Serien "Drøm" er ikke nævnt som officiel udgivelse, og Forlaget Fisker-Nielsen & Løkke eksisterede  endnu ikke i 1957.
   Men siden www.litteraturpriser.dk (søg under L, Fini Løkke) nævner  både min debut som bladudgiver af distriktsbladet SYDØSTFYN i 1958 (findes nu som årbøger i lokalbiblioteket i Gudme Kommune og er repræsenteret med alle mine udgivne numre i Det Kongelige Bibliotek og Statsbiblioteket i Århus)
og min debut med digtsamlingen LYTTEPOST 1959. Denne digtsamling blev nævnt i tidsskriftet 'Hvedekorn' 1959, da jeg fik trykt 3 digte dér.
Desuden nævnes med ikon for litteraturpriser 8 Editor´s Awards - der var mange flere, ligesom der var 2 First Prizes for digte trykt i International Society of Poets magasin The Poet´s Corner.
På engelsk nævnes en bronzemedalje i The North American Poetry Contest.. Jeg fik 2 bronzemedaljer mere som International Poet of Merit 2002 og 2008, som det vises til slut i DIGTE/POETRY.
I en række tilfælde fik jeg oplæst digte på engelsk af en speaker på CD sammen med andre digteres værker, Jeg har erfaret, at mange langturschauffører lyttede til disse digte ligesom til Dagens Digt før i tiden herhjemme og andre litteraturoplæsninger på plader og i radioen. Jeg fik også læst digte op i Danmarks Radio i forbindelse med antologien "Profiler". Ung dansk lyrik" 1961.

Indhold/Content

Side 2  Indledning
Page 2 Introduction
Side 3/Page 3   LYTTEPOST/LISTENING POST
                        Første del  Schizofrenia /Part One Schizophrenia 
                                         Gæsten/The Guest
Side 4/Page 4                    Nyskabelse/Innovation
Side 5/Page 5                    Urtid/Primeval 
Side6/Page 6   Anden del Klaustrofobia/Part TwoClaustrophobia 
                                         Introvert-naivistiske improvisationer/ 
                                         Introvert-naivistic improvisations    
                                         Digt/Happy Days 
Side7/Page 7                     Fup/Tricks
Side 8/Page 8                    Utålmodighed/Impatience
Side 9/Page 9                    Sirener/Sirens
Side 10/Page 10                Lyttepost/Listening Post
Side 11/Page 11                En ny digtning ('manifest')/A New Fiction 
Side 12/Page 12                Hvedekorn /Wheat Grain (Magazine),
                                         Copenhagen 1959:
                                         Forventningsfuld Optimisme/
                                         Expectant Optimism
Side 13/Page 13                Sport/Sport
Side 14/Page 14                Hobby   
Side 15/Page 15    PROFILER. Ung dansk lyrik. Antologi 1961.
                             Udgivet af Grafisk Klub 13 Cicero,                                                            København./ PROFILES. Young Danish Poetry,
                             Anthology published by Grahics Club 13 Cicero,
                             Copenhagen 1961
Side 16Page 16                 Ekko/Echo
Side 17/Page 17                Erindring/Remembrance
Side 18/Page 18                En fæstning/Stronghold
Side 19/Page 19                Manden der kom til middag/The Man Who                                           Came For Dinner 
Side 20/Page 20    UDFYLD KVAD-RATET. Experimentalt tryk,
                             egen håndsats, forskelligt farvet papir.1963/
                             FILL IN THE SQUARE. Experimental print,
                             handset, printed in a galley press, 20 copies,
                             on differently coloured paper.
Side 21/Page 21                Det rene digt/Pure Poem
Side 22/Page 22                Himmel/Heaven
Side 23/Page 23                Længe ude/Long Hours Out-of-Doors
Side 24/Page 24                Fra et hus i krattet/From A House In The 
                                         Thicket
Side 25/Page 25                En trold/Spitfire
Side 26/Page 26                Pengene eller livet/The Money Or Your Life
Side 27/Page 27                Gule blade/Yellow leaves
Side 28/Page 28                I distraktion/In Distraction
Side 29/Page 29                Rude/Window Pane
Side 30/Page 30                Sidder De og tegner?/Are You Drawing?
Side 31/Page 31                Frokost/Lunchtime
Side 32/Page 32                Naturens fremgangsmåde/Nature´s Way
Side 33/Page 33                Jubel, nej/Ecstatic, no
Side 34/Page 34                En tanke/A Thought 
Side 35/Page 35      Situationer 1965-69/Situations 1965-1969
                               Ikke udgivne digte/Non-published poems
Side 36/Page 36                Man synger ikke mere/ 
                                         We don´t  sing any more
Side 37/Page 37                Børnesang/Children´s Song
Side 38/Page 38                Afsted i støvet/Ahead In The Dust
Side 39/Page 39                Biblioteket/The Library
Side 40/Page 40                Vinter/Winter
Side 41/Page 41                Form/Form
Side 42/Page 42                Ked af det/Sorry
Side 43/Page 43                Glad/Happy 
Side 44/Page 44                Kazimars flugt/Kazimar´s Flight
Side 45/Page 45                Jeg elsker ord/I Love Words
Side 46/Page 46                Skak/Chess
Side 47/Page 47                Det hvide hus/The White House
Side 48/Page 48                Beethoven i forhallen/
                                         Beethoven In The Hallway
Side 49/Page 49                Flyvemaskinen/The Aeroplane
Side 50/Page 50                Swing/Swing
Side 51/Page 51                Forårslys i forstaden/
                                         Suburban Spring Light
Side 52/Page 52     Grønt & Blåt/Green & Blue
                                         Ikke udgivet/Non-published 
                                         Pastorale/Pastoral
Side 53/Page 53                De drømte det/They dreamt it
Side 54/Page 54                et grønt landskab/a green landscape
Side 55/Page 55                en sommerdag/a summer´s day
Side 56/Page 56                cykelklokken/the bicycle bell
Side 57/Page 57                lærken/the lark
Side 58/Page 58                Ventetid/Waiting
Side 59/Page 59                Dag på havnen/Day On The Quay
Side 60/Page 60                Skumring i en lille havneby/
                                         Dusk In A Small Harbour Town
Side 61/Page 61                Motor/Motor
Side 62/Page 62                plasticdriver/plastic drifts
Side 63/Page 63                blå spejl/blue mirror
Side 64/Page 64                Malerisk uklarhed/Picturesque Uncertainty
Side 65/Page 65                Notat (1972)/Entry (1972) 
Side66/Page 66                 Fra andre egne/From Other Regions
                                         Souvenir/Souvenir/Souvenir
Side 67/Page 67                L.A. 1956/L.A. 1956
Side 68/Page 68                Galaxevæv/Galxy Web
Side69/Page 69                 Et andet sprog/A Different Language
Side 70/Page 70                Kast/Throw
Side 71/Page 71                Om Vilsevalsen/About The Vilsewaltz
Side 72/Page 72                Hertil/Thus Far
Side 73/Page 73                Blade og rødder/Leaves And Roots
Side 74/Page 74                Con Amore/Do It For Love
Side 75-96/                        Blæststrimler/
Page 75-96                       Tapes In The Wind
Side 97/Page 97                Aftenen fra havet 1980
                                         Ikke udgivne digte/
                                         The Evening From The Sea 1980
                                         Non-published poems
Side 98/Page 98                Den jordiske koncert 1985 
a-m                                   Håndskrevet  privattryk
                                         The Earthly Concert 1985
                                         Handwritten limited edition 
Side 99/Page 99                Et Glas Ved Storebælt (1987)
                                         Titlen er inspireret af et kobberstik
                                         af Jurgen von Konow:
                                         Et Glas i Scheveningen/
                                         A Glass At The Great Belt (1987)
                                         The title is inspired by a
                                         copperplate engraving by
                                         Jurgen von Konow:
                                         A Glass At Scheveningen. 
Side 100/                          Budskab fra tomheden/ 
Page100                           Message From The Void 
                                         Konkurrence/Contest 
                                         1993
Side 101/
Page101                           På siden 
                                      www.poetry.com
                                      er  der digte på engelsk, når man søger på                                       First name: Fini, Last Name: Lokke  
                                      Nogle af  disse  
                                      konkurrencedigte 
                                      i International  Library  of Poetry 
                                      er midlertidigt arkiveret.
                                      At the site 
                                      www.poetry.com
                                      you can read many poems  in English 
                                      from International Library of Poetry . 
                                      They were written for 
                                      The  North American Open Poetry Contests,  
                                      and they are all winners  of
                                      Editor´s Choice Awards, 
                                      semifinal and third prizez, 
                                      Best Poems and Poets,
                                      other anthologies,
                                      two First Prizes  in ISP magazine 
                                      The Poet´s Corner, as well as selection for 
                                      CDs ' 'The Sound of Poetry" . 
                                      Search 
                                      First Name: Fini  Last Name: Lokke 
                                      at www. poetry. com 
                                      A few poems are archived .                                                                                                                        

Det er hensigten snarest at indsætte samlede digte fra 5 årtier her på siden, så alle kan læse og udskrive digtene både på dansk og engelsk. Digtene er fra danske digtsamlinger og konkurrencer på engelsk.
The intention of this page is to publish poems in Danish and English in order that everybody can read and copy them. The poems have been published in Danish collections and international competitions.

