denmark there runs path by path
which meet up with all larger roads;
the skylark sings, the throstle too,
in May so too the cuckoo.

In Denmark whispers the green wood,
and shines the clear, bright sun –
it shines equally on livery
and poor men’s clothes, well worn.

I love these lined-up roofs
and the cabbage patches small,
the whispering forest, the glossy fjord,
the sun that shines on it all.

I love this people, the thousand small,
who in Denmark live and work –
the poor man’s cot at the beaten track
and the fishing boat on the fjord.

The thousands of people who stay and fight
though they win for themselves merely tidbits –
cursed be them who wage war on this people
to break its courage and spirit!

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: Death —

In the cold room where the candle
splutters in its stick,
she lies, the dead, thereon the bed
‘tween rags, covered with a sheet.

On the wall her shadow is shifting
fantastically in the gloomy stillness.
– Good, she found peace, good there’s death’s
salvation after life’s wild violence!

Good, she found peace, that this heart
which fought on and on till the end,
this poor heart, which loved and despaired,
that it one day found its end!

Good, that after life’s shame and disgrace,
its black defeats and its red lies,
after all which we come to dream and sin,
there’s a death to close our eyes!

– In the gloomy room, where the shadow shifts,
bend over the table where the candle burns,
a man with silent lips sits still,
his head on his hands he leans.

And he stares silently into the dark,
silent, tearless in the night’s stillness…
– Good, she found peace, good, there’s death’s
salvation after life’s wild violence!

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: Down there in the alley —

Down there in the alley life is noisy
and people yell and deal with their affairs –
Here in my wigwam all is peace and quiet,
and everything is how I want it here.

See over rooftops the clear sky –
how blue it arches, calm and clear!
And in the distance behind green woods
it winds around the fields, sincere!

Here fades the sun, the night’s stars shine,
red-golden behind my window the moon arise;
all voices are heard here so distantly
from the jolly masquerade of the masses outside.

And should it be, what easily comes,
that life brings troubles once more –
well, there is advise for all things in this world
and a pawnshop on the ground floor.

And should, one evening when it’s late,
the loneliness feel heavy –
in master Daniel’s basement barroom
the jolly men drink and party.

What more want I? Here in my wigwam
is my quiet, safe harbour-place –
so close to this world’s small affairs
and yet to the stars so highly raised.

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: Now it’s quiet in the alley —

Now it’s quiet in the alley,
and the evening noises cease;
the last lamp is turned off
behind the window sheets.

Come, we shall walk together
in this night, the gloomy,
while all other souls rest
and the streets glisten slightly.

I love the stillness of the night,
the stars – pale and gentle;
I love this: to live,
I love this: to strive –

To feel how the heart beats,
to feel how the blood pulses,
to breathe the smell of leafs
and the winds of summer nights!

Despite all which we’ve been through,
despite all which we’ve survived,
despite all hurts which pressed
the tears into our eyes:

How beautiful, how good to live –
to feel the blood that pulses,
to breathe the smell of leaves
and the winds of summer nights!

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: The Beduin —

The beduin pulls his tentpole
out of the sand and sharpens his sword;
then he travels through the desert
under the night stars’ glow.

He’s bored by the whispers of palm trees,
of the homely dishes the sight –
but out there he eyed the eagle
tighten its wings for flight.

Out there sound the songs,
and the sky is ablaze.
Then he travels ahead to the distant,
sun-red fairytale place.

And the caravan of the traders,
which rocks ahead, slow and late,
through the desert, stops recognize
the whitened bones of his fate.

I too am like the beduin
without a place to remain;
I love the unexplored paths
and the night-time’s loneliness.

I follow neither people nor flag,
I suffer no mark or shield;
never did I fight in ranks
and never I fought afield.

The salesman strokes behind counters
his mammon and drinks his wine
and judges with gentile gazes
the poor beduin.

