these gathering clouds
promise rain on everyone
and cooling of souls
a thundering fall
many million equals pass
to unmindful ends
they crash to the ground
joining all that never was
and never will be
absorbed by the earth
promising the longing sky
to rise yet again
the passage of time:
my hand holds a water drop
this moment is gone
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Safe Travels
I'm leaving you
to go somewhere
don't look for me
in city squares
I can't be found
I can't be seen
don't wait for me
I'm moving on
and pass with ease
don't look for me
in cemeteries
engravings wither
unlike me
don't cry for me
Remember me
the one I was
don't look for me
in photographs
a camera can
only see
one part of me
forgive me, dear
and set me free
don't look for me
in grass and trees
the clouded sky will shelter me
eternally.
Sang for dagen og natten
Jeg mister deg
hver eneste dag –
blant ropene og kampene
forsvinner du
langt bort fra meg.
Jeg ville ikke bygge en mur.
Ved foten min ligger en stein.
Du går fra meg
hver eneste kveld –
mitt tidevann og stjerneskinn
forlater du
for skog og vei.
Jeg tenkte ikke rive et hus.
Alle dørene står åpne.
Jeg finner deg
hver eneste natt –
din inderlige sjelesang
har lokket meg
til leiet ditt.
Jeg tenkte ikke rope så høyt
men har ligget her stille så lenge.
hver eneste dag –
blant ropene og kampene
forsvinner du
langt bort fra meg.
Jeg ville ikke bygge en mur.
Ved foten min ligger en stein.
Du går fra meg
hver eneste kveld –
mitt tidevann og stjerneskinn
forlater du
for skog og vei.
Jeg tenkte ikke rive et hus.
Alle dørene står åpne.
Jeg finner deg
hver eneste natt –
din inderlige sjelesang
har lokket meg
til leiet ditt.
Jeg tenkte ikke rope så høyt
men har ligget her stille så lenge.
The School of Athens
Some of us are pointing to the sky
Where truth and ideal beauty seem to lie
Everything depends on point of view
And what is watched when changing changes you
Some of us are pointing to the ground
Where life is what it is and Earth is round
Everything is hidden in its parts
And finding where it ends is where it starts
None of us gets out of here alive
It doesn’t matter how we toil and strive
A life and death as common to us all
As every day’s slow end as shadows fall
So close your eyes and dream a little, dream!
Before the day draws close and sunlight streams
Across the waking world where we will walk -
And smile - there’s more to dreams than feeble talk
One of us is making up his mind
To go with what is really hard to find
A longing towards always something new
And find a phrase to bring it home to you
Where truth and ideal beauty seem to lie
Everything depends on point of view
And what is watched when changing changes you
Some of us are pointing to the ground
Where life is what it is and Earth is round
Everything is hidden in its parts
And finding where it ends is where it starts
None of us gets out of here alive
It doesn’t matter how we toil and strive
A life and death as common to us all
As every day’s slow end as shadows fall
So close your eyes and dream a little, dream!
Before the day draws close and sunlight streams
Across the waking world where we will walk -
And smile - there’s more to dreams than feeble talk
One of us is making up his mind
To go with what is really hard to find
A longing towards always something new
And find a phrase to bring it home to you
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
White Birches
The neon light in the ceiling is flickering and humming a note which I am hopelessly trying to avoid humming along to. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Popping popcorn. The yellow, brown and white-striped wallpaper in the kitchen was the only, and silent, witness to our way of taking advantage of our temporary freedom from parental supervision. Rose, my baby sister, a foot shorter than myself and still having two left feet, watched with admiration and fearful anticipation as I filled our largest iron pot with an incredible amount of dried corn seeds. It was around noon, and both of our parents were at work; the sun was busily showering the white birches outside with white hot spring life and didn't seem to bother with our kitchen at the moment. Having filled this at the time seemingly gigantic pot almost half-way full with popcorn and oil, I turned on the heat and asked my sister to step back. I joined her in the safe spot just outside the kitchen door, two heads now looking around the corner, one aged ten and the other slightly smaller, in anticipation of the black menace on the stove. Waiting. Pop. We exchanged glances. No turning back now. Pop. Pop pop. A small clank, as an unpopped corn hit the lid. And eruption. Popop. Popoperripoperripopop, an insane rhythm commenced, filling our entire perception; a drum roll, a volcano, a steam engine, an avalanche, a landslide - out of control. We held our breath as the lid came off and white crispy fluff cascaded around the pot and the stove and the floor. Popcorn everywhere. As the roar of the pot subsided, I turned off the heat and we sat on the floor, throwing it at each other, eating it, stuffing it in our ears. We swam in it, rolled around in it and then found something else to do. Our parents came home at five, and didn't appreciate the fluffy white sea that at the moment dominated the kitchen floor. I blamed my little sister, and was off the hook.
