Posted on Leave a comment

New Poem: “introspection”

chaos in and out of everything –
cringe my way out of my skin –
turn it inside out to hide
behind the way i feel inside –

squiggle into my cavern of truth
examine the scars others left me –
leaving the gore for the world to see
as i wait for rebirth and youth –

vomiting out of my shell again
when safety prevails – so never –
a womb of quiet and contemplation –
a world lost – for now – forever –

Posted on Leave a comment

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
apart.

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.

Posted on Leave a comment

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.

Posted on Leave a comment

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 –

Posted on Leave a comment

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.

Posted on Leave a comment

Poet vs. Human

I am a 7-year-old poet,
and a 26-year-old human
but often it feels as if
the poet
has the more experience,
the more to say
and the better ways to say it
whereas the human
lags so far behind
she barely understands
the poet’s way of thinking.

She is merely the medium
from time to time
and an ambivalent one
torn between the poetry
and other pursuits.

But the poet is stronger
and speaks more convincingly
and keeps dragging her back –

if nothing else works
waking her in her sleep
with nightmares
of endless books
demanding to be written;

making her fear
that if she doesn’t write the stories now
she might never get to
and they would disappear.

Posted on Leave a comment

I Have a Crippling Fear of Writing

My biggest wish for the future
is that everybody would stop
pretending that they are perfect
when they all know they’re not.

My perfect scenario being
universal honesty
about our faults and fears
and vulnerability.

But since everybody else
seem too afraid to do it,
I’ll set an example myself;
just this to get started with:

I have a crippling fear of writing.
Say what?
Yes, I do!
Actually, it doesn’t have much to do with writing
but a lot to do with finding the right words to speak my mind
so that others can understand it –
now, that’s a challenge!

And it’s not that I ought to care if I get it wrong
since I don’t know the reader –
but if they were to misunderstand
and comment on it –
now, that’s where the fear comes in
since I don’t have the energy
for arguments
or even just
for civil discussions –
really, I don’t have much energy for talking
at all.

My energy needs to be carefully doled out on
worthy pursuits
rather than wasted on random things.
(Other people could benefit from the same
approach
but lack the benefit of an enlightening diagnosis
to help them on their way) –
I cannot afford to waste energy on people
and their opinions
except those of a very select few individuals
who have proven themselves worthy of my
attention.

So I have a distinct fear of writing.
Because I have little energy for talking
and therefore little experience
in expressing my thoughts.
Because I have no education besides
programming, where you only learn
to communicate with a computer
rather than with people.
Because I have no conception of what other people might think
when they read what I write
and only vague ideas about
what other people think at all.

But perhaps that is predominantly a good thing.
I have no conception of the ridiculous prejudice
I see other people express,
or of ingrained social practices
that are outright meaningless,
or of wasting my time talking to people I don’t know
of things which I have no knowledge of
just to pass my time,
or of passing off my limited knowledge
of anything
as an absolute truth
to anyone –
on the other hand I have a crippling fear
of other people misreading me
as if the latter was the case
and no way of knowing whether or not there is a risk
that they might do so.

Above all I have a crippling fear
of being talked down to
and being talked over
because that’s comprised 90%
of all my social encounters
so far.

And so I write instead of talking
since I don’t have a voice that anybody can hear anyway
and chastise myself all the while
for not standing up, screaming,
even though I know it wouldn’t solve anything at all
if I did.

Posted on Leave a comment

I Trust In the Poet

I trust in the poet
to be able to phrase
all that I wish to say
and I trust her to do it –

I trust her to scatter
the fog with her words,
to comfort and heal all
the bruises and hurts –

I charge her: be honest,
be brave and direct
whenever I fail
myself in that respect,

be sad or be angry –
all that I don’t show –
so that it has an outlet
and won’t fester in me –

be all and say all
that you know I would like to!
I trust in the poet
to carry it through.

Posted on Leave a comment

If I Lack Words, I Must Make Them

There… there…
no, I failed to grasp it again
but I was close this time…
That word just keeps eluding me…
I have it… I have had it… I had it…
It’s gone…
I speak the things out loud
inside my head
I would have liked to have said
out loud
but even then that word
eludes me…
What was it now again?

I lack that word to describe myself
and what I am…
I have a handful of clichés
and even they don’t even
approximate
what I am…
What am I?
Something indescribable
apparently…

I am a finger hovering over a keyboard for a
missing key…

I am a note lingering in the air after the music has ended…
I am the anticipation before the music has started to play…

I am a synthesis – but of what? Of past and
future making present? Of art and technology making a future I’m not sure I even wish to live in? But would I rather live in the past?