Kopiering til eget brug er tilladt. Mangfolddigørelse til offentlig brug er ikke tilladt (copyright)/Copying is permitted for private use. Reproduction is not permitted according to copyright law.This means that you cannot publish the poems as your own or use them for your own commercial purposes.

Side 2/Page 2

I dine drømmes typehus
mærkes svagt en duft af Esprit
de Valdemar,
pastelblå gardiner vifter,
mens en buttet blondine
spiller værker af Bach
på elektrisk orgel.

Men en dør er låst.
Du kan ikke se
de skidne vægge
og det flakkende skær
fra den osende lampe,
du ser ikke skyggen, som danser på væggen,
du ser ikke ham,
som kravler hen over gulvet
med de blege øjne
og det grusomme smil:
Eneren i dig.

(Fra samlingen "Lyttepost", København 1959)                                 

In your standard dreamhouse
there´s an air of Esprit
de Valdemar Cologne,
pastel blue curtains wave
as a buxom blonde
plays works by Bach
on the electric organ.

But one door is locked.
You cannot see
the filthy walls
and the flickering glimmer
from the smoking lamp,
you don´t see the shadow
dancing on the wall,
you don´t see the man
crawling on the floor
with the pale eyes
and the cruel smile:
The Loner in you.
                                 
(From the collection "Listening Post", Copenhagen 1959) 

Side 3/Page 3     

For fremtiden ingen skrupler,
ingen angst,
intet håb:
Det sjælløse menneske
er sendt på markedet.

Teknikken
og samlebåndsproduktionen
har løst problemet
til alles tilfredshed,
har gjort det umulige muligt:
ud af massen
er skabt en produktion
af overbeviste enere,
mænd med forstand,
med pep,
med fut,
med get up and go,
mænd som er helt anderledes
end alle andre
og dog ens.

Af dem kan man vente sig meget,
ja, måske alt.

In the future no scruples,
no anxiety,
no hope:
Soulless Man
is on The Market.

Technology
and the production line
has finally solved the problem
to everybody´s satisfaction,
has made it possible, the impossible dream:
Out of the Masses
has been created
a new production
of fully convinced Loners,
men with brains,
with pep,
with get-up-and-go,
men who are all different
from everybody else
 - and yet all alike.

From them we may expect
a great deal, maybe even the Absolute.

Side 4/Page 4

Endnu engang
kom dinosaurerne,
trampende kødkolosser.

Tungt prustende
maser de frem
i en urskov af sten.

Monumenterne væltes,
alt fortæres,
for kolosserne sulter.

Brunstige brøl
flænger stilheden
i de stilfulde haver.

En livskraftig han
galer besat
og viser de små skarpe tænder
på den overdimensionerede hals.

Andre svarer.
Galende, hylende kæmper de.
Vinderen tramper sejrsstolt.

Men et sted i et tårn
smiler en vagtpost stygt
og noterer i dagbogen:
"Eksperimentet forløber planmæssigt.
Enerens tid er inde."

Once again
the dinosaurs came
trampling flesh colossuses.

Heavily panting,
advancing, pushing ahead
in a jungle of stone.

Monuments are toppled,
all is devoured,
the colossuses starve.

Horny roars
split the silence
in the stylish gardens.

A vigourous male
calls out, possessed,
showing the small pointed teeth
and the small head sways
on its overdimensioned neck.

Others reply.
Yelling and howling they fight.
The winner stamps, proudly victorious.

But somewhere in a tower
a guard smiles a sly smile,
making his entry in the journal:
"Experiment advancing as planned.
The time of the Loner has come."

Side 5/Page 5

Læs her, vind 48 ballerupjuniormixerkomplet + 8000 tekno varebiler til børnene. De kan også vinde en Elnazigzag og en Opelrekorder, hvis De ikke glemmer, hvad det var De blev spurgt om. Har De glemt det?Jamen De er da et lille fæhoved, lær dog mnemoteknik! Men vi trøster gerne, ord koster ikke penge, lugter heller ikke - men karklude, gulvklude lugter ondt - kom her og bliv glad igen, det går snart over - selv om livet er gråt og beskidt nu.
De tænker vel, svindel og humbug - men den tanke er nu alt for banal - der er højere ting, tænk blot på Dantes Inferno og på Jonas i hvalfiskens bug - er det fup eller skæg, nejsågu er det ej:
                             HER LADES ALT HÅB UDE1
Vi venter på solfaldstimen, den skønneste time,
hvor solen står som en gulddukat
over stråtagets idylliske rygning
og den gamle hyld dufter sødt og svalerne flyver lavt, mens
den gamle Per Træskomand ryger sin pibe
og smiler glad.
Det drømmer vi om her i staden.
MEN hist hviler de døde,
og sjælene flyver stille bort
med retning mod Nordpolen,
hvor julemanden bor.
Hører I dem, de fløjter en gammel vise,
de mindes den tid de var unge, den skønneste tid,
da de drak deres første sjatter og fik deres første skud
MARIHUANA?HEROIN?NIKOTIN?BENZIN?
da de første gang følte feberen i deres blod, på deres pande,
da de første gang trådte speederen i bund
og strøg sig betaget gennem håret
med strålende øjne,
da de første gang splintrede glasset og fløj gennem ruden,
da de første gang døde
den skønne død:
hør hvor de fløjter en munter sang
i en
munter rytme.

Happy Days are here again:
read this - win 48 juniorblendersets + 8000 techno delivery vans for the kids.You can also win a zigzag sewing machine and a tape recorder if only you don´t forget what you were asked. Have you forgotten? But you are a little fool! You must learn to memorize: use menmonics! But we like to solace, words don´t cost a cent,don´t smell either - but dish cloths, floor cloths smell bad - come along, get happy, all will soon pass - even though life seems grey and filthy at the moment.
You probably think: swindle and humbug - but that thought is too banal - there are higher things, just think of Dante´s Inferno, and Jonah in the belly of the whale - do you think that is funny, no certainly not:
                  THIS IS THE POINT OF FORLORN HOPE
We are waiting for the sunset hour,
the most wonderful time,
when the sun stands like a golden ducat
above the idyllic ridge of the thatched roof,
the green elder sends out its sweet scent,
and the swallows fly low,
while old Peter Woodenshoe-maker smokes his pipe
with a smile of utter contentment.
That´s what we dream of here in the city.
BUT yonder the dead are at rest,
and their souls fly quietly away
towards the North Pole
where Santa lives - do you hear them,
they whistle an evergreen,
remember the time they were young,
their most noble hour
when they had their first drinks
and their first shots of
MARIHUANA?HEROIN?NICOTINE?GAS?
when for the first time they felt the fever in their blood,
on their forehead,
when for the first time
they stepped on the gas,
in fascination brushing a hand through their hair
with radiant eyes,
when for the first time
they shattered the glass and flew
through the windshield,
when they died, for the first time,
died the most beautiful death,
listen: they whistle a happy song in a
happy rhythm.

Side 6/Page 6

                                          FUP
AFMAGT, ANGST                     VIRKELIGHED
                                                    INGENTING

RØDE ØJNE
SVIDER
CIGARETTER FORTÆRES
HVIDE HÆNDER
GESTIKULERER                       TRAGIK
                                                    PANIK
                                                    PLASTIK
GUMMIANSIGTER
                                                    PLAPRER 
                                                    MEKANISK

                                                    TRICKS
IMPOTENCE, ANGST 
                                                    REALITY
                                                    NOTHING
RED EYES
SMART
CIGARETTES GOBBLED
WHITE HANDS GESTICULATE
                                                    TRAGEDY
                                                    PANIC 
                                                    PLASTIC
RUBBER FACES
                                                    MECHANICALLY
                                                    GABBLE

Side 7/Page 7              

"Lad nu mig komme til,
hvad er meningen med...?"
men tæppet glider langsomt for
og mørket kvæler vore råb.

