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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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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 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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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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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.

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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.

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Poetry Is Contrary To Nature

Poetry is contrary to nature
in the sense that it is meant
(or at least by its poet dreamt)
to stand apart and last
when all else follows its natural cause
and ends up becoming the past.

But what is the point
of a poem that were to endure
when its context, its world,
its poet and attending words
have disappeared
and nobody understands it for sure?

What value is there really
in a text stuck in limbo
unless the future be convinced
that it contains some rare,
antiquated truth
that may be lost tomorrow?

Perhaps it’s simply better
after all
to be forgotten
rather than allow
the misinterpretation
that is sure to befall.

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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.

— |

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You, My Poem

How concentrate when you are here?
It’s difficult for sure.
And when you’ve left, still more
than while you still were here.

How can I write a poem
with an exquisite poem by my side;
what could I say that isn’t tried
about you? My heart’s poem.

How concentrate? I fail, you see,
much rather than write I wish
to study your features, and with a kiss
sign you, my poem: “by Me.”

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On My Progress As A Poet

I set myself up to the task of writing this essay in 2013 after spending two days editing my earliest poems and being deeply disappointed by them. I thought them genius when I wrote them (which is also why I published them of course), but in 2013 I found most of them just barely passable. That was when I realized that I needed to assess how I have developed as a poet over the years in order to determine what I have actually gotten out of the process of writing. I returned and re-wrote this essay in 2017 to include the “conclusion” that was my newer works and the return to writing in my own language rather than English.

Continue reading On My Progress As A Poet

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Poetry Today – the Potential

There has been a lot of discussion about the validity of poetry in today’s society. A lot of good, although obvious, points have been made by poetry enthusiasts and poets who defend the claim that we continue to be creative and imaginative and thereby continue to need an outlet (ie: poetry), and that we always have, and probably always will, continue to explore the possibilities of various types of artforms. Being a poet, I do not disagree with these statements. I whole-heartedly embrace them. I have, however, noticed the lack of certain arguments in the debate, that I per se consider very basic and obvious, but which haven’t yet been put forward by another poet that I have heard of. Therefore this essay.

Continue reading Poetry Today – the Potential

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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

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Poetry and Tarot Cards

Much has been said about the revelatory nature of poetry and tarot cards. I am to say yet more, and I intend specifically to comment on their similarities.

It is no new thought to most of us that poetry is revelatory, although we may not consciously think about it every time we read a poem. With tarot cards however, that is especially key; we know it and we expect it to be revelatory.

Continue reading Poetry and Tarot Cards

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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 –

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Wayward Ones

We are wayward ones, the lot of us
who pile up riches in little rooms
and search the roadside for clues
to nature’s bountiful fortunes,
aspiring to capture the spirit who bestows them
and rob it of this much-coveted gem

With eyes that gaze heavenwards
our souls aspire to fly,
and we waylay all grounded, earthly thoughts
of things we can’t beautify;
vagrants on life’s ruthless way
we are; the pagans of today

Intricate wording and inspired awe
for which we would gladly trade body for soul
is never guaranteed to wash ashore
our minds, and sometimes in the cold
we must wander wayward
unable to distinguish between gems and dirt

And wayward do we often trace the trail
of giants who had better minds than ours,
when we (and we do sometimes) fail
we seek them out, and pause for hours
to behold spectres of the sentences
which defy our all-too-worldly senses

We aspire to become what we are not,
and such can never like that which we are –
we want to reach out and take a shot
at the tiny, white-hot, all-too-distant stars
whose mere existence, without flaw,
for hours keep us locked in awe

Withhold our dreams we can’t – achieve them neither,
but still we hold our breaths in sweet suspense
for a glimpse of inspiration, if not, rather
a sight to produce one all-saying sentence
which makes clear for the world what we
don’t understand, but still pen down with glee

It’s like a never-ending pilgrimage
where, once you reach your yearned-for destination
you realize that lost without a trace
is every reason you had for the expedition –
wayward you were, and wayward you remain
as long as from beauty, art and dreams you can’t

Each follows each on this un-ending trail,
and all we fellow-travellers are lost
in our pursuit of this, our Holy Grail,
which no-one values anymore, no host
willingly will shelter from the cold;
it is now just a relic from the days of old

So what shall we do – we wayward ones
who value lost grandeur and hopelessly aspire
to live up to giant’s work, and find our homes
in dreams, in nature – on a funeral pyre?
We nonetheless embody hopes that stay
for future happiness to pave the way

As wayward as we are – we’re still imbued
with abilities to see past superstitions and facts,
and show the world itself in such a hue
that nature too looks awestruck on to these, our texts
(that nothing have to do with reality
and therefore contain the most serene beauty)

So let no fear deter us from our designated path
although the road is long and not sufficiently marked,
though our deeds may seem so small and easily dwarfed
and we often feel like groping in the dark;
for remember: The bridges that we cross today
were made by ones who went before and knew the way