– He uses his chalk and his pen,
the poor and pitiful man,
who never for one hour longed
for the sun-red fairy-land…

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: A crooked fence —

A crooked fence which wavers;
a glow of sun in green windows;
some worn-out clothes hung out to dry;
a soot-covered wall; a tree that bows –

On the stairs a girl, a beauty
from the streets, in skirt and veil,
a wagon rumbling distantly; a voice
that soothes a child who wails.

Indeed, I know this picture,
I memorize it, dreaming and awake:
the gloomy nooks and creepy gates
where trolls would hide and lurk.

This adventure-land where strange
and wondrous beings as well as dark,
mysterious and strange shadows lurked
and crept behind all sheds and gates.

Where in the darkness it laughed and whispered
with strangely quiet voices,
with evil eyes that alertly gazed
through all the gratings and doors.

Where the knights and dames of the street
and folks from all the world’s corners
partied heartily and happily
with liqueur and musicians.

– Indeed, I know this picture,
the hopeless elend’s kingdom; –
it hits me with a secret fear
and darkens all my visions…

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: It darkens in the alley now —

It darkens in the alley now,
the evening birds they flit
along the tiles and touch
with a smile my sweater’s sleeve

Her there, the little dark one,
whose laughter now we hear,
now she comes towards us!
Look how herself she bears.

The jacket tight in the waist,
and the hair curls on the brow –
What want you? Wait, it seems…
Did we not meet before?

Indeed, it is those looks
that cheeky laught which me greet;
it is the same brown locks,
and the same lips, the red.

Oh, we have dreamt and loved
and caressed lengthily…
Now she walks here in the street
and sells herself for money.

It darkens, the day bends,
the birds of the evening flit.
My cup was drained to the dregs,
now it’s been re-filled – with filth…

— translated by K-M SKalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edvard Søderberg: Here, in this silent alley…

Here in this silent alley,
with the shine of many windows,
where behind tiles and blackened roofs
the night sky’s violet glows –

Here, when the day is past
I wander in the hours of dusk,
knows all again and longs
towards a time that’s lost.

Oh, I love these hovels,
chalked and grey and blackish,
these crooked, reddish walls,
these deep and creepy gates –

Love this gloomy alley,
the distant golden heaven,
the stars behind the rooftops,
the street and the buzz thereon –

These men and these women,
these drunks and beggars;
the wild birds of the lamplight,
these madams and these players.

And I wander in this alley
listening to the evening sounds:
screams and fighting, women’s voices,
children’s cries and drinking songs.

Oh, I recognize these voices,
know them from past times;
strangel they sound in the darkness,
a wild, confused complaint that climbs.

Now defiant, now in pain,
it never stills, just like the sea –
it’s the resonance of the depths,
it is the street’s poetry…

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 13/1-2013

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Edith Södergran: Various Observations

One shouldn’t say: The All – for how can one in a single word sum up that which has no extent.

The free will is an absurd assumption, something which operates independently and on its own in an abstract room of thoughts.

The great shape-creating fantasy is an unreleased spirit, unless it is freed through painting.

The last and highest refinement of vanity is the end of all vanity, like a woman who most safely plays with a man she doesn’t need.

Open-mindedness is security in dealing with things.

There is something unsavoury about harming one’s own life.

The good ought to know how to neutralize his damaging effort through hardness.

It is among the most normal things in this, the world of vague concepts, to fight that which one doesn’t contain.

A high intelligence gives to the face something rich and mature, it is as if the fatness of the spirit rises to the face, the obesity of Minerva.

The evil are most often strong organisms, who feel restricted in their displays of temper. That the evil suffer the most isn’t true, their suffering isn’t deep, it is for them a somewhat comfortable habit.

Now the bell of patriotism hangs around the necks of everyday people as if it was their own.

Gösta Berling can manage by herself faced with a very spoiled teacher, who of his own insides is given the most exquisite spice; a centaur is then created.

The people of the great prosperity are realists and fatalists.

The task of the people-improver is not to preach moral, but to change the insides of people by changing the outer conditions for the moral health of humanity.

Moral begins where it ought to end, that is, by giving the one who longs for perfection a hint.

So far, everything has happened to individuals, the religions have, strictly speaking, only come to individuals. Now we can begin to sense the times where the mass must be influenced.