Satans, hvisker
antifredskonspiratoren vredt
vi må file os igennem
her er tyndt
faldlemmen venter
ingen ænser det
for mørket er fuldt af giftige luftarter
der lammer reflekserne,
nu når de første igennem
og som en lavastrøm
glider vi
ud.

"Now, let me,
what´s the idea...?
but the curtain slowly closes,
darkness smothers our cries.

Hell, angrily whispers
the anti-peace conspirator,
we must file our way through,
here is a weak spot.

The trap door awaits us
nobody pays attention:
the darkness is filled by toxic gasses
that paralyze the reflexes
now the first ones get through,
and as a lava stream
we glide
out. 

Side 8/Page 8

Slagkraftige tandhjul
hviner forbi
mens dryssende askedynger
ulmer af død.
                          Var vi udenfor?

Startklare marionetter lyser
mod en tåget horisont.
                                    Kom de,
nattens tålmodige kraner,
de stivnede mastodonter?

Træerne i laboratoriernes søjlehaller
vender nylonrøøderne mod zenith
og sekundviseren tikker arrigt
---

Sprang i luften
blev til sirener
i et dirrende kraftfelt.

Vi var der --- alle;
med kolde øjne så vi det ske,
med rystende hænder.

Powerful cogwheels
whistle by
while piles from ashes still falling
smoulder with death.

Ready to start, puppets light up
against a dim horizon.
                                    Did they arrive
the patient cranes of the night,
the stiffened mastodonts?

The trees in the columned halls of laboratories
turn their nylon roots towards zenith,
and the second hand ticks, angrily
---

exploded,
became sirens
in a feverish power field.

We were there --- all of us;
with cold eyes we saw it happen,
our hands shaking.

Side 9/Page 9

Fint slebne kanaler
lytter intenst til stanken
fra rovdyrets gab
og bliktallerkener
gungrer flittigt
i takt med bankende fingerspidser

Alle tæer drejer sig lystent:
nu afsløres bassen.
Et syn for en savtakket
krokodille!!!
Mudderet spreder sig
 - og falder langsomt til ro
som aske, der strøs over vandene.

En stråle af isklar lyd
farer  vanvittigt rundt
i krystal-labyrinter.

High-polished channels are listening
intensely to the stench
from the mouth of the predator,
and diligent tin plates stamp out
their kitchen tune,
accompanied by the tapping of fingertips.

Alle toes turn lustfully:
now the bass is unveiled.
What a sight for a serrated
crocodile!!!
The mud is dispersed
- and slowly descends
like ashes scattered on the waters.

A ray of ice-clear sound
is rushing around like crazy
in crystal mazes.

Side 10/Page 10

I et kulturelt hængedynd af propaganda, forloren humanisme, snobberi og sælgermentalitet er der ikke grokraft for en livskraftig digtning. Skal digtningen leve, må den gøres fri af hængedyndet, af kulturen, af traditionerne. Den introvert-naivistiske metode er vejen til friheden.
I
Den gør digteren fri af digtet.
Gennem den kollektive metode opnås frihed: gennem arbejdsdeling. Hvert ord i digtet skrives af forskellige forfattere. Digtet vil fremstå som et produkt af gennemtænkte ord, med en formidabel vægt af tanker, til trods for at ingen er selvejer af produktet.
Også den individuelle, tilfældige metode kan anvendes i skabelsesprocessen. Interessante resultater kan nås; men faren for ukunstneriske elementer i digtningen er stor. Måske vil det i fremtiden lykkes enkelte digtere at benytte ordene på en for dem særegen måde, samtidig med, at de undgår personlige "meninger" i digtet.
Faste regler for skabelsesprocessen lader sig naturligvis ikke opstille. Men eet er sikkert: målet må være det rene digt.
II
Den introvert-naivistiske metode gør læseren fri af digtet. Han skal ikke søge en mening, men blot forsøge at leve sig ind i digtets verden, som er skiftende. Læseren må klart gøres opmærksom på, at digtet er liv, at den er en verden af klange, associationer, rytmer, visioner, perspektiver og bevægelser, som ikke har nogen mening ud over deres eksistens, nøjagtig som livet i den "virkelige" verden ikke har nogen mening, som kan påvises af en tilfældig digter.
III
Den introvert-naivistiske metode gør endelig digtet fri af læseren. Når denne ikke vil forsøge at finde en mening, vil han heller ikke misforstå og lægge sine egne fordomme og meninger ind i digtet. Han/hun vil ikke længere med nogen ret kunne bruge digtet til egen fordel.

At tale om digtets værdi er latterligt. Vi har ikke længere brug for digterhelte med grønne kranse om panden, og vi kan ikke længere tage hensyn til markedet, vi er ikke forretningsfolk, vi har brug for tusinder af digtere, som ved ordets hjælp forsøger at gøre sig fri af flosklernes tyranni og propagandaens sukkersøde spytslikkere.Vi har brug for semantikere, amatører og gøglere, som kan skabe virkeligheder, der er anderledes end den konfektionerede, smarte og glatte virkelighed, som mange kræfter arbejder på at få os til at antage som den eneste moderne og derfor rigtige.


(this was written as a parody of all manifestos but later proved to be right):
In a cultural quagmire of propaganda, hypocritical humanism, snobbism and salesman´s mentality there is no room for a vigourous fiction. If fiction is going to live, it must be freed from the quagmire, from culture, from traditions.
The introvert-naivistic method is the path to freedom.
I
It frees the writer from the fiction. Through the collective method, freedom is achieved, through division of labour. Each word in the work is written by different authors. The work will appear as a product of well prepared words, with a formidable weight of thoughts, in spite of the fact that no one has sole rights to the product.
The individual, casual method can also be used in the creative process. Interesting results can be achieved but the danger of non-artistic elements in the fiction is great. Perhaps a few poets and other writers may succeed in using words in a way that is characteristic of them, and at the same time avoid being personally opinionated in their fiction.
Strict ruler for the creative process are, of course, impossible. But one thing is certain: the goal must always remain pure fiction.
II
The introvert-naivistic method frees the reader from the fiction. He or she does not have to look for any meaning or opinion but only try to enter into the spirit of the poem´s universe which is changing.
The reader must be aware that fiction is life, a world of tones, associations, rhythms, visions, perspectives and movements which do not have any meaning beside their existence, exactly as life in the "real" world does not have any meaning which can be described in exact terms by a casual writer.
III
The introvert-naivistic method finally frees the fiction from the reader. When he or she does not attempt to find a meaning, he or she will not misunderstand and try to put his or her own preconceptions and opinions into the fiction. He or she will no longer with any right be able to take advantage of the poem.

To speak of the value of a poem is ridiculous. We do no longer need heroes of fiction with green laurels on their foreheads, and we can no longer show any consideration of the marketplace, we are not businessmen, we need thousands of poets who want to use the word to free themselves from the tyranny of empty phrases and the sugary bootlickers of propaganda.
We need poets striving at breaking up and ridiculing sales lyricism and false sentimentality. We need semanticists, amateurs and entertainers who are able to create worlds of reality that are different from the readymade, seductive and slick reality which many potent forces are trying to make us accept as the only modern and therefore right way.

Addition 2007:
Value means Evaluation and Hierarchy, implying Opinion and Feud.

Side 11/Page 11

Jeg vender mig om
og betragter eftertænksom
gennem de støvede ruder:
et nodestativ
to gamle frakker
en guldtrompet
og en stabel udtrådte sko.

En herre slår mig på skulderen
Gamle ven,
men han tog fejl
jeg var en anden
Han går
Energisk går jeg
i mit nye tøj
til cafeen
for at vise mig frem
for en kreds af venner

Men cafeen er tom
og på tribunen ligger
et væltet nodestativ
to gamle frakker
en guldtrompet
og en stabel udtrådte sko.