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I exist within a hollow
in this world,
whereto nobody else would follow
even if they could

My poetry exists within a void
in open space
which other people still avoid
in their breathless pace

The world itself is surrounded by
a void of emptiness,
a void which people passing by
do not know exists

And if they knew, they’d pause to read
the words I here have written,
and when they don’t it means they are
severely world-smitten

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A Poet’s Plight

After a prolonged dry spell
I fetch my bucket and descend
towards the now overflowing well
under the moon’s pale floating crescent

The drought was long and hard this time
but finally ebb turned to flood
and all around me droplets shine
re-illuminating a flow I near forgot

A word I fish up from the well
one word, two words, a full-grown phrase
till finally I’m unable to tell
whether mine or whether gifted grace

The flow returns with seeming ease
and now I almost forget it was gone
now words and phrases to stanzas flee
and I’m breathless holding a newborn poem

It’s dripping wet with the water drawn
as I carry it home in trembling hands
to feel the release of writing it down
and celebrate it with songs and dance

As the wet season takes hold again
I soon fall back in my old routine
re-united with my friend: The pen
spewing poems like a sowing machine

The rain keeps falling outside my door
like the droplets of ink from my trusty pen
as I proceed to write and to store
preparing myself for next dry season

The flow runs through my fingers now
and drips out on the paper sheet
I replenish my energy in this flow
as my newborn babies I tearfully greet

I know I am writing on borrowed time
and any moment the drought can return
but this pleasant moment is all mine
till I rest my pen, my fingers worn

As long as the rain falls I will write
and make a stock in preparation
for the next dry spell, and in spite
of my life-force’s growing exhaustion

When the book is filled I can rest again
– the well will have run dry anyway –
re-read my production and be content –
when the rain starts again, I cannot say

I will wait, first refreshed, then with unease
for the next wet season to bring me to life
I will edit the written, and try to cease
all thought-activity of my strife

From season to season on I strive
shifting between joy and despair –
when I write all is good – when I can’t it’s a fight –
against forward-facing hope and fear

This story of how the seasons turn
is the truth about a poet’s production
between dearth under a scorching sun
and the sweet release of creative emission

The wet season near the filling well
is life in its bare quintessence
from here springs countless stories to tell
amidst this free, life-giving substance

But during drought the story is other
and every day is for life a fight
where emptiness threatens to totally smother
the sources; this is our hidden plight

Sometimes you give in to despair
and fear the drought will never end
and these strong fears will at you tear
beyond what you can comprehend

Until some point where returning rains
no more replenish your life and poetry
and you fade with no more left to gain
die a poet’s death – drawn-out and empty

Only your writings then will stay
to showcase your life-long secret fight.
And in this metaphorical way
I present you with: A Poet’s Plight.

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Song of the Intermediaries

The experts tuning the instruments
have all been deceived
into thinking that we intermediaries
are inherently weak

They displace our words and derive
thereby a different air,
this alone would be enough to drive
the strongest to despair

The experts love the fine-tuned sounds
of fancier instruments,
but our sounds will exceed the bounds
of all they can invent

We will sing it out, intermediaries,
from the highest top;
the secrets kept in secret diaries
till They beg us to stop

The fine-tuned sounds of emptiness
will then finally cease
and we’ll replace them with the bliss
of words resting in peace

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The Poem: Water

I wrote a poem
but when I returned
I couldn’t see it –
diluted blue ink stains a page
someone’s spilled water on

the most poetic poem
I have ever written

as if the water felt
attracted to the ink
spelling out its name
so irresistibly

and water merged with water
words are lost
but now the most poetic poem
ever to take shape in my hands
has become more meaningful
than anything
I could’ve ever planned

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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.

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The Poetess

To someone whose primary contribution to the world may have been amusement at her naïvety – all admiration for her courage aside

She was a modern Poetess,
the one whose story I’ll relate,
she thought herself an ancient priestess
guarding all secrets of fate
(a view under much debate)

Such whimsical a character
as hers I never met before,
and you must know it means disaster
to seek nothing but rapture
and the stable things ignore.

She thought herself superior
to other people just because
her mind only ever bore
thoughts of unknown shores
and grief over fake losses.

She sought an elevation
of mind and soul and spirit
to fuel her inspiration,
and assigned no merit
to her own discredit.

Lifting herself to distant spheres
unseen, unknown and ancient,
was how she tried to quell her fears
but wherever she went
they with her went.

And as she slowly realized
she didn’t know what she thought she knew
all ideals then became disguise
to hide how destitute
thoughts her mind now fueled.

Originality was lost
if ever she possessed it,
and imitation of a host
of ancients ensued; her wit
was disinherited.

And all ideals became excuse;
her love; possession
whereby she lost her muse,
her fate; rebellion,
and her hope; evasion.