Small people are quite sensual in their way, in a jolly way that a great temper can’t stand.

One thing we have above all others – ourselves.

The most genuine ones are the ones that are the most cooperative, and the least cooperative.

All long roots of truth are suspicious, you only find truth in short, broken pieces.

Our weakness when we defend or attack always lies in the fear of failure which forces us to hasten, when it is sufficient to carelessly sprinkle a few destroyed suspicions.

One never gives up one’s inner faith – that would be one’s doom.

One doesn’t have enough character to forbid the highest expressions of the human spirit – detours are scholars, reporters etc. who make everything harmless.

We notice first the roughest part of truth, truth in itself, the most important thing – the speaker – we notice much later.

That life surrounds is and that we don’t have time for it heightens its temptations in a refined way, just like Heaven for religious people heightens the temptations of Earth.

The emptiness of life, which for people at the present time seem cloister-like, has caused a craving for amusement, the flesh that thinks itself overlooked demands its right. It would amuse a Mephistopheles to lead the headless, hunting mass off the thin ice – just once hand it the cup of complete pleasure.

If genius people wearing puritan blinders get to see the truth, they become incredibly inventive whilst trying to explain it away.

A non-religious person by nature always sympathizes a bit with Mephistopheles concerning the angelic chorus.

Religion can, through misunderstanding, become a source of culture when the religious people deaden themselves to worldly art and science, and avoid the genius influences they need.

It is so strange, the art of the aphorisms: the play with contrasts is lousy as a word pun, the truth often limited, and yet it is the attire of truth which is weaved, the truth raised above all else.

To say that one loves people is hysteria, to say one doesn’t love them is weakness – to have power to make them what they ought to be is the only right thing.

The one who isn’t yet mild himself longs more for the victory of mildness, like after something whose victory he is uncertain of and which has many enemies in himself.

The small ones are naïve and literal in their virtues, perhaps because virtue is so new to them.

A thinker of greater genius than has so far existed, would have need for fewer words than philosophers have so far used. In the future one will do a heavier and quantitatively lesser work.

Mild insomnia increases genius.

The lavishness of the proletariat is a weak life force. The proletariat is an atom of growth which the Earth asks: why do you plunder me still? The Earth loves plants who suck with deep roots.

Nobody is the master of their own star, they’re forced to follow it.

The adversary is something you get in a marriage you’ve always deserved.

If you want people to achieve something great it is less dangerous to overestimate some than to underestimate them.

The sleepwalker heads for the lottery to cash in the grand prize.

When one’s own intellect has risen high, every intellect seems distinguished whether it belongs to a human or an insect, one’s eyes are opened to the demonical of the being of intelligence entirely.

The most detestable is shown to you when something high is defiled. On such an event it once showed itself to me in dreams: I saw evil women drown little children in wooden tubs, I saw executions everywhere on the beach and ships, human hands and tree branches defiled with blood and brain material, everything so raw and detestable like you never see it in reality, but only in the enlarging mirror which an insulted, wondrous sensibility owns.

The conscious virtue, the virtue spoken of, doesn’t start till the development of the intellect. Before this everything is animalistic coincidence.

The truly declassed and outcast among people are those who have committed a mean action.

A true art critic would be a person who was able to understand the inner laws of the different art forms and art characters.

The highest we can see lies beyond evil and good, ugly and beautiful, there the highest the human spirit has created becomes small, narrow and way too human, there the things speak, future art is comical.

Nietzsche’s strength shouldn’t be sought in the strength of his voice but in the greatness streaming from his greatest experience – the eternal return.

Should every great person not, besides everything else, also have his own great fear as a certain focal point in life?

The critic is usually a person who talks for so long about a book that nobody any longer knows what it’s worth. If the criticism is to achieve its goal, the critic should decidedly, without leaving any room for doubt, say honestly what a book is. Books need trademarks, same as all other goods.

The one who has power over hearts should treat them as something holy.

The feeling of guilt is always a sure sign of a weak character, the factual guilt remains a question mark.