I turn around
pensively watching
through the dusty windows:
a music rest
two old coats
a golden trumpet
and a pile of down-at-heel shoes

A gentleman pats me on the shoulder
Old pal,
but he was wrong
I was someone else
He leaves

Energetically I walk
in my new clothes
to the café
to show off
in a circle of friends

But the café is empty
and on the bandstand I see
an overturned music rest
two old coats
a golden trumpet
and a pile of down-at-heel shoes

Side 12/Page 12

Fra toppen af verdens højeste tårn
ser man stolte syner
byen og kranernes skove
selv stjernerne er man nær ved
blomsterne er det værre med
men hvad rager de os

Fra toppen af verdens højeste tårn
er der langt ned
der er et mægtigt styrt
man får fart på
og kan få tid til at nyde turen
inden man klasker mod asfalten

From the top of the world´s tallest tower
you see such magnificent sights
the city and its forests of cranes
even the stars you are close to
flowers are not quite it
but who cares anyway

From the top of the world´s tallest tower
there is a long way down
really the greatest dive
you can gain a lot of speed
and yet have time to enjoy the trip
till you hit the asphalt floor

Side 13/Page 13

Det er en fryd at se
det blanke stål - føl
dets glatte flade
glide mellem dine fingre
tryk det mod din pande
en djævelsk fryd
sanselig
moderne
optimistisk trods alt
- lad dig ikke holde tilbage af præsternes præk -
dit hjerte er koldt
og du ved det
du kender den indre sekretion
og dig selv
sælg derfor roligt
din sjæl
og vælg dig en hobby
med fremtid i

A rae delight to see
the shining steel - feel
its smooth surface
glide through your fingers
press it to your forehead
feel its cold
demonic delight
sensuous
modern
optimistic in style
- and don´t let yourself be stopped
by the clergymen´s twaddle -
your heart is cold
and you know it
you know about the endocrine secretion
and yourself
therefore calmly sell
your soul
and choose a hobby
with a future

Side 14/Page 14

Der var et drag om hendes mund
så smerteligt morsomt

Så fløjlsblød var hendes stemme
så mild på færgen

Hun så mig ikke
hun var så henrivende ensom

There was an air about her mouth
so woefully amusing

So velvety her voice
so mild there on the ferry

She did not see me
in her solitary charm

Flimrende blade på vejen
fugtige spor
og mænd med stokke
der stager sig frem

Lidt guldpapir
solen
og nogen på cykel
ude alene, for første gang

Flickering leaves on the path
damp traces
and men with sticks
poling

A scrap of gilt paper
the sun
and someone on a bicycle
for the first time out on his own

Virkelig? - Træet føjer sig
mildere, mere patetisk

Sætter sit hårnet
som værn mod de hundrede øjne

Nu får vi vel høst?

Men stære
pikker sig bær

Og kragerne flyver
og falder omkuld

Really? - The tree gives in
milder, increasingly pathetic

Arranges its hairnet
as a protection against a hundred eyes

Now we will reap?

But starlings
peck berries

And still the crows fly
and fall over

Da jeg kom ned til middag
hviskede alle
at værten var død

Nu skulle jeg bare
spise min mad og siden
gå stille med dørene

Men værten, sagde jeg
Værten. Sagde de.
Men værten...?Men

Værten, ja, værten,
sagde de,
hør nu De må da ku indse!

Men værten
det er da mig,
sagde jeg.

Da blev de så stive
i masken
og førte mig ud.

As I came down for dinner
everyone whispered:
the host had died.

Now I should just
eat my food and then
go about things quietly.

But the host, I said.
The host.They said.
But the host...? But

The host, yes, the host,
they said,
listen, you must realize!

But the host
that´s me,
I said.

Promptly their faces
stiffened as masks,
and they ushered me out.

Se - mod din himmels makrelskelet
gynger en støvdrager med sin plante!
Du er et nys i en ulden vante,
stemmegaffel og lys i eet.


Look - against your heaven´s mackerel skeleton
a stamen swings with its plant!
You are a sneeze in a woolen mitten,
tuning fork and light in one.

Side 21/Page 21

som en plasticprop
som en død
som en bleg rosin
ligger månen
midt i suppen
midt i maven


like a plastic stopple
like a dead
like a pale raisin
the moon lies still
in the middle of the soup
in the middle of the stomach


Side 22/Page 22

Syrligt
røg det lille nor
hver båd
var pibesort af ord
hvert ur
gav solens varme glød
aften
gjorde søvnig sød


Sourishly the mite was smoking
in the cove
where each and every boat
was getting pipe-black with the words,
and every watch
made the sun´s warmth glow
till evening
made him sleepy sweet

Side 23/Page 23

i de pæne grønne sommerhuse
med de tynde skillevægge

hører du
den skræmte skæmten

udenfor i solen
gul og brun som sherry

alt er tørt
som kvisten - nu


in the neat green summer houses
with the thin partition walls

you hear
the frightened jesting

outside, into the sun
yellow and brown like sherry

everything is dry
like twigs - just now

Side 24/Page 24

jeg tænkte taus:lad ham dog
ilte græsset grønt
og tænde bål i dug.
Nu fanger h
                   der er ikke flere gotiske bogstaver
                     an et støvstænk: Se!

Han vrister det fri
ud af granernes hænder!
                        gøer en bilist


silently i thought: o let him
oxidize the grass green,
and light a fire
in the dew. Now look, h
             we have gone out of black letters 
                                  e
is about to catch
a dust speck: Look!

He tries to wrench
the open air out of
the hands
of the spruces

a driver angrily barks


Side 25/Page 25

ØLLET SKVULPER I PIANISTENS ØJ
-NE, HAN SER VERDENS TOMME-
ste dansegulv for sig: Ha-
VET! for det forgyldte
indre øje ses nu en

hajfinne - nej, flere
blå blankslidte
flygellåg klappet op
tangenterne
tygger mageligt på hans drømme

uden øl og uden lyd
må jeg se på det
min skrivemaskine
propper sig med:
appelsinskræller fingre


the beer sloshes
 in the ey-
e of the pianist,
 he imagines

the world´s emptiest
dance floor: The S-
ea! in the gilded inner eye
now appears a

shark´s fin - no, several blue
grand piano lids
open, the keys
chewing contentedly  on his dreams

without beer and without sound
i have to look at
my typewriter gorging
orange peels fingers

Side 26/Page 26

gule blade gløder
i det visne vejr
lever den du møder
hvisker døden nær

yellow leaves are glowing
in the withered weather
where the one you meet is living
death is whispering nearby


Side 27/Page 27

POPLENS TEGN PÅ SILKETÅGEN
HÆNGER I MIT VÅDE VINDU
ER JEG SØVNIG ELLER VÅGEN
JEG ER NOGET AF EN HINDU


THE POPLAR´S SIGN ON SILKY MIST
HANGS IN MY WET WINDOW
AM I SLEEPY OR AWAKE
I AM SOMEWHAT OF A HINDU


Side 28/Page 28

Man hakker af med blækstift
Slår tre præcise slag for sig
Støtter sig til næsetippen og
Ser ud som dybfrostetiketten


You make your mark in pencil
Make three precise cuts too.
Then put your forefinger
To the tip of your nose and
Look like the deep freeze label.

Side 30/Page 30

Man morer sig mægtigt i Grib skov,
særlig hvis man får noget at spise.

Dog må man huske ikke at grise;
det er skam for grov sjov!


You can have a great time in Grib forest,
especially if you have your lunch.

But remember not to muck up;
such waste is not allowed.

Side 31/Page 31

Jeg vælger ganske simpelt ord for ord
og trækker mellem hvert mit sneglespor.
Det skammer jeg mig ikke over, Sol -
skønt langsomt når mit liv fra pol til pol.


I simply choose one word after the other,
between them is my trail, as snails advance.
I´m not ashamed of that, dear Sun -
although it´s slow, my life will reach from pole to pole.


Side 32/Page 32

Jubel, nej
en skælven du
du rørte
ved min mund

(digtet blev trykt med blytyper på blodrødt karton,
så kraftigt var trykket, at bogstaverne var ´kvæstet'
i kanterne - ekstra højtryk!)


Ecstatic, no
you rather made me tremble
you touched
my mouth

(The poem was printed with lead type
on crimson cardboard.
The pressure was so hard that the edges
of the printed letters were bruised)


Side 33/Page 33

dette er brændbart
bevægelsen kræver
elektricitet

der er en lyd i det
som kommer
svævende

over lastbiler
når de standser
og chaufførerne siger: Vær stille!

i en saltsø
skal den fødes først
som levende fornemmelse

i det forsovede hovede
den opstår
å så langsomt

tanken
om en kerne
som den kredser om

med eet
er den til;
det er forår


this can be burnt
development requires
electricity

there is a sound in that
which comes
as it drifts

across the trucks
when they are stopping
and the driver says: Be quiet!