Where in the world do I belong? In the physical world where I am technically situated I might as well not exist, but I cannot really exist in the
virtual world I inhabit. My words come out as nothing but the clatter of a keyboard. As if I was only speaking to myself. I look up and around and think that I might as well be.

But I chose this for myself didn’t I? How can I complain that I am lonely and that nobody understands me when I chose this? I had alternatives. They were worse. I chose this. I chose the
keyboard. I chose the clatter. I chose the silence. Because the price of speaking is so damn high.
I chose the computer over the people. Because the computer is logical and follows instructions. It understands the code I write. Humans cannot be relied upon to understand the words I say. They do not always. They do not – mostly. But the
computer I can talk to. And it doesn’t suddenly decide that it would rather have its software
written by someone more attractive or less needy or less socially awkward or less quiet. It just
accepts me. It’s just there when I need it. And I never have to struggle to express myself to it like I have to when around people.
That was my choice. But it was never an easy one.

But maybe it doesn’t all have to be as black and white as I have made it out to be. Maybe I can combine everything. Maybe I can speak to people through the computer. For lack of better options. And maybe they would actually hear me.

If I lack words I must make them. I must re-program the language to fit me if it doesn’t. And it doesn’t. I must reshape my language in my own image and hope that somebody will understand what I mean anyway.

Posted on Leave a comment

I Have Been Torn

I have been torn
between the world and writing –
writing is demanding,
leaving little to the world
once it has been written.

But the world, moreover,
continues to enrage,
disappoint and sadden me,
so I have surrendered
at least momentarily –

I write my poetry –
all is back to normal.
This is constancy,
rhyme and meter,
thoughts and words
that I can speak with my fingers
though never with my mouth.

— |

Posted on Leave a comment

Artistic Identification

A debate has been raging lately about identity in art. Can an artist portray someone from whose ethnic group / gender one doesn’t belong? Is is permissible to even do that? Doesn’t it further stereotypes? Doesn’t it further bias? Isn’t it implicitly sexist or racist to even think one is allowed to do such a thing in the first place?
I’ve had enough of this debate. I propose a whole other distinction. How about we identify as artists first, and everything else second? That way the problem is automatically solved! Or better yet; can’t we just agree that we’re all at least human, flaws and differences aside?
But I guess that’s too simplistic a solution for the vast majority of the human race – which is why they can’t agree on the topic.
I don’t care if a man tries to write a book from a woman’s perspective. If anything, it might teach him something. He might not necessarily get it right – in which case I can laugh it off and pick up another book. No problem. But I also refuse to write from a man’s perspective in a feeble attempt to encourage more men to read me. It doesn’t matter to me if other women do that though – that’s their choice. The main point should be the quality of the book, and the depth and strength of the questions raised by it. Not either the author or the narrators respective genders or races.
I myself prefer writing based on personal experience. But that isn’t to say that there can’t be valid reasons for adopting the perspective of others. To broaden one’s horizon. To attempt understanding. Isn’t it better to at least try, and maybe get it wrong, rather than being too afraid to broach the topic? I think it is.I think art could be a useful tool for promoting understanding – if artists aren’t threatened into only writing about themselves. If one does that, it should reflect an active choice of the artist, and not coercion by society.
I would like to think that we could at some point move past these discussions altogether and focus on the content instead – but the rest of the world never ceases to disappoint me in said regard.

Posted on Leave a comment

Writing vs Programming

SInce I wrote my first line of code I have been torn between writing and programming. Torn between the code and the fiction. Felt that if I spent more time on one, the other would suffer. Desperately tried to balance them out, and felt exhausted and confused at the end of the day because I wanted to do both but just didn’t have enough hours in the day.
But in reality, that was a meaningless confusion. Staring myself blind at a distinction that doesn’t really exist, or need to exist.
What I initially failed to realize, is that programming is also very creative. And the process behind writing a program and – say – a poem, is actually very similar.

Continue reading Writing vs Programming

Posted on Leave a comment

The Word “Why”

When hearing that I write poetry, most people immediate degrade it to a “hobby”, or ask whether I have been published, or whether I am studying literature.

Why instead not ask what I write? Why I write? What I get out of writing? Whether writing has enriched my life? Whether I feel that I get something out of writing that no other thing on Earth could give me – money included?

Why not rather ask whether I am writing because I like writing, instead of immediately assuming that I write to be published?