The sky outside is overcast and I can't see the clouds moving. I like to see the clouds moving. It reminds me that the world is moving even when I am not. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Stealing cigarettes. We didn't really have a plan before we went into the grocery store that summer day, but one emerged soon enough. Paddy was going to distract the manager by asking for cardboard boxes to, as it were, help him move his huge collection of French cartoon magazines. Me and Hawthorn were to grab whatever merchandise considered illegal and discreetly make our way outside; this included cigarettes, chewing tobacco and syrups for mixing drinks - the latter had labels corresponding to the drinks that they were supposed to taste like, and who were we to know that alcohol was not included? The plan was set in motion as the manager and Paddy disappeared into the storeroom. Hawthorn took care of the syrups and the chewing tobacco, I leaned over the counter and grabbed three boxes of Marlboros. For some reason, we were still inside the store when the manager reappeared, Paddy pacing behind, the look on his face one of astonishment and panic when he saw that we were still undeniably there. There was no plan B. We were now trapped between the counter and the manager, who was blocking our exit. He suddenly stopped talking to Paddy about his regrettably short supply of cardboard boxes and turned his attention to us; initiating the obligatory rural banter which we usually were able to go along with. This was not the case at the moment, and the boxes of cigarettes in my pockets were like rapidly growing lumps of bad conscience; how could he not notice them? Had he noticed them? Was he pretending not to know, only to bring down the guillotine when we had had our chance to come clean and still didn't? We stood there for what seemed to be ages, aeons, eternities, mumbling muted replies to his jolly comments about cartoons and how much we had grown since the last time we spoke. The lumps in my pockets filled my entire perception and if he had asked me my name, which he thankfully and terrifyingly already knew, I probably wouldn't have been able to say anything, except for Marlboro. The situation was out of control, and if Paddy hadn't interfered at the crucial point where the jolly manager was going to ask us what we wanted from the store today, I would probably have confessed to this and any number of other sins committed now and in the past. Paddy exclaimed that we'd better be off to find those boxes; those cartoons really needed some packing and moving as soon as possible, the hour was running late, and would you look at the time, it's almost dinner, better go now, thanks alot and a Merry Christmas to you, sir. Tons of stress were relieved from my pants and, subsequently, my shoulders when we closed the door behind us and ran into the woods to do some serious smoking, the white birches hiding from the unforgiving sun our attempts at growing up.
These white walls are an absolute annihilation of thought. Walls should have colour; some of it seeps into the soul and I hope to see colours in my soul someday. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Six months ago, I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My mother and sister had come to the hospital the day before and spent the night; I was coughing black blood and my skin was white parchment, naturally they were worried. I didn't say much in way of explaining what it felt like to be me at the time, mostly because I knew that it would do them no good, and it didn't really help me either. The white-clad doctor, stethoscope hung round his neck, a perfect stereotype, didn't give much hope by the way he looked, and he didn't really achieve anything different when he opened his mouth. My mother couldn't help but start sobbing when he said 'terminal', and my sister only dared look at me when he said 'uncontrolled malign growth'. I couldn't stop thinking about how some words carry good meanings sometimes, and bad ones at other times. The doctor, having delivered his message, took the autumn sun with him through the door and left the leaves outside my window rustling in the breeze. I didn't want to look my sister in the eyes and I didn't want to listen to my mother crying in my lap. I turned my head and stared out the window at the trees, their foliage now a golden yellow, red, and brown as they faced the dusk; their trunks as white as ever.