In a salt lake
it has to be born
as live sensation

in the sleepy head
it arises
o so slowly

the thought
 of a core
which it is circling

suddenly
it is there for certain:
it´s spring


Side 34/Page 34

Når man ikke kan synge mere
må man lytte
og hvor svært det er
når man er vant
til det andet forstår man kun
når man har læst "Krig og Fred"
og hvem har det?

Det er prosa
også kaldet hverdag
men en hverdag
uden vaner
er en lille gråspurv

Man kan dårligt synge
om en gråspurv
det er gjort ganske vist
og godt af nogen
det gør det kun sværere


When you can´t sing any more
you must listen
and how difficult that is
when you´re used to
the usual way you understand only
after you have read "War and Peace"
and who did that?

It´s prose
also called everyday life
but every day
without custom
is a sparrow

You can hardly sing
about a sparrow
of course it has been done
and very well by some perhaps
it only makes it more of a quest

Side 36/Page 36

Sild er godt
skreg vi
skæl på armene
til op over albuen
oversmurt med blod
i ansigtet
sild er godt
vi skraber


Herring is good
we shouted
scales on our arms
up to over the elbows
smeared in blood
in the face too
we scale

Side 37/Page 37

Studedriver
langs den store hærvej

Verden er lav
afsted i støvet

I dine farver
læser en zigøjner din skæbne


Cattle dealer
on the old army road

The world seems low
ahead in the dust

In your colours
a gipsy tinker reads your fate

Side 38/Page 38

Blege piger
liver op i biblioteket
hvor solbrændte lærere
ta´r fri fra golflektioner
lærerne blader i bøger
og noterer glemte steder
deres fingre krummer ikke bagud
de har  fingerspitzgefühl

Ude på vejen
larmer knallerterne stadig
og i parken er der soldis

To nonner
prøver at finde noget
i reolen


Pale-faced girls
cheer up in the library
where sunburnt teachers
take a day off from golf lessons
the teachers leaf through books
noting forgotten passages
their fingers do not curve backwards
but they do have fingerspitzgefühl

Outside on the road
the motorbikes still make their noises
and in the park there´s a sun haze

Two nuns are trying
to find something
on the shelves

Side 39/Page 39

Se det sorte solur
Den hvide jord
Og sneens hvirvler
Over vejen

Stive grene
Sorte hegn
Fygende sne
Og birkens fejende hår


See the black sun watch
The white ground
And the snow whirls
Across the road

Stiff branches
Black hedges
Drifting snow
And the birch´s sweeping black hair

Side 40/Page 40

Gavnligt
vrister man sin hånd
fra vink
og gluber huden
indad i sin mund

Det varmer mere
at gå ude
under regnen

I en nat af stål
en kasse

Kan man drømme
om at vælge

Good-natured
you may wrest your hand
from signals
hollowing the facial skin
into your mouth´s inside

It´s warmer though
to walk out in the rain

In a night of steel-blue
like a box

You still can dream
of choosing

Side 41/Page 41

lad være
du må ikke slå
lad mig være
jeg er ked af det


don´t
don´t hit me
let me be
sorry

Side 42/Page 42

jeg er glad
jeg er lykkelig
ikke helt glad
men i morgen
i morgen er det lørdag
i overmorgen er det søndag
og i dag er det fredag
hvad om vi
hvad om vi
kørte en tur
hvad om vi
kørte en tur
hvad om vi


I´m glad
I´m happy
not exactly glad
but tomorrow
tomorrow it´s Saturday
and after tomorrow it´s Sunday
and today it´s Friday
what if we
what if we
went for a ride
what if we
went for a ride
what if we

Side 43/Page 43

Hvem er Kazimar
og hvorfor flygter Kazimar
hvem er hans følgesvend
hvorfor har de sværd i hånden

Hvem er de tre forfølgere
som jog dem ud så sent

Er Kazimar forsvundet
er der mon fem
mod Kazimar

Hvem følger Kazimar
og hvem er Kazimar

(Spørgsmålet opstod på grund af reliefferne i et skab i familiens eje. Billedskærerne havde taget motiver fra Saxo; eet af dem var om den polske kong Kazimar, på Valdemar Sejrs tid, Så forklaringen står i Saxo: Danernes Bedrifter)

Who is Kazimar
and why is Kazimar fleeing
who is his follower
why do they have sword in hand

Who are the pursuers
who sent them out so late

Has Kazimar disappeared
are there five against
this Kazimar

Who is pursuing Kazimar
and who is Kazimar

(The question arose on account of some carvings on a oak closet in my family´s possession. They showed scenes from the Danish historian Saxo Grammaticus around the 12th century. His work in latin, Gesta Danorum, recounts the deeds of the Danes since the ancient King Humble,King Shield, and for instance Hamlet. Kazimar was a Polish king).

Side 44/Page 44

Jeg elsker at leve
i fantasien
et nyt ord
begejstrer mig
jeg begejstres
for ingenting


I love living
in a fantasy
a new word
carries me away
I am carried away
by nothing

Side 45/Page 45

Vågen søvn
en evig venten
til næste træk

De to skakspillere
suger døgnet ind
med cigaretter

I elfenbensnatten
nattergalemorgenen
gentager mønstret sig

Sort slår hvidt
sort slår hvidt
til sidst


Wakeful sleep
eternal waiting
for the next move

The two chess players
suck up day and night
with cigarettes

In the ivory night
in the nightingale morning
the pattern repeats itself

Black beats white
black beats white
at last

Side 46/Page 46

Det hvide hus
lå ved havet
alle væggene var hvide
solnedgangen et syn for guder

Gæsterne roste den i høje toner
de så alle værelserne
toiletterne med
og synes de var imponerende

Da de gik
græd værtsparret
det var sådan nogle
dejlige mennesker

Solnedgangen var borte
havet var sort
fiskene sølvskinnende
de ventede på fiskerne


The white house
was situated by the sea
all its walls were white
the sunset a sight for the gods

The guests praised it in high tones
they saw all the rooms
even the toilets
and thought they were impressing

As they departed
the hosts cried:
they were such
lovely persons

The sunset was gone by now
the sea was black
the fish were silvery
awaiting the fishermen

Side 47/Page 47

Energiens strøm
i håret
blikket når til verdens ende

Alt er endnu rundt
men overordentlig køligt
 - se tjenernes øjne


The current of energy
in his hair
his glance reaches the the world´s end

Everything is still round
but extremely cool
 - notive the eyes of the servants

Side 48/Page 48

Som drenge lavede vi en stor flyvemaskine. Den var af træ. Vi sømmede den sammen med syvtommersøm, for brædderne var syv tommer tykke - det var snarest bjælker.Det var en skør tingest, for selvfølgelig kunne den ikke flyve.

When we were boys we made a big aeroplane. It was made of wood. We put it together with seven inches nails as the timber skeleton was very heavy - actually balks. It was a crazy gadget - of course it couldn´t fly.

Side 49/Page 49

NOGEN FORTALTE MIG ENGANG, AT HAN HAVDE VÆRET I RUDKØBING UNDER KRIGEN. OM NATTEN BOMBEDE DE KIEL - DET KUNNE HØRES OVER VANDET. LYDEN VAR SÅ KRAFTIG, AT DE TUNGE DØRE PÅ FALCKSTATIONEN OVERFOR GAV SIG TIL AT SVINGE FREM OG TILBAGE.

SOMEONE ONCE TOLD THAT HE HAD BEEN AT RUDKOBING AT ONE TIME DURING THE WAR.
AT NIGHT THEY BOMBED KIEL
YOU COULD HEAR IT ACROSS THE WATER.
THE SOUND WAS SO POWERFUL
THAT THE HEAVY DOORS OF THE RESCUE STATION
BEGAN SWINGING BACK AND FORTH.

Side 50/Page 50

   Udenfor mit vindue, der går fra gulv til loft, står der et fyrretræ, tæt, skyggefuldt, glinsende, dér hvor solen fylder de tykke mørke duske, så man ser nålene og det mønster de indbyrdes danner.
   Bag det, bag en lille vej, dybere nede, ligger en svær, borgerlig villa af gule mursten med brunt tag. En solid og fast blok, som en sten i et vandløb.
   Omkring den bevæger en let brise de lysegrønne buske, strejfer et æbletræ i blomst og forsvinder i vimplen på den borgerlige flagstang.
   Udsigten afskæres af et langt rødt hus, der går på tværs af billedet.
   Over det driver de blå-hvide skyer af sted som får i solen, der fylder den øverste fjerdedels klare blå himmels uendelighed, der vil drage øjet til sig, med en modgående kraft, som giver balance imellem alle de krydsende linier.
   Solen er ikke selv med i billedet; den er lige udenfor, over det øverste højre hjørne, som er helt uden farve, kun lys. Man blændes, når man ser længe på det.
   Hvis solen kunne se det, ville hjørnet være til venstre og lysenglen altså være til venstre - mens skyfårene ville være på vej mod højre.


