Anneke Brassinga - Colossus

Colossus

So as to write like none other you must first

read all that has ever been written, know all

that has been thought and said since Adam. Only then

is there a chance to add something incomparable.

Set to, you surely can: be humble enough

to spare yourself not one iota of what’s

gone before, from alpha on. When once the reading’s done

you’ll be cubits taller and more ruthless

than yourself – inimitable shadow that flashingly

flings itself at what remains still to be said.

To see the original poem, go to here

A typically cosmos-chaos poem from Menno Wigman

Rorschach   

There comes a woman, one that’s tall and slim.

She speaks the language. Then a bed. Just right.

She fits just right. Still often needs repeating.

So often that she owns your daily bed,

and you the diary that’s inside her head.

There comes a white-coat with a rorschach test.

Who I might be. What I see in the blot.

What does that smartarse know of dirty tricks?

When I was made I wasn’t even there.

(It was a woman, one that’s tall and slim.

Nervous. Hung up. And idler than a rose.

She spoke with mud. She had to leave my life.)

I read the murder cases in the press.

I had a will. Read blots. Weigh up my skin.

Per Højholt - 'Så og så mange lærker'

Such-and-such a number of larks

383 larks have arrived 384

the tops of the birch trees are seething (385) like balloons actually balloons

       you inflate gas deposits on stalks curtseying like birch trees yes completely like

       birch trees that are seething

388 larks have arrived and are singing above mole-hills 389

winter’s sleep-paths are being uncovered winter’s sleep-paths lie uncovered

       and full of water the sun strikes them

a morris drives up over the hill and down again and rumbles up along the sunken road and

      approaches splashingly past the pine trees

the postman’s morris comes into sight beneath 390 larks.

Tove Ditlevsen - 'Ægteskab'

Marriage

In re-remembered passion,

roused by a reminder of other embraces,

a distant contact with a cool skin,

the dreaming profile of an unknown woman

against the city’s neon lights –

or perhaps:

at the sight of a young soldier in the train

with bright eyes, in whose calm he saw

a quite simple mind reflect his own

and fling it back undigested,

with all its mysterious maturity –

his senses turn searchingly towards me,

veiled by a dark urge to deceive.

And I, who completely inhabit this house,

fertilise the dust with a frail thought

of own life, and daily kneel,

lost in vague prayers, at the yellow-enamelled

and silent fidelity of a bucket –

covertly consider his secret face,

suddenly naked, almost defenceless

as when nature reconquers deserted gardens:

just a glimpse of an irascible tenderness,

stunted, secretly extorted a legal

death of love for no obvious reason.

I see it go away, and recall other caresses

of nameless sweetness, possibly his once,

but never more arousing my desire

in other than the memory, never more.

Without words we deny, vindictively, alone,

each other’s capacity to rouse sensual desire.

Klaus Rifbjerg - Refshaleøen

Refshale island

The past seeks its survival

behind rows of houses, Christianshavn

Amager and a childhood can be seen

seaweed-coloured, headache-burst between wharfs.

The memory is aware of flying machines

the sense of colour black red

but the sea-sickness of unexperienced time

can hardly be eliminated.

Approach of punctured ships

tumour-possessed submarines

other surviving phenomena of exhaustedness

even the absurdity of the passage.

The usual flapping

interval silence in the water

an incontestable knowledge of people round the corner

the sentry about-turns.

Films never experienced and the future

experienced as a film

in the outside sector the feeling

of the stasis of time’s pendulum.

The echo of rivets is harsh on Sundays

suddenly one prays for the fin-possessed

greenness of muddy existences to announce itself

so we can get it all over.

Dock, crane, topmark buoys, putrescence

age itself nauseous

but the happiness of consciousness a turbo machine

before time, wing-flight and rejoicing pain.

The dates all one and immaterial

but the meeting in constancy:

the enormous windmill sails’ separating

underscoring of confrontation.