I close my eyes. In darkness, shapes form from nothing into nothing, and the moment you perceive them is the moment they are lost forever. I open my eyes and all is white and bright once more. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Six months have passed. As I wake, the doctor sits at the end of my bed with his notepad, legs crossed in waiting. "Ah, you're awake, I see. How do you feel," he says, and leans forward as if trying to read the answer to his question off my forehead. "I feel a lot of things," I mumble, trying to avoid his gaze. Silence. From the hallway, an alarm sounds and feet go scurrying along the corridor, presumably to change some unfortunate destiny to the better. The muffled noise dies out and there is silence once more. I can't really take this much longer, so I look the white man in the eye and say "Well?", in my most accusing and demanding tone. His eyes flicker and look bewildered. "I...", he hesitates, and fondles his stethoscope, "I mean, we... We don't really know what's happened." He suddenly rises and starts pacing around the front of my bed. Talking now to the center of the imaginary circle he is creating, he waves his hand in grasping motions. "There is no explanation for it, but it seems that the growth has subsided. It's gone. It was there the last time we checked, I know it, I supervised the scans myself, but it's gone now. I have no idea where it went, but it went away somewhere." He suddenly stops and looks at me. "You should probably come back and see us again, just to be sure that everything is all right. But I actually think you'll be fine." I tilt my head to the left. "Actually," he says after a brief sigh, "you ARE fine. You can go." As he exits the room, I slide my feet out of the bed and place my toes on the cold hard surface of the floor. Through the window, the sun shines in on the tiles right in front of me.
The trees outside are silent now, no wind or movement moving them. I hold my breath and then exhale to see if I can. I dangle my feet and move my legs towards the sun to know that I will. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Popping popcorn. The yellow, brown and white-striped wallpaper in the kitchen was the only, and silent, witness to our way of taking advantage of our temporary freedom from parental supervision. Rose, my baby sister, a foot shorter than myself and still having two left feet, watched with admiration and fearful anticipation as I filled our largest iron pot with an incredible amount of dried corn seeds. It was around noon, and both of our parents were at work; the sun was busily showering the white birches outside with white hot spring life and didn't seem to bother with our kitchen at the moment. Having filled this at the time seemingly gigantic pot almost half-way full with popcorn and oil, I turned on the heat and asked my sister to step back. I joined her in the safe spot just outside the kitchen door, two heads now looking around the corner, one aged ten and the other slightly smaller, in anticipation of the black menace on the stove. Waiting. Pop. We exchanged glances. No turning back now. Pop. Pop pop. A small clank, as an unpopped corn hit the lid. And eruption. Popop. Popoperripoperripopop, an insane rhythm commenced, filling our entire perception; a drum roll, a volcano, a steam engine, an avalanche, a landslide - out of control. We held our breath as the lid came off and white crispy fluff cascaded around the pot and the stove and the floor. Popcorn everywhere. As the roar of the pot subsided, I turned off the heat and we sat on the floor, throwing it at each other, eating it, stuffing it in our ears. We swam in it, rolled around in it and then found something else to do. Our parents came home at five, and didn't appreciate the fluffy white sea that at the moment dominated the kitchen floor. I blamed my little sister, and was off the hook.