   Outside my window, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, there is a pine, dense, full of shadow, glistening where the sun fills the thick dark tufts in a way that you can see the needles and the pattern they form together.
   Behind it, behind a small suburban road, deeper, I see a solid respectable villa in yellow brick with a brown roof. A clearly defined, firm block, like a stone in a brook.
   Around it a light breeze is moving the light green bushes, touches an apple tree in blossom, and disappears in the streamer on the middle-class flagstaff.
   The view is cut off by a long red brick house opposite my window. Above it, blue-white clouds drift along like sheep in the sun - filling the upper fourth of the clear blue heaven´s infinity, trying to attract the eye´s attention with a contrary force balancing all the different crossing lines.
   The sun is not seen directly; it is situated outside the picture, above the upper right corner which is quite devoid of colour, pure light - you are blinded if you look directly at it.
   If the sun itself could see it, the corner would be at the left side, and the light angel placed to the left - while the cloud sheep would be on their way to the right.

Side 51/Page 51  

"Il enrage q´un peintre d´un tel talent gache ses rares dons de coloriste en les mettant au service de pastorales superficielles"
   Maleren er Boucher, som den strenge kritiker her, Diderot, kendte godt og havde mødt hos Madame Geoffrin.

"One is enraged seeing a painter of such talent spoil his rare coloristic talents by letting them serve superficial pastorals."
   The painter is Boucher whom the severe critic, Diderot, knew very well and had met at Madame Geoffrin.


Grønt & Blåt var skrevet med grotesk skrift på elektrisk skrivemaskine og med akkompagnerende tuschtegninger, som teksten var indfattet i. Tekst og billede blev så kopieret sammen til eet udtryk. - Digtene er skrevet på Fyn i landlige omgivelser ved Storebælt.

Green & Blue was written in gothic typeface on an electric typewriter, and with accompanying images in Indian ink. Text and image were then copied together in one expression. - The poems are written in rural surroundings at the Great Belt. 

de drømte det
i byen
           engang
   for længe
                   siden

sommer
hvide skjorter, røde seler

regn på ruden
gyldne marker

vinden
gynger i de tunge aks

en bille
flyver ind i det elektriske hegn

det lyder tæt på
som om tråden knækkede

men lidt efter brummer billen
videre

nu er det mørkt
hvor er her fredeligt og lunt


they dreamt it
in the city
                once
                         upon a time

summer
white shirts, red suspenders

rain on the window pane
golden fields

the wind
swings in the heavy heads

a beetle
flies against the electric fence

close by
it sounds as if the thread snapped

but in a while the beetle buzzes
along

now it´s dark
how peaceful and snug it is here

Side 53/Page 53

et grønt landskab
en vej der snor sig gennem det
et lille hvidt hus
med rosa tag
og bagved
står det blå hav

sådan
       var det
              i drømmen
       i byen i mørket


a green landscape
a road winding through it
a little white house
with rose-pink roof
and behind it
stands the blue sea

that´s how
          it was
              in the dream
   in the city in the darkness 

Side 54/Page 54

en sommerdag
gør solen mat
hvem mærker det ikke
koen muher, fluerne driller

det huskede de


a summer´s day
makes the sun listless
who doesn´t sense it
the cow moos, the flies tease

they remembered

Side 55/Page 55

cykelkokken
stråler glad
og rund, en lille
hjerne uden magt:
rør mig, rør mig så
du er kun til
som lyd


the bicycle bell
beams, happy
and round, a little
brain without power:
touch me, please touch
you´re only real
as sound

Side 56/Page 56

lærken
står på sned
den lille gård
har sorte øjne


the lark
ascends
the little farm
has eyes of black

Side 57/Page 57

SOM MÅGEN
DER SNAPPER
BRUGELIGT AFFALD
ER TANKEN I PRAKSIS

MEN VENTEN
ER NØDVENDIG
FOR DRENGE
SOM FISKER KRABBER

MELLEM STENENE
GEMMER DE SIG
OG FLYGTER
I DRØM

I KLARHED
LEVER DE
HELT UDEN FOR
DET FASTE

OG HUNDESTEJLERNE
BYGGER URØRLIGE
REDER
I STILHED


LIKE THE SEA GULL
SNATCHING USABLE
LEFTOVERS
IS THOUGHT IN PRACTICE

BUT WAITING
IS NECESSARY
FOR BOYS
FISHING FOR CRABS

BETWEEN THE STONES
THEY HIDE
FLEEING
IN DREAM

IN CLARITY
THEY LIVE
QUITE SET APART
FROM SOLID FACT

AND THE GLASSY STICKLEBACKS
BUILD THEIR UNTOUCHABLE
NESTS
IN SILENCE


Side 58/Page 58

STORT OG SMÅT
DET ER DET SAMME
NÅR DU SÆTTER DIG OG SPISER
PÅ EN SOLVARM KAJ

MADPAPIRET
SYNKER IKKE
I DET LUNE VAND
OG DER ER INGEN BØLGER

DAGEN ER DER
UNDER KRANEN
INDTIL MØRKET
GLIDER INDAD OVER BYEN


LARGE AND SMALL
IS ALL THE SAME
AS YOU SIT DOWN TO EAT YOUR  LUCH
ON A QUAY WARMED BY THE SUN

YOUR WRAPPING PAPER
DOESN´T SINK
IN THE LUKE WATER
THERE ARE NO WAVES

THE DAY IS THERE
UNDER THE CRANE
UNTIL THE DARKNESS
CREEPS IN TOWARDS THE TOWN

Side 59/Page 59

Det er så hyggeligt og man vil os det godt
stikker os løbesedler i hånden
og hornorkestret spiller festligt - traterat -
mennesker flyder forbi som bowlerhatte

Over den lille by hæver Fredshøjen sig
vi sætter os ned på bænken og ser
radarskærmen dreje sig på bakken derovre
vi tænker på nissen i bakken, hvor han stirrer

Vi husker sommerhvide sejl og både der var
blå og gled som fugle på det blanke vand
i skumringen blir hornorkestret himmelsk
og forskellen mellem kirke- og skibsklokke
                                                           viskes ud


It is so cosy and they wish us so well
putting leaflets into our hands
and the brass band plays festively
people are floating by as bowler hats

Above the little town there is a Peace Hill
we sit on its bench watching
the radar screen turning on the neighbouring hill
we´re thinking of the goblin in there
- how he must stare

We are reminded of summer-white sails, boats that were
blue, gliding as birds on still water
at dusk the brass band sounds quite heavenly
while the difference between church- and ship-bell is
                                                            wiped out

Side 60/Page 60

Motor går på nerverne
Filer som på strenge
Stjerne stråler hvid
I øje hvis pupil
Ånder åbner sig
Lukkes kameraagtigt
Krybende spiral
Går atter i gang

Motor gets on your nerves
Files as on strings
Star shines white
In eye where pupil
Breathes opens
Closes like a camera
Creeping spiral
Starts anew

Side 61/Page 61

plasticdriver hviler
over stuehuset

man vågner
og er halvt begravet


plastics drifts
cover the house

you get up
and is halfway buried

Side 62/Page 62

blå spejl
fjeldsø
blank og mosgrøn
fjeldryg
dyrestier, tegnsprog
under is
sover verden

fjeldsphinx ansigt
vendt mod morgen
træ


blue mirror
mountain lake
glossy and moss green
mountain ridge
deer paths, sign language
under the ice
the world is asleep

mountain sphinx face
morning
tree

Side 63/Page 63

Hvidt er hvidere
end øjet ser det
for det omdanner lyset
inde i sit mørke

Farven er mere udtryk
end penslen viser
Man må tro maleren
når han forklarer sig

Forlanger man
at et omrids præciseres
fjerner man måske det
der faktisk er uklart


White is whiter
than the eye perceives
as it transforms the light
inside its own darkness

Colour is more expressive
than the brush indicates
You have to believe the painter
when he explains himself

If you demand
a contour to be more precise
you may destroy
what is actually not clear


Side 64/Page 64

Fiskerbåds dunken
Fjorden lyseblå
Gyldent efterår
Snart november


Fishing boat bumping
The fiord pale blue
Golden fall
Soon november

Side 65/Page 65

Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrumpues
Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues:
Des visages rougés par les chancres du coeur
Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langeur;
Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives
Nempecherons jamais les races maldives
De rendre a la jeunesse un hommage profond,
- A la sainte jeunesse, a l´air simple, aux doux front,
A l´oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu´une eau courante,
Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante
Comme l´azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs,
Ses perfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs!
                              (Charles Baudelaire. "J´aime le souvenir")

Vi har, det er sandt nok, fordærvede nationer,
Skønhed der var ukendt for de gamle:
Ansigter ætset af hjertets mange skader
Og, så at sige, en magtesløshedens skønhed.
Men disse påfund af vore dages muser
Vil aldrig forhindre de sygelige folk
I at yde en dybtfølt tribut til ungdommen
- Til den hellige ungdom, med dens enkle træk. dens glatte pande,
Dens friske øjne, klare som kildevand;
Den der færdes overalt uden mindste bekymring,
Som himlens blå, fugle og blomster,
Med dens dufte, dens sange og dens blide varme.