Continue reading The Word “Why”

Posted on Leave a comment

To Sign or Not To Sign

I am frequently asked to sign my paintings. I don’t want to. It’s not that I can’t understand that the person who gets the painting would want it signed – I mean, it is more convenient for them. But it takes something out of the final product for me.

Supposedly it should be a great feeling for an artist to sign a product. It would finish it definitively, and clear it from the mind’s eye. However, it doesn’t function that way for me. For me, a signature is the sign of death and decay. It is a sign you mark a thing with to declare that it is all downhill from here – no further development is allowed, and from now on the object has been written off by its creator.

Continue reading To Sign or Not To Sign

Posted on Leave a comment

Relics From the Past

I generally dislike talking about two things: Sentimentality in poetry, and my gender. Putting both in the same essay is, as far as my own mind is concerned, an explosive cocktail. I dislike it beyond explaining, but I nonetheless feel that it is necessary to discuss. What exactly? The difficulties of writing poetry that is not coloured by nostalgia and sentimentality – and the added burden of having to fight these things all the more because people already find it difficult to take your writings seriously because of your gender, and because of your gender specifically looks for emotional outbursts in everything you write – causing an extra burden to be placed on you, because you have to be extra careful about everything you publish. I think this says it all.

Continue reading Relics From the Past

Posted on Leave a comment

A Woman’s Story

The stomach got in our way, so to speak. This grotesque inflation. I couldn’t look at it. I felt my own stomach twist and turn. I couldn’t look at it.
She hugged me tightly as if nothing had happened and chirped happily.
“Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since graduation. Where are you living now? Oh, you must come and visit me one of these days now you’re in town anyway – do come! I haven’t seen you since… Oh, we have so much to talk about!”

Continue reading A Woman’s Story

Posted on Leave a comment

Understanding Others

The centrifugal force of words washed over her, swirled around her, made her dizzy. ‘But that’s what shrinks do’, she figured, watching with increasing numbness as the man’s lips kept moving, making words that increasingly seemed to dissipate and dissolve as they emerged into sound, ‘they talk and they talk and they talk until you barely know your own name anymore, and then they demand answers that you never had in the first place. And when you fail to answer, they’ll force an answer upon you, believing that they know all there is to know about you after reading a textbook. And at that point you’ve become too weakened by the sheer force of their words to even bother protesting.’

She thought of her childhood, as she was asked to do. But she didn’t see the connections she was told to look for. Rather, she saw glimpses of a world she could hardly believe had ever existed and didn’t feel like it held much connection to the present at all.
Sweet glimpses of herself gathering seashells, watering plants, jumping in rain puddles. Singing.
Sad glimpses of herself running away from the tears and the screaming, her mother’s furious face and foaming mouth that she didn’t understand what had caused – only knowing that she somehow got the blame.
Bittersweet glimpses of herself learning to pretend and lie since nobody cared anyway. The bottles she hid in her home. The scars she hid under her sleeves. The soothing calm of a whole bottle after work – the feeling of weightlessness. Not having to care anymore.

She thought of it all and understood less and less as she did so. But telling that to a complete stranger who seemed to have made up his conclusions in advance didn’t seem to make much sense.

She thought of all the people she thought was her friends, or hoped might become her friends. The people she grew up with. Today they were in the midst of careers and babies and living lives she didn’t understand while she felt like dissolving. She didn’t understand other people. She didn’t feel like pretending to understand them anymore. Illogical creatures, the lot of them. But what did logical thinking ever bring her, besides a free ticket to the torture that was this room, and this talking machine sitting across from her, still moving his lips.

‘Did you have a good childhood?’
‘Sometimes, I guess.’

‘Did you have friends in school?’
‘Some, I guess.’

‘How do you feel about your family?’
‘That’s difficult to say.’

‘What do you want in life?’
‘A life?’

A life. A goal. Meaning. Help. Guidance.

But since nobody ever offers me that…

Peace. To close my eyes and never open them again. To sleep and never wake up.

But you were offered help?
No, I was only offered words.

Posted on Leave a comment

Et suk

Jeg drømte ikke om at blive digter –
jeg drømte om at blive menneske.