The sky outside is overcast and I can't see the clouds moving. I like to see the clouds moving. It reminds me that the world is moving even when I am not. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Stealing cigarettes. We didn't really have a plan before we went into the grocery store that summer day, but one emerged soon enough. Paddy was going to distract the manager by asking for cardboard boxes to, as it were, help him move his huge collection of French cartoon magazines. Me and Hawthorn were to grab whatever merchandise considered illegal and discreetly make our way outside; this included cigarettes, chewing tobacco and syrups for mixing drinks - the latter had labels corresponding to the drinks that they were supposed to taste like, and who were we to know that alcohol was not included? The plan was set in motion as the manager and Paddy disappeared into the storeroom. Hawthorn took care of the syrups and the chewing tobacco, I leaned over the counter and grabbed three boxes of Marlboros. For some reason, we were still inside the store when the manager reappeared, Paddy pacing behind, the look on his face one of astonishment and panic when he saw that we were still undeniably there. There was no plan B. We were now trapped between the counter and the manager, who was blocking our exit. He suddenly stopped talking to Paddy about his regrettably short supply of cardboard boxes and turned his attention to us; initiating the obligatory rural banter which we usually were able to go along with. This was not the case at the moment, and the boxes of cigarettes in my pockets were like rapidly growing lumps of bad conscience; how could he not notice them? Had he noticed them? Was he pretending not to know, only to bring down the guillotine when we had had our chance to come clean and still didn't? We stood there for what seemed to be ages, aeons, eternities, mumbling muted replies to his jolly comments about cartoons and how much we had grown since the last time we spoke. The lumps in my pockets filled my entire perception and if he had asked me my name, which he thankfully and terrifyingly already knew, I probably wouldn't have been able to say anything, except for Marlboro. The situation was out of control, and if Paddy hadn't interfered at the crucial point where the jolly manager was going to ask us what we wanted from the store today, I would probably have confessed to this and any number of other sins committed now and in the past. Paddy exclaimed that we'd better be off to find those boxes; those cartoons really needed some packing and moving as soon as possible, the hour was running late, and would you look at the time, it's almost dinner, better go now, thanks alot and a Merry Christmas to you, sir. Tons of stress were relieved from my pants and, subsequently, my shoulders when we closed the door behind us and ran into the woods to do some serious smoking, the white birches hiding from the unforgiving sun our attempts at growing up.
These white walls are an absolute annihilation of thought. Walls should have colour; some of it seeps into the soul and I hope to see colours in my soul someday. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Six months ago, I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My mother and sister had come to the hospital the day before and spent the night; I was coughing black blood and my skin was white parchment, naturally they were worried. I didn't say much in way of explaining what it felt like to be me at the time, mostly because I knew that it would do them no good, and it didn't really help me either. The white-clad doctor, stethoscope hung round his neck, a perfect stereotype, didn't give much hope by the way he looked, and he didn't really achieve anything different when he opened his mouth. My mother couldn't help but start sobbing when he said 'terminal', and my sister only dared look at me when he said 'uncontrolled malign growth'. I couldn't stop thinking about how some words carry good meanings sometimes, and bad ones at other times. The doctor, having delivered his message, took the autumn sun with him through the door and left the leaves outside my window rustling in the breeze. I didn't want to look my sister in the eyes and I didn't want to listen to my mother crying in my lap. I turned my head and stared out the window at the trees, their foliage now a golden yellow, red, and brown as they faced the dusk; their trunks as white as ever.
I close my eyes. In darkness, shapes form from nothing into nothing, and the moment you perceive them is the moment they are lost forever. I open my eyes and all is white and bright once more. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
Six months have passed. As I wake, the doctor sits at the end of my bed with his notepad, legs crossed in waiting. "Ah, you're awake, I see. How do you feel," he says, and leans forward as if trying to read the answer to his question off my forehead. "I feel a lot of things," I mumble, trying to avoid his gaze. Silence. From the hallway, an alarm sounds and feet go scurrying along the corridor, presumably to change some unfortunate destiny to the better. The muffled noise dies out and there is silence once more. I can't really take this much longer, so I look the white man in the eye and say "Well?", in my most accusing and demanding tone. His eyes flicker and look bewildered. "I...", he hesitates, and fondles his stethoscope, "I mean, we... We don't really know what's happened." He suddenly rises and starts pacing around the front of my bed. Talking now to the center of the imaginary circle he is creating, he waves his hand in grasping motions. "There is no explanation for it, but it seems that the growth has subsided. It's gone. It was there the last time we checked, I know it, I supervised the scans myself, but it's gone now. I have no idea where it went, but it went away somewhere." He suddenly stops and looks at me. "You should probably come back and see us again, just to be sure that everything is all right. But I actually think you'll be fine." I tilt my head to the left. "Actually," he says after a brief sigh, "you ARE fine. You can go." As he exits the room, I slide my feet out of the bed and place my toes on the cold hard surface of the floor. Through the window, the sun shines in on the tiles right in front of me.
The trees outside are silent now, no wind or movement moving them. I hold my breath and then exhale to see if I can. I dangle my feet and move my legs towards the sun to know that I will. I am leaving this place soon. It will be good for me.
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