The portrait painter

When word was out
that he, the village artist,
was making another portrait
no one dared to see it
as they expected to drop dead at first glance
as they knew others had died in admiration
just by watching his art,
which they burnt.

So they shut his cabin
locked the windows and doors
with him inside
and it became quiet,
all was good
and grass overgrew the dwelling.
The cabin rotted,
the village slowly vanished.

Years after the last villager had died
a little girl found her way in the cabin,
stepped over the skeleton
drawn as she was to the painting
and she took it outside
where no one ever expected
such beauty to be found
in such a derilict place.

The colours that never saw daylight
started to live,
the immortal face they saw
was that of a young man,
the artist himself, as he had been,
while he was being buried alive
by the people
who were for ever faceless.

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My sixth poetry anthology in English is out now!

moving on

 

Link to Amazon :   Moving on and the other titles

Creative reclamation

I wonder how you call my love for you –
probably collateral damage or,
if I’m lucky, you say you want it one day
for creative reclamation.

It has been about a bit, this love,
and torn apart, neglected, stored on ice,
and put in the attic for not being useful
but it is still around somewhere
if you want to do a bit of tinkering.
Still. Not for ever.

Maybe you can shape  it in time
into a hopeful poem about resurrection
and other passion flowers to hold on to
when all is bleak and dry.
But then again you write fiction don’t you.

I wonder whether I shall  live
to see my love reclaimed. Or even named.
And that you said you loved me:
it would be nice to see it
shining through the old parts of my rusty heart.

Irony to do

Emotions put in words then stored
in corners of the cupboard also known as heart
unfold as linen, I can see the stains
of where too much was spilled,
where mould has taken over blood.

There is a silent moth
escaping in the blue of day,
and you are gone, and I am left
in dust and feather bed,
with heaps of irony to do.

Chemist

Words have been used for other sentences,
but even if they are the same
those were not written in her name,
not meant the way she means them,
as the receiver of her words is another person.

Her worries are that he will never understand.
She tries again to make the formula work,
holding sentences to light,
and slightly shaking test tubes,
admiring crimson and violet merge.

She omits acids and bitter substances, adding salt,
knowing she might as well throw it away, she is aware
he does not share her idea of sugar into chemistry.
He can not see her newly made colour,  not appreciate the taste.
She writes him her best letter and he will never care.

From the lighthouse tower

from here, on top of the lighthouse tower
I oversee what I thought was the meaning of life:
the importance of neat houses and clean sidewalks,
trees trimmed as not to be too full in leaves because of storms,

the graves with names and loving words forever engraved,
the school and the blond hair of running children, their laughter
and I know the insides of the houses and all that is there,
all the precious books and artifacts, clothes, kittens and puppies

and it all means nothing to the yellow stones of the lighthouse tower
(whose builders died centuries ago), the tower that might
survive the rising sea for a bit longer than the village,
but not really that long

as one day all will be deep under water,
as from up here, the meaning of life does not exist,
as from up here and higher, time is of no matter
and oceans have secrets that we all forgot.

climate change… the lighthouse tower here, by far the highest point on the island, is 52 meters, and when all the ice of Antarctica is melted, the sea level will have risen 70 meters. this island has no chance to survive.

Organic waste

many hours of staring at horizons on paper
and behind you the world takes place
in it’s own pace, you don’t see it,
people die, others get born,
such a jungle at the railroad station
where no one knows anyone

you stand still in the big hall
trying to know all
thinking of it as one big organ
breathing and moving
in the many hours of staring
at the mustard of walls

trains spider themselves out of the centre
you have nothing to write about
and the paper sheets blow over the tracks
empty and filled with your tears
no one hears the last pigeon
dropping dead in the crowd

 

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