Most people perish because they search for something shiny and neglect the necessary. We all resemble magpies and pickerels, we grasp for what’s shiny – each in our own way.

Where the spirit is suppressed the flesh groans.

It is necessary learning to pack one’s intellectual baggage to see how elegant, well ordered and light one’s baggage is.

The greatest merit of the woman is that she has so far not provided for herself much intellectually.

Danger and uncertainty are the right elements of carefreeness, whereas civilized life is heavy to carry.

There comes a time when one tells oneself: my thoughts no longer belong to me alone, and then one devotes one’s entire life to others.

There are people to whom everything comes, and others who have the privilege of approaching everything themselves.

The three greatest gifts of life: poverty, loneliness, suffering, only the sage values according to their actual great value.

Poems about the cosmos could be but a whisper.

Does something more marvelous exist than the cheeky, divine fairytale-like force of Napoleon?

A real man needs no name, he comes, sees and wins.

What we need right now is the naughtiest person who ever answered the name of Napoleon.

The one who isn’t a man of actions says that the masses smell bad, but Napoleon has no nose and the waves carry him.

Every time a narrow feeling envelops you, you must transform it into a vast one.

Where beauty is missing, all graces take each other by the hands and flee. Then justice takes the place of love, and duty the place of royal inclinations.

It is not necessary to pray, you just look up at the stars and get the feeling of falling to the ground in wordless worship.

The great innate outer elegance, which is as rare as great physical beauty, is accompanied by an inner gentility, a delicacy in every action and movement! These people feel themselves as rulers and are also recognized as such by others.

A humanity as pure as flowers is the ideal of the future.

One doesn’t ask whether God exists or not, one simply puts one’s small intelligence aside.

The prejudice against God is the one that is the most difficult to overcome.

The houses we live in are ancient huts in comparison with the idea of a human dwelling which we carry within ourselves.

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, December 2012

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Edith Södergran: Thoughts on Nature

Life and death we see with our eyes, they’re sun and moon.

Through the All run the sun’s life-giving, the moon’s killing and the globes subjected to life and death.

Around all the diseased the moon spins its net, until the Full Moon comes a beautiful night to fetch it.

Dying natural children love death, they long for the moment the moon takes them.

Nature is used to death, it experiences it every night. It submits itself with equal ease to the enchantments of the sun and of the moon.

Death is a sweet poison – rot, but there is nothing unhealthy about death. Nature is health itself and considers death every bit as healthy as life.

In rot lies the highest beauty and the Devil is God’s highest goodness. Admirable is the rapid work of destruction in the autumn.

Nature is under God’s protection. The Devil has no power over nature. Nature is God’s beloved.

If we don’t become natural children, we don’t get to go to Heaven. For the religious, secrets are secrets about nature. They don’t thrive in Jewish temples, but they got along fine with the unknowing child who understood the lilies of Saron.

Nature’s way to God is the direct, eternal and objective, without outer chance.

The human heart seeking God must fight the subjectivity, for the heart begins beyond subjectivity.
But Nature’s way is protected.

— translated by K-M SKalkenæs, December 2012

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Edith Södergran: The Land Which Is Not

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

‘The Land Which Is Not’ was a work in progress at the time of Södergran’s death in 1923 and was published posthumously in 1925 – therefore it is shorter and more fragmented than the other collections. Some of the poems in this collection were written as early as 1916 while others were written very shortly before her death. They have been arranged in chronological order.

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Edith Södergran: The Rose Altar

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

Most of the poems in the collection were written within a year – between Summer 1918 and Spring 1919. A few of them were intended to be published with her previous collection ‘The September Lyre’, but were refused inclusion there.

While the topic of this collection is similar to the last, its tone is warmer and less tense.

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Edith Södergran: The September Lyre

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

This, contrary to Södergran’s first collection, was published upon demand in 1918.

The main topic of this collection was her self-perception, coming to term with her illness as well as herself as a literary figure.

Moreover, this is the collection where it was first becoming obvious that she counted Nietzsche among her influencers.