We have, it is true, spoiled nations,
Beauty unknown to the ancients:
Faces etched by the heart´s many damages
And, so to say, a beauty of impotence.
But these whims of the contemporary muses
Will never prevent the sickly peoples
From paying a deepfelt tribute to youth
- To the sacred youth, with its simple features,
Its honest forehead, its lively eyes, clear as spring water;
That wanders everywhere with no worry whatever
Like the blue of heaven, birds and flowers
With its scents, its songs and its gentle warmth!

Side 66/Page 66

Der var så vidt jeg husker ingen palmer, kun en meget bred strand med gråt sand ned til Stillehavet og en overvældende varme. Disen fik sandet og havet til at flyde sammen.
På en eller anden måde mindede det om Matisse. Men der var ungdom, som virkede yngre end andre steder.
En pige med rød-hvid-stribet bluse ved et hvidt kiosklignende skur, omgivet af upersonlige drengetilbedere, som tilbad de skinnende motorcykler lige så meget som de tilbad hende. Ingen muskelmænd, ingen boretårne. Helt præcist: Playa del Rey. Solnedgangen var sikkert lige så strålende her som længere nordpå.
Men tv tiltrak mer opmærksomhed, i hvert fald min på det tidspunkt. For mig var det nyt endnu.
Den stærke ungdom havde taget magten i programmerne fra L. A., med deres flade sko, hestehaler og cowboybukser, især om eftermiddagen.
Suset fra havet og suset fra tv gled sammen med erindringen og anelserne fra de tusind veje, der mødtes her i Englenes by med Madonnaen for enden af The Old Trail. Direkte tv fra City Hall.
Her på skærmen udstillede man nemlig de unge vrag, de 16-årige fortabte med sprøjterne, til skræk og advarsel for os andre.
Tv virkede lige så narkotisk som det gjorde på de medvirkende i præventionens spændetrøje. 
Apparatet var dårligt. Det flimrede hele tiden. Men det gjorde ikke noget.


As far as I remember there were no palms. Just a very broad beach with grey sand right down to the Pacific Ocean, and an overwhelming heat. The haze made the sand and the sea to appear blurred.
Somehow it reminded me of Matisse.
But here was youth, younger than springtime. A girl with red-white striped blouse at a kiosk-like shed, surrounded by impersonal boy admirers who admired their shining motorbikes just as much as they admired her. No muscle men, no oil rigs. To be precise: Playa del Rey.
The sunset was probably as splendid here as further north. But television attracted more attention, at least mine. It was still new to me then.
Tough youth had seized power in the programs with their pumps, ponytails and Levis, especially in the afternoon. Directly from City Hall.
The soughing of the sea and the whiz from the tv merged with memory and the feelings from the thousand roads meeting here in the City of the Angels, with the Madonna of the Crossroads at the end of The Old Trail and Route 66.
Here on the screen you saw the young wrecks, the 16 years old lost sheep with the synringes on exhibit as a warning to us.
Television seemed quite as narcotic as it was to those taking part in the matiné, in the chains of prevention.
The set was bad. It flickered all the time. But that didn´t matter.

Side 67/Page 67 
 

I en anden verden
Spindes tråde til en jordisk aften

Bag det mørkeblå
Går du omkring

En morgen
Glimter solen gennem vævet

Det er en anden sol
End den vi kender

Et lyspunkt
I en ny galakse


In another world
Threads are spun for an earthly evening

Behind the dark blue
You walk around

One morning
The sun glints through the web

It is a sun that´s different
From what we know

A point of light
In a new galaxy

                            (Note: We just left the Gutenberg Galaxy.
                                       Now we are on the World Wide Web)

Side 68/Page 68

Som delfinerne
har blomsterne et sprog
(måske mest for de fattige,
der forstår at påskønne 'Hindustans Lotus')

Blomsternes kommunikation studeres idag på Landbohøjskolerne.
Vincent van Gogh fik altså ret: det var ikke en syg tanke, at blomster kunne tale. Der er flere slags sprog. Blomstersprog er ikke kun en kliché. 

Men  har vi andre,
'vi i de rige lande'
også et sprog
ved siden af det anerkendte?
måske et stille sprog
ved siden af det talte,
måske et højlydt sprog
ved siden af det skrevne,
et sprog af skrig,
et sprog af støj?

Et sprog af trods, af jern af bly
af rust af tøj
af tråde træ
af dyr på dyrestier
af jord af skridt
af fedt af kød af hænder fødder næser øjne
ører hår sved (ansigts sved)
måske er der en mening
i maskinernes brummen
i de syngende eltråde
måske er der tavst bag menneskers tale
en tavs tanke som først gør sig gældende
når talen er væk
som når en pause opstår
og man overgir sig til et evigt nu
og nuets evighed


Like dolphins
flowers may have a language
(maybe mostly for the poor
who cherish what Hans Christian Andersen
called The Lotus of Hindustan:
the 'common' artichoke flower)

The communication of flowers today is studied in agricultural colleges. Vincent van Gogh was therefore right. It was not a sick thought that flowers might be able to speak.

But do we
'in the rich countries'
also have a language
beside the established?
maybe a silent language
beside the spoken
maybe a loud language
beside the written?
a language of screams
a language of noise?
a language of spite, of iron, lead
of rust of clothes
of threads wood
of deer on deer paths
of soil of steps
of fat of flesh
of hands feet noses eyes
ears hair sweat (sweat of the face)
maybe there´s a meaning
in the humming of the machines
in the singing electricity wires
maybe there´s silently behind human speech
a silent thought that only emerges
when speech is gone
as when a pause arises
and you surrender to an eternal moment
the eternit of it

Side 69/Page 69

"Hvis jeg har smag, er det for jorden og stenene." (Arthur Rimbaud)

Sten og sten
Det er det højeste
du når, som sten

at blive kastet
mod
dig selv

Det er det højeste
du når
imellem stjerner

Kastet selv
mod græssets sol
med dig

Med dig
er kastet målet
Stenen

sol og duft
af træets rod
din frugt

"Si j´ai du gout, c´est pour la terre et les pierres." (Arthur Rimbaud)

Stone and stone
that is the highest
you can reach
as stone

To be thrown
against yourself
That is the highest
you can reach
among the stars

The throw itself
against the sun of grass
with you

With you the throw is target
sun and scent
of tree root
is your fruit





Side 70/Page 70

"En sång för dom
som aldrig
fått nån sång
att sjunga"

Men er der da nogen
som aldrig har
fået en sang at
synge?

Nej, det er bare
noget man si´r
 - eller synger
i Vilsevalsen

Vilsevalsen var engang en kendt svensk popsang.
Vilse betyder på svensk forvildet, skør.


"A song for those
who never
had a song
to sing".

But did anyone
never have
a song
to sing?

No, it´s
just something
they say - or sing
in the Vilsewaltz.

Vilsewaltz was once a well known Swedish pop song.
Vilse in Swedish means crazy.