Ignorant of her shortcomings
still she wrote, in agony,
often copying most of the things
she couldn’t otherwise modify,
till truth itself became a lie.

Her love life turned around,
she went from man to man
in search of something so profound
that never did, and never can
be born to mortal Man.

And in her search for this merging
with something intangible
she gradually lost all meaning
and now her every scribble
left her more and more unstable.

For what she wrote about
was so different from her life
that it did amount
to a contrast such that strife
became living, and plight her life.

Even plagiarism could no more
conceal her loss of hope,
inspiration had locked the door
and her mind was doped
with escapism past all hope.

This has become a quite dark story,
I apologize for this,
but if you dream of nought but glory
and for nought but glory wish,
it’s all too easy to be lost; remember this!

For poetry itself is never fame,
true poetry should be anonymous:
Do not mark the words with your name
and expect something miraculous
to come to you; you will be lost.

Besides, today the view of art
is altered past recognition,
today all things can be called art –
it’s no exaggeration –
so art itself has lost much meaning.

And poetry especially so,
but what lies dormant in earth today
might yet someday spring up and grow
with no essence of decay –
so wait for it, it’ll come someday.

Back now to our Poetess
who’d tossed her torch away
and given in to her distress
because she saw no way
of bringing her ideals to light of day.

She could not vanish quite
so much of her remained,
but insipid and with no might
to even feel in vain,
with no sense of loss or gain.

Someday I hope that she
will be brought back again
from dark obscurity –
at least her words remain
for us to ponder and retain.

Until that day I urge you,
all of you who read this piece,
to not wait patiently for
a day when poetry
all by itself restores the peace.

That day would be so far away
that much can still be said,
but on that dreamlike, distant day
so many years and thoughts ahead
all poets who today lie dead
would once again be read,
and what they had to say
would be interpreted –
and you would then see clearly
that they as well as me
worshipped above all, dearly,
art, truthfulness, liberty,
justice, peace and harmony

Wake up right now
for that is all a dream.
We’ll never reach it anyhow;
the world, people, everything
they are no better than they seem.

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Vital Signs

For years on end she had written
of all that in her was hidden
and everything she saw
while observing her surroundings,
about all the things
that filled her with awe.

She wrote about both big and small,
about all things she could recall
until the fateful day it stopped,
and she with nothing left to say
felt inspiration melt away,
and her faithful pen she dropped.

She was a Poet full of life,
her words could slice just like a knife,
but now her voice was silent;
as the Poet now seemed dead,
a death she felt with utmost dread,
sudden although not violent.

She checked her vital signs
of mind and body and other kinds,
and they all seemed to function;
her brain, her lungs, liver and heart
seemed still to play the same, old part
they’d played since creation.

But something inside her had died,
she felt it, she sat down and cried
and with familiar movements then
she reached out, as she was wont to do
to the object which she always knew
could comfort her; the pen.

But setting it to paper proved in vain
although she tried again and again,
no words would form although she was
with her emotions overwhelmed,
and then to her did suddenly dawn
reality, however harsh.

The Poet’s death had stolen away
her inspiration with a sway
of sudden emptiness;
she was a human, still alive,
but no more Poet, that part died
and left her pathless.

When she her vital signs observed,
she left the most important one unheard –
What makes a Poet a Poet
and from others thereby set apart
(it’s not to be found in the mind, but in the heart) –
that part was dead.

Returned to humanity again
she sought inspiration all in vain,
she could not revisit the past,
and so she moved on reluctantly
mourning her lost creativity,
stolen so dreadfully fast.

Her heart now had adjusted speed
to beat as human hearts do beat,
not stirred with emotionality,
not much aware of the mundane,
far less of true art (which seems plain
to eyes void of imaginuity).

The Poet’s vital signs had waned,
just human ones remained,
and as awareness thereby fell
from her before observant eyes
she could no more distinguish lies
from truths; and all was well.

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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.

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New Poem: “Its’ Own Making”

There seems to be
in society
strict expectations to a poet’s production

I’ve often been told
that my poems
are useless to reform society

Why should I write
to reform society?

There’s tons of other people who
wants to do –
so why me too?

Why can’t you just let poetry
be poetry,
untarnished by political intrigues
and hollow statements

I have no wish to reform society
through such statements
aimed at a few people
with even fewer thoughts

I will much rather reform
each heart that has been hurt,
each eye that has seen horror
and turn tears of agony
to tears of joy

by removing layer by layer
the shadowy veil over people’s eyes

The veil that has been placed
partly by politics

And allowing them to reform themselves
at their own pace, in their own Way –
without signing them

each reader a poem


So that, when afterwards the ballots
have been forgotten
on a beautiful summer’s day
where happy, healthy people
have retired to the beach –
splashing in the water,
building castles in the sand,

all real –

the politicians will look at one another
and out through the toned glass sheets,
and none of them will understand
that it wasn’t
of its own making