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Edith Södergran: Poems

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

This was Södergran’s literary debut. Published just in time for Christmas 1916 (on the condition that the publisher couldn’t guarantee her any payment) the primary topic is the change in the perception of women that was characteristic at the time.

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Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Nineteen Poems

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

‘Nineteen Poems’ was the last collection Gustaf Munch-Petersen wrote before he left home to fight in the Spanish Civil War. It came after a hiatus from writing sparked, presumably, by the lack of interest in his previous collections.

‘Nineteen Poems’ marks a shift in direction from his deep-dive into surrealism, to a sober, modernist and minimalist observation. The name itself indicates the shift. ‘Nineteen Poems’ is exactly what it claims to be: a mature, sober poetry collection consisting of nineteen poems.

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Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Towards Jerusalem

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

Known as “the strangest poetry collection in Danish literature”, this is the climax of Munch-Petersen’s surrealism. This is where the poet took his experimentation to the limits, and was discarded by the critics in the process.

Where content is concerned, there’s stille the same yearning for the Utopia of ‘The Lowest Country’. The Utopia, he felt, would have to be realized through the brother-/sister-hood he observed among the lower strata of society.

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Gustaf Munch-Petersen: The Lowest Country

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

This collections has come to be the most famous (or infamous) of Munch-Petersen*s production.

The young man of the first collection (‘naked human’) has found his mission in life: To free humanity and lead them to ‘the lowest country’, in effect a Utopia.

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Gustaf Munch-Petersen: naked human

For a more consistent reading experience; visit this collection at which is another website run by me and explicitly dedicated to my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran.

Just twenty years old at the time it was published, Munch-Petersen had even written some of these poems while still attending high school.

The collection enjoyed moderate success although critics at the time were outraged by his complete disregard for grammar and punctuation – one might say, in hindsight, that he was simply too far ahead of his time for the literary establishment of the day.

The collection describes a young man (the author himself) who is in effect a rebel without a cause. He wants to change something but is not yet entirely aware of what that might be. The passion, however, is undeniable.

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Paraphrase over Novalis: ‘An Jeanette’


Just take my books – my rhymes –
my home if you should want it.
Just take my sleep and dreams as well
so as easier to haunt it.

Should anything be left behind –
some bit of mind or faith and vows;
just have it. What more could you want
my love; my heart has long been yours.


Tag du mine bøger – mine rim –
mit hjem endda hvis det er hvad du vil,
og tag min søvn og mine drømmes spind
så de fra nu af hører kun dig til.

Og skulle noget stadig stå tilbage –
en rest af håb og tro – som stadig mit;
så tag det? Ønsker du dig stadig mere?
Min elskede; mit hjerte er dog allerede dit!

— paraphrased by K-M Skalkenæs, 12/12-2016

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Friedrich Rückert: Kindertotenlieder

You are a shadow at day
and in the night a light;
you live in my laments
and in my heart survive.

Where I should pitch my tent,
you live there with me tight;
You are a shadow at day
and in the night a light.

And anywhere I ask of you
I hear about your life,
you live in my laments
and in my heart survive.

You are a shadow at day,
yet in the night a light;
you live in my laments
and in my heart survive.

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, January 2014
Note: I couldn’t bring myself to translate the title, since nothing worked quite as strongly in English as the original German.

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Goethe: To the Absent One

So I’ve truly lost you, dear one?
Have you truly from me flown?
In my accustomed ears still sound
your every word, its every tone.

Alike the wanderer in the morning
who vainly gazes skywards,
when in the vast blue realm, hiding,
he hears the singing of the lark:

Such wanders here and there, restless,
my gaze across the land;
to you sounds all my songs, my dearest;
please come back to me again!

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 31/1-2013

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Goethe: Near the Beloved

I think of you, when the sunlight’s glitter
shines on the sea;
I think of you, when I the moonlight’s glimmer
in twilight see.

I see you there, when on the distant roads
the dust arise;
In deepest night, when on the bridges narrow
the wanderer cries.

And too I hear you, when the wave cries out,
roaring violent;
in silent woods I listening walked about
when all was silent.