Ja, jeg ønskede faktisk
at udskifte et fuldtonende hjerte
med disse klangløse skaller
med deres hule mislyd
som andre mennesker
sådan værner om –

Men er man først udstyret med et hjerte
kan man ikke sådan uden videre
give det fra sig
når ingen vil bytte –

Posted on Leave a comment

Who I Am

The cold light of dawn that highlights all flaws –
I stand firm in the face of danger,
humiliation,
misunderstanding –
for lack of alternative.
What does the world have to offer me
but a prison made of human hearts –
cells made of words
with bars made of meaning.
If I could solve the riddle
I could break free.
The cold light I shed on the world
makes it easier yet more difficult to see.
All details sharpened,
all meaning blurred.
All questions blatantly showing,
no answers acceptable.
I long for shade,
peace,
night.
But the light is everywhere.
I stand in the middle of it,
illuminated by it
yet unseen by others.
I stand unwillingly
processing
everything.
No rest is offered me
ever.
I am the cold light of dawn
which nobody likes
since it shows them
all that is wrong with the world –
and with themselves.

Posted on Leave a comment

My Questions

I have so many questions;
at least one for every person I have met,
both the ones alive
and the ones who are dead.

I have so much to ask everyone
because I want to understand
my life and its connections;
something I just can’t!

I have questions for my parents;
grandparents (now all dead);
and family members I have – or haven’t – met.
For teachers, classmates,
partners, friends;
for cleaners, lunch-ladies, janitors,
secretaries, bus-drivers, waitresses,
hairdressers, yes,
even the creepy guy who stocks shelves
at my local supermarket.

I have so many questions
that I’d like to ask them all
but all I ever say is: “What a weather!”,
“Got my e-mail?” or “On which shelf…?”

And besides, the most important questions
are the ones I ought to ask myself…

Posted on Leave a comment

Confessions

Two stories inter-mingled. To You (you know who you are)

My mother made me store up
copper coins for wedding shoes –
at three years old I told her then:
“I won’t need those when I don’t want a husband!”
She said: “You’re too young to understand,”
and with a condescending look of pity off she went.

I grew in size, grew round in places too
and caught the eyes of those I didn’t want
but went unnoticed by the ones I’d like to know –
when mother asked: “Are you in love?” I would deny:
“No boy has caught my eye,” (and it was true)
and thinking of the girl I liked I went.

Yes, this one girl I really liked; I brought her home as guest,
presented her to mother as my “friend”,
and halfway through the conversation mother then complained:
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend yet?”
My girlfriend laughed and went.

And then the day came when I went to see my mom
dressed in my very best suit, necktie, shirt,
desiring now at last to tell her who I was, but home
she greeted me with: “You look like a dyke!”
and with a look that’s half of pity, half of pain
each tore the other from her heart
and from her doorstep finally I went.

Posted on Leave a comment

I Left My Soul Up On the Beach

I left my soul up on the beach
as I dove in the sea of poetry
and as it lay there – out of reach –
it was grabbed by a wave and returned to the sea

And now I search – and mostly in vain –
for that which I once left behind,
and glimpse it momentarily now and then
when words of poems show for me to find

Posted on Leave a comment

The Changeling

When I was born, I guess nobody knew
that I was born to be an artist too –
for when it was announced much later on
my parents answered little else than scorn –

I stretch the boundaries I am confined in –
I have to, if I’m even to begin
expressing what I sense around me – I am free
from expectations born by anyone but me –

However nice it would be once to hear
appreciation from my source of being, it is clear
that what I am I have become alone
and what I do I must do on my own –

So here I am – a changeling I guess,
who didn’t quite fulfill my parents’ wish
(whatever else they wished their only child),
a failure, such I guess they’ve got me filed –

Yet who are they to blame or who to cry;
I cannot be another than this “I” –
whatever else they may have wished of me,
delusions were on them, never on me

Posted on Leave a comment

My Beauty

I’d like to show you my beauty
if you would like to see;
but show it without showing me.
A luminous stone on the seabed when dry
becomes something boring and drab to the eye –
no, if you will see me then don’t look directly
but see through the lens of my poetry.

It may seem as if I am hiding from you
yet I am before you and easy to view;
but was I with you in the flesh, plain to see,
you’d never be able to recognize me.

Some beauty’s awarded, is measured, to each,
of different purposes, different kinds,
and that of a poet extends its reach
predominantly to the hearts and minds.

Posted on Leave a comment

It’s This Simple

To those who have felt entitled to assume that the primary reason I write poetry should be that I happen to be a woman – rather than because I had anything to say or any need to express it.

No, I don’t write poems because I’m a woman;
I write poems because I’m a poet!

No, I don’t write love poems because I’m a woman;
I write love poems because I love!

If you don’t understand what I’m trying to say
I suggest you stop reading right away –
with your lack of intelligence
you would misunderstand
every poem anyway.