•August 12, 2015 • Leave a Comment
Ligesom dengang dit blik
forvandlede natten og
vi fandt os selv danse
blandt eksistensløse eksistenser.
Det var da månen havde vinger
og vi red mod evigheden,
den der ender med morgensolen.
Det var dengang ingen vidste.
Dengang hjertets forføreriske banken
og dens unoder
lokkede på omveje.
•June 6, 2015 • Leave a Comment
The clouds are burdened
in fact, the whole of heaven is blue
some sort of majestic navy, with faint touches of pink-grey.
It started one morning
for no apparent reason,
now rays can’t heat the limbs
of the wild
and the huge orange night adventurer
can’t penetrate the seeming solidity.
We can’t bade in her beauty.
It’s a shame really.
The only sounds we hear are sirens below
and furious hammer swinging above,
young hearts are confused
not knowing how to decipher
•May 22, 2015 • 2 Comments
The world’s not solid and neither are we
Anything you say
Is like light penetrating a crystal
And everything you do
A waltz of moon dust
You are a past ghost mirror
Put to sleep
I won’t holler into the starlight
To awaken my own desire
Painting, Bivalve by Pablo Saborío
•April 2, 2015 • Leave a Comment
Let it be said,
I moved like a rainbow across your spear.
Let it be known,
The leaves fell peculiarly that day.
Let it be felt,
Your voice reasoned with your movement.
Let it be born,
Lucidness comes once in a semester.
Let it be heard,
I ecco in your mouth.
Let us stay,
Whilst the petals of dawn wake us.
•March 7, 2015 • Leave a Comment
I have run with the vapors of a faint sun
Trod in the footprints of a broken star
A hollow hello shatters the illusion
But I keep heating a heart, half pulsating, half off to sea
I’ve lain side by side with a constellation of dust
Fed on ripe earth and black leaves
I’ve seen a thousand mornings and nights too
The moon always eminent but losing touch is facile
I’ve thought you up a handful of dawns
Your words cast shade like the Milky Way
An eye never forgets and the hands remember
We dance under the same universe!
(Painting by artist Anna Madia, Eosine)
•August 24, 2014 • 2 Comments
I’m not a poet.
I’m can hardly call myself a writer, but I do so because I write things.
Things in the present, the past, things of essence, of matter, things from an atomic perspective, things aquatic. Things if not important to anyone else, then at least to me. Little things are most precious as they never tend to grow too big, too old, too bitter or too serious. They evoke a natural rhythm that never breaks, that is timeless, endless. Darkness and light intermingle and are of the essence to the process, allowing all gods to be human and encourages drinking the smell of the sea. All return to a self before birth, before corruption, before judgment. In here every line is sacred. And so here we are, star-dusted and excited, hoping to create a space in which play is free.
Photo by Pablo Saborío Vargas
•August 10, 2014 • Leave a Comment
The concrete walls melt as the branches reach in.
We taste the air while around the purple fire.
Under the full ephemeral circle of light we are all children and with pockets heavy with imagination we cultivate a determined mind, surely we won’t return.
But the bricks are strong, full of gold and pleasure and pressure.
The lake is full with plastic swans and I know you like the embrace of plastic arms, but we are fading.
I can’t see the moon for the clouds. I can’t see. But her laughter is there alright.