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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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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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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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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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Animals and Homophobia

I have a story to tell. Well, I actually have many, but this is a particular one that came to mind while I was watching an add concerning marriage equality. The text of the add read something like: “Homosexuality exists in all species, but homophobia exists in one only. Who’s being unnatural now?”

And I can say; personal experience gained while I was working with horses as a teenager, tells me this is a false statement. This is where the story I mentioned comes into the picture.

Continue reading Animals and Homophobia

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Dystopia anno 20**


It was a cold autumn day in-between late summer and the rainy season. The smell of rain was in the air, and the overcast sky already threatened with it, but it hadn’t started yet and could easily drag out for days. The buildings looked sharp in the grey light. A 3D animation printed onto the fabric of reality. Only the wind disturbed the image somewhat by ruffling the trees and sighing repeatedly. A few trees were yellow and red but most were still green and the orchard still showed the surreally red spots of forgotten, ripe apples there was nobody to pick.
And so the scene is set for the story.

Continue reading Dystopia anno 20**

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A Tale of Modern Paganism

There were days when the paganism of her ancestors came back to life inside her.
There were days when the cherry wine was a welcome friend.
But there were also days when it didn’t work as well as it ought to.
There were days when she didn’t need it at all – where she was one with the world around her, one with the permeating universal energy and felt the breath of the Universe itself in the wind and heard its voice in the rustling leaves, and let her body dissolve happily into the fabric it was a part of.
On those days she didn’t need the cherry wine.
But then there were other days.

Continue reading A Tale of Modern Paganism

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Når jeg lukker øjnene

Når jeg lukker øjnene ser jeg
bølgerne rejse sig;
sivende der sukkende bøjer sig;
det flakkende lys fra mit
hjemlands vægelsindede sol –
nej, lyset fra fakler
båret gennem byen –
byen er skrumpet;
en opløst sukkerknald –
husene står uvirkeligt skæve
og små
med tomme, måbende ruder –
biler suser forbi langt borte
fra den døsige stilhed her;

et ur omkranset af vildvin
med en viser der evigt viser
mosset har indtaget gulvet,
en fugl suser kvidrende
ud ad en smadret rude;

Hele mit liv
var larm –
summen af menneskestemmer,
summen af liv;
baggrundsstøj –
livets enerverende underlægningsmusik,
men når jeg lukker øjnene ser jeg
stilhedens rige
der er fremtiden;
min ensomme fakkel
kaster enorme skygger
på nutidens afskallede eftermæle –
der er vand på gulvet,
en fisk strejfer min ankel
i et kort glimt af sølv
i faklens lunefulde skær –
hvis jeg åbner øjnene
kan jeg sammenligne med nutiden,
men også høre den summen
fra det store menneske-bo
jeg er midt i –
hellere holde dem lukkede
for så ser jeg
at der ikke er nogen grund til snak
siden al snak skal forstumme
og stilheden råde
med undtagelse
af de dovne dråber der falder fra spær,
vinden der bøjer sivene;
jordens åndedræt –
jeg ser jordens døsige eksistens
der ikke behøver os,
der når som helst kan sparke os af sig
hvis vi forstyrrer dens grublen –
når jeg lukker øjnene
går uret i stå
i den fremtid hvor ingen levende væsner
behøver “tid”,
behøver sprog –
den fremtid
der slutter en dag
kl. 12:19 –
hver gang jeg lukker øjnene
er den allerede

Faklen syder da den rammer vandet;

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Dørens magi
skræller smilet af mit ansigt
og kaster det op i vinden –
det bliver svært at fange
når jeg skal ud igen.

Dette ene skridt over tærsklen
fører mig fra én verden
til en anden.
Men selv herinde klæber det til mig;
menneskers øjne,
de ting de siger, som jeg ikke forstår –
tavsheden der langsomt kvæler mig.

Men smilet slipper jeg da i det mindste for.

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Old, Torn Lace

Old, torn lace
hanging draped
over a sunkissed face.

We’re old as a species
though the planet thinks us young.

Paint that scales
off house facades –
crackled pavements
worn by decades.

Weathered, wooden fences –
weathered, broken tiles.
Weathered, petrified
concrete – stretching miles.

Stiff, unbending people.
Feet that keep on coming.
Weathered fossils clinging –
wanting to stay young.

Green sprouts are tearing
at concrete coffin-spaces
leaving old, torn lace
meshes in their places.

We’re old as a species
though the planet thinks us young
and sooner than both know
we shall have been and gone.

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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…

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If I were a river
flowing through the land
my thoughts would be the delta
for they get out of hand
in their pursuit of oneness
with oceans of wisdom
which isn’t mine but others’ –
most of whom long gone

But could I live among them,
these great rivers from the past,
I’d love the chance to ask them
if their deltas too were vast,
growing out in all directions
full of questions, full of wonder,
and if they, like me, sometimes,
couldn’t stop their urge to wander

And if they, as I, are human
the answer should be clear:
This way we are created.
Hold thoughts and feelings dear
for they are all we truly own
and we can’t stop them anyway,
just like we can’t forbid the river
running downwards to the bay

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A City Seen From a Plane

An absurd, pulsing flower –
a nerve-cell throbbing with life,
pulses of light moving swiftly through the night
in yellowish bursts as I observe here
elevated in the skies –

What could be beautiful
is a parasite on the face of the Earth,
pulsing with life – the life of fungi,
the life of death, of bacteria consuming,
devouring its own matter of life.

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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.