Posts tagged ‘poetry’


There was a willow tree,
majestic in the woods
but it stood in the way:
the art school needed space.

The tree was taken down
and paper made of it,
they sold it in a shop
for art- and hobby paint.

A tree was being drawn,
exact the same it was:
the willow on the sheet
of paper that was his.

But life had left the tree,
the painting faded fast,
not liked no more, not cared
the willow was forgotten.

Then on a Summer’s day
the frame fell down the wall,
the drawing flew away
out of the house, was gone.

It landed on the spot
where once the willow stood
and rain fell down and soaked
the painting into soil.

A year went by. In spite
of plans for concrete roads
a willow tree emerged.
Majestic in the woods.


Because there is no comparison, I want to be with you,
because there is no reason but desire, and no other way
to tell you than by clumsy means of my endearment,
while I’m trying to acquire more than is for me to have,
because you know this and keep silent. Because of that. I live,
comparing drifting, changing clouds with faces and with you.


This cosyness is our new haven now,
behind closed doors we do not know the world,
we do not need to know, we have the dusk,
we feel the warmth of earth and sense the musk
and let the night begin with violins
and candles, shadows dancing on the wall.
As this is all. This is our haven now.


Waiting for a thunderstorm
in the hot bedroom
the lazy sticky lovemaking
went on all evening.

Inside the lamp above the bed,
until it was darkened,
they must have tried out
every position using
their wings and every leg
and I am certain they smoked
a cigarette afterwards.
It could have been
a neighbour though.

Please let it pour all night.
Please let the flies stop gloating
from the ceiling.


Unsettling times, you say,
and your shoulders are
older now, you walk uncertain,
your eyes red when you look East,
the sun coming up dripping in blood,
now obituaries are the main
inhabitants of the paper,
and all the names are hammering
in a hail of sorrow,
unsettling is the time.


The choir sings a language I don’t know,
the pain of the words go through my spine;
for whom they sing is not clear.

Sadness fills the trembling Summer air.
They disappear leaving silence
and a breeze of horrible thought.


Watching butterflies drop out of the sky
I wonder where they come from, the white ones,
appearing by the dozens, bewildered,
surprised of their own fate, these newcomers
to the already tired flowers
that know better than to rejoice.
How long, we think, how long will they last.


We do not live in tunnels;
we let them pass through us,
fast, hurried, we keep our eyes closed,
holding our breath for this part of the journey,
waiting for the light.

Some tunnels are longer than others,
some seem to never end, depending
on the size of the mountain above us.
Some tunnels stay inside us,
their hollow cold always on the move.

Burning the road map

Divulging old patterns
the roadmap outlived
dreams of our wandering.
Now the paper is torn,
the journey about over.
Unfolded the dream
has become a memento
of what was our reality.
We shall light the fire with it
and move on, trusting
only the stars as our guide.

All that remains

At the end of the day
all that remains:
a shell from the beach,
a note, a faded message,
the memory
of your skin on mine,
the salty smell,
the flowers decaying. Rain
and the distance increasing
between you and me.
A dog far way
hauling my pain.


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