I am with you, however far you seem.
You’re near to me!
The sun sinks, soon the stars will gleam.
Were you with me!

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 29/1-2013

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Goethe: First Loss

Oh! who brings the lovely days,
those days of my first love,
Oh! who can bring, an hour only
to me of that precious time!

I now nurture my wounds lonely,
lament in continuous days,
dreams of the lost joys sublime.

Oh! who can bring those lovely days,
bring back that precious time!

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 16/3-2013

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Goethe: Blessed Longing

Tell no-one, except the Sages,
for the Mass will scorn my song,
among the living I shall praise
the one who for fire-death long.

In the coolness of the love-nights,
which begat what you begot,
you’re overcome with foreign feelings
when the candle-lights burn hot.

You’re no longer kept imprisoned
by this life-times gloomy shadows,
in you rise a newborn vision;
mating of a higher sort.

No difficulty lies in distance,
now you’re soaring spell-bound,
and in the end, the light desiring
you will, butterfly, be burned.

And as long as you have not
this tried: To die and be!
you will be on this dark Earth
a gloomy guest only.

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 31/1-2012

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Evening Prayers – translated from Danish

770. Tired, Now I Go To Bed

Tired, now I go to bed,
resting on the pillow my head;
Father, look with endless love
down to my bed from above!

Dear God, if I have today
against your commandments strayed,
be then gracious, be then good,
erase it with Jesus’ blood!

Look to us, oh Lord, be kind,
look to us, who share one mind,
place then your angelic host
around the world from coast to coast!

Those who’s sick at heart, stand by,
close then every tired eye,
give us all then restful peace
through our faith in Jesus Christ.

— Translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 24/4-2012
Original: Luise Hensel 1817, Kristian Arentzen 1846.


789. Now Closes Fast My Eye

Now closes fast my eye,
God, Father in the high,
protect me in my sleep!
Through sorrow, sin and dangers
your angel with me lingers
who guides my feet and does me keep.

— Translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 24/5-2012
Original: Peter Foersom 1813.

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Danish Folk Song: In the Woodland’s Depth and Quietness

In the woodland’s depth and quietness
where armies of singers rest,
where the soul have listened often-long
to the birds and their happy song.
There is such idyllic peacefulness
in the woodland’s loneliness,
and the longings of the heart end here
where peace and rest are near.

Hear the village bell begins to toll,
announcing the evening’s fall.
Little mockingbirds before their rest
still twitter a little bit.
In the marsh the loud quark of a frog,
now steams the field and bog.
With the bell’s silencing, evening brings
its peace as it slowly sinks.

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 14/5-2013

Original: I skovens dybe stille ro
Text by: Fritz Andersen, 1864

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Hermann Hesse: In Darkness

Strange in darkness to wander!
Lonely is every bush and stone,
no tree sees another,
every one’s alone.

My world was full of friendships
back when my life was light,
now that the darkness sets
there’s no-one left in sight.

Truly wise is no-one
who doesn’t know by heart
the unavoidable gloom
that quietly sets him apart.

Strange in darkness to wander!
Life is to be alone.
No person knows another,
every one’s alone.

— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 17/1-2014

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Theodor Storm: The Town

At greyish beach, by greyish sea
and off track lies the town;
the darkness press roofs heavily
and through the silence roars the sea
monotone through the town.

Here sighs no wood, nor sings nearby
the birds in month of May;
the wandering geese with their sharp cry
alone in harvest nights pass by,
on the beach grasses sway.

Still clings all of my heart to you,
you grey town by the sea;
the youthful magic through and through
rests smilingly on you, on you,
you grey town by the sea.

— Translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 14/12-2012

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Poetry Translations Nearly Ready

Hey all. I want to start by apologizing for the delay – I did mean to include my poetry translations earlier in the process, but I haven’t had the time to update the page before.

I am happy to announce that you can expect them ready within a few days – especially as I can see that quite a few of you have been searching for them.

Continue reading Poetry Translations Nearly Ready

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An Update on My Progress

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.



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These Are Just My Thoughts

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.