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.
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.
Once I err,
thrown into disarray
thread has caused
a world’s unspooling
Once I err,
that fragment of day
becomes the day
moment that absorbs
all else there was
wherein I only see
a figure dropping endlessly
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”
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.
I think perhaps
I have overstepped the bounds
drawn around me
by the world to which I’m bound.
There is a time
when my imagination cannot reach
any further –
a horizon that it cannot breach.
There are questions
that stop my mind dead in its tracks –
that humanity jointly lacks.
And yet somehow
it is these questions I am drawn to
and end up asking,
and seemingly continue to.
I was standing in a rubble pile. Bricks lying about. Turned up earth. The machinery responsible for the mess was still in place but the vandals gone. The vandals; the demolition team.
Continue reading Melancholy Is Secondhand Happiness
That the following pieces of writing are named “essays” should be understood in the broadest possible sense of the word. Attempts at organizing my thoughts about various topics that’s one way or another related to art.
I have attempted to select and compile the following pieces several times, and it has taken me years to come up with the final version. It has been difficult for two reasons; 1) Because the scope broadened over time, from a narrow focus on poetry to a much broader scope hinting at art in general, and 2) Because every time I thought I had compiled the final version, I found myself writing new additions afterwards. I hope this will be the final “final version”. More or less.
Mind you, I can only write from my own point of view, and that is the point of view of a writer and an artist. Naturally, that influences my conclusions and my choice of topics. A literary critic would undoubtedly have approached the matter differently, and so too would an academic. I am neither. I very rarely entangle myself in theories – only when necessary to clear things up, as you will see. I prefer writing based on personal experiences I have had during the course of my work, and only expounding upon things that it is important for me to consider and express – as the following pages will show.
So be patient with the over-spilling mind of this artist. And do not search for truth and closure in the following essays – they are merely attempts at organizing my own thoughts about things that concern me and/or are directly related to my career. Consider them inputs to the millennia-old debate of the role and goal of art in itself, and art in society.
I am basically not as imaginative as people might think when reading my fiction. I do not “invent” fiction – I only fictionalize reality.
I think the biggest barrier I had to overcome when I started writing prose fiction rather than pure poetry, was that I had the ideal of thinking up fiction, which was something I never succeeded at. It wasn’t till I realized that the best pieces of fiction ever written are based on real events (however fictionally coated afterwards) that I actually managed to write anything worthwhile. My short stories have come into being based on this principle: Real events, coated with fiction to a smaller or larger extent depending on their individual nature.
Continue reading Of My “Fiction”
Art is merely a form of communication. Each form of art a different form of communication. But still just forms of communication. And it is the thing communicated that matters; not really the way in which it is communicated.
All the myths about the artist as a divinely inspired presence are utterly useless. Artists are (at best) skilled and have practice in perceiving and passing on information, but they are not extraordinary in any other way. Every person, I believe, is born with the ability to do what I do, but most choose to focus on other matters. That doesn’t make me particularly extraordinary. I am just a person who follows my inclination towards creating artwork, perhaps in the foolish hope that other people will someday come to understand what I mean by it, despite the fact that I don’t even always know the meaning myself.