Side 71/Page 71

Hertil og ikke længere
Vejen er blind
Foran er kun skoven
Og vandet og en årstid
Uden badende

Men tilbagetog er muligt
Du kan vandre tilbage
Til stedet du kom fra
Følge dine egne spor
Op ad bakken

Til huset du forlod
Til solopgangen
Og bag den solnedgangen
Med glød i vinduesruder
Og bag den lyden

Lyden af skridt
Af heste og vogne
Knirkende hjul
Og den første lyd
Af vand der bruser


Thus far and no further
The road ends here
Ahead is only the forest
And the water and a season
Without bathers

But retreat is possible
You can wander back
To the place where you came from
Follow your own footprints
Up the hill

To the house you left
To the sunrise
And behind it the sunset
With glow in window panes
And behind it the sound

The sound of steps
Of horses and carriuages
Creaking wheels
And  that first sound
Of water roaring

Side 72/Page 72

Blomsten
har blade
blandt andet

Rødder har
alle planter
også dem uden blade

Mennesker ligner planter en del:
nogle er kønne
andre er mest rødder

Rødder er det
der forener
alle


The flower
has leaves
among other things

roots all plants have
also the ones
with no leaves

Humans
are somewhat like plants:
some are pretty

others mostly roots
Roots is what
unites all people

Side 73/Page 73

DER VAR EN TID - DER ER ALTID EN TID - EN ANDEN TID - HVOR ALTING SELV BLEV TIL. i DENNE GADE, HVOR NU TURISTERNE GÅR, VAR DET, AT SOLEN SAMLEDES, OG EN FILMSTRIMMEL BEGYNDTE AT BRÆNDE. BRUNT, BLANKT, OG ALLIGEVEL LIDT MAT.

LÆNGE FØR FØDSLEN VAR DET, I VIRKELIGHEDEN.

NU DUKKER DE GAMLE BRUNTONEDE BILLEDER OP IGEN.
HVOR VAR VI ALLEREDE GAMLE, DA VI KOM TIL VERDEN!
OGSÅ DE BROSTEN, VI SAD PÅ, MENS SOLEN BRÆNDTE PÅ CELLULOIDEN IGENNEM...

NU VAR DET DER IGEN, GLIMTET I DEN STORE SKUESPILLERS MONOKEL. LE MONOCLE DE MON ONCLE.

Maj 1974

THERE WAS A TIME - THERE IS ALWAYS A TIME, ANOTHER TIME - WHEN EVERYTHING EMERGED AS ITSELF. IN THIS STREET WHERE THE TOURISTS WALK NOW IT WAS THE MOMENT WHEN THE SUN CONVERGED AND A PIECE OF FILM BEGAN TO BURN. BROWN, GLOSSY, AND YET A LITTLE DULL.

A LONG TIME BEFORE BIRTH IT ACTUALLY WAS.

NOW THE OLD BROWN-TINTED PHOTOS REAPPEAR.
HOW  OLD WE ALREADY WERE WHEN WE ARRIVED IN THIS WORLD.ALSO THE PAVEMENT WE SAT ON WHILE THE SUN BURNT THROUGH THE CELLULOID.

THERE IT WAS AGAIN, THE FLASH IN THE GREAT ACTOR´S
MONOCLE. LE MONOCLE DE MON ONCLE.

May 1974

Side74/Page 74

Motto:
"A great while ago the world began,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain..."
(Clown´s Song, Shakespeare: Twelfth Night, Or, What You Will)













75

                  Arktisk, jordomkredsende
       Arctic, circumnavigating









76  

              

         det gamle der trods alt er vort
      the old which after all is ours








77 

                        
                        


                         og bølgernes sange
          himle af blæst og væde
          alt det der snart skal komme

          and the songs of the waves
          skies of wind and moisture
          all which is about to come








78

                er de kun
      are they only











79   

           Vi nærer ingen større tiltro
     We do not place much trust









80 

                                               ikke helt som plastic
                   not quite like plastic










81 

                                                         vi bruger drømme
                       we use dreams
















82

         radiofoniske stemmer
    radiophonic voices















83 

                efterlignelsesmanier
        imitation crazes













84

                                                           manieret
                        mannered















85

                    Dagens himmel får en påtegning
        Today´s sky gets a notification

















86  

   




          blir mer og mer sjuskede
    get more and more untidy













86

          det er sært med den bonde
    it´s odd, notice that peasant




















87

      nu hænger der rødt blåt gult vasketøj
   now there´s red blue yellow laundry






88

        



                               nede mellem husene
            down between the houses
















89

                      det er her man må spørge
         it´s here you have to ask

















90 

                    og invitere en masse mennesker
        and invite a lot of people















91

 


           som om kun en ukendt
    as if only an unknown



















92 

                                                       det ny sprog
                      the new language

























93

                                                                 ingen taler
                          no one speaks





94

     selv hånden kan savne ord
  even the hand may miss words














95

Digtet oven over det sidste telegram-fragment nederst på denne side er sammensat - komponeret - af nogle af de 'tilfældige' strimler, som er rystet før brugen som i en cocktail shaker eller en tombola.

Basie´s Blues
STORT MØRKT STJERNESKÆR
Farver i smalle metalliske bånd

Dagens himmel får en påtegning
med en hvid jetspids
et kryds opstår
og blir stående en time
snart græsser der får
deroppe over husene
får der trænger til at klippes
blir mer og mer sjuskede
det er sært med den bonde
at han har så travlt
det ku se ud til at han har glemt dem
de driver helt væk fra hinanden

Jetpiloten er helt borte, han osse
nu hænger der blåt, rødt, gult vasketøj
nede mellem husene

Basie´s Blues
var i pilotens tanke
nu er hans dagdigt
visket ud

The poem printed above the last telegram fragment at the bottom of this page has been created - composed - from some of the casual pieces of tape which have been shaken as in a cocktail shaker or a tombola before use.

Basie´s Blues
BIG DARK STARSHINE
colours in narrow metallic bands

The heaven of the day
gets a notation mark with a white jet point
a cross emerges
and stays there for an hour
soon sheep are grazing
up there above the houses
sheep that need a haircut
getting more and more sloppy
strange how that peasant is so busy
that it seems he forgot them
they stray away from each other

The jet pilot has gone completely, he too,
now blue, red, yellow laundry is drying
down between the houses

Obviously Basie´s Blues
was in the pilot´s thought
by now his poem of the day
has been wiped out









ligger skibene stivnet
are the ships icebound





96

Titlen er inspireret af Saint-John Perse: Vinde.

The title is inspired by Saint-John Perse: Winds.


"Havet ruller, stille og stort,
et Væsen af Liv, hvis Floders Drag
som sendt fra en eneste Hjerteport
har Vilje gemt i hvert eneste Slag."
Sophus Claussen (1865-1931)


"Havet ved alle porte,
glitrende i rødt
og kronet af aftenens guld.
Og se, en stor vind
er nedsteget i aftenen
for at møde aftenen fra havet;
alt folket udvandrer fra arenaen,
og alt jordens gule støv hvirvles op."
S:t-John Perse (1887-1975)


"Den skumrende slette,
hvor uvidende hære
støder sammen ved aftenstid."
Upton Sinclair: Dragens Tænder (1942)


"The Sea rolls, quiet and big,
a Creature of Life, and the Draught
of its Rivers seems sent
from a single Heartgate
with Will hidden in each of its gentle Beats."
Sophus Claussen, Danish poet (1865-1931)

"The sea at all gates, sparkling
in red and crowned
by the evening´s gold.
And behold, a great wind
has descended into the evening
to meet the evening from the sea;
all the people walk out from the arena,
and all of earth´s yellow dust is raised."
S.t-John Perse (1887-1975)

The gloaming plain
where ignorant armies
collide in evening twilight."
Upton Sinclair:  Dragon´s Teeth (1942)


Hvor er vi nu,
i disse aftentimer,
der minder om et fald
ind i bevidstløshed?

Er vi ved begyndelsen
til vækst, i nærheden
af kilderne,
der rinder i Historien?

Where are we now,
in these evening hours,
reminding is of falling
into unconsciousness?

Are we at the start of growth, close
to the sources
running through History?


Denne kortenes tid,
med kloden bredt ud
for Megalopolis´ dagligstue-seere.
Alting gjort plant og glat
som i turistens ferie-drøm,
overordentlig let
og forhåbentlig snart igen
overstået med succes,
eufori som før de store krige:
"Vi skal bare lige..."

This time of mapping
with the globe spread out
to Megalopolis´ sitting room viewers.
Everything levelled and smoothed
as in the tourist´s holiday dream,
extremely easy,
and hopefully soon again
over and done with,
euforia as before the great wars:"We just have to..."


Her står vi så ved en stor fyraften,
ved stranden i Munch´sk ensomhed,
sammen, og dog hver for sig
og stirrer 
ud mod en lydløs hvid damper
ovre ved morgenrødens kyst.

Stenene lytter, bløde som et øre,
opmærksomt
til dens uhørbare duren.
Der er så vældig langt derover
som til Evigheden,
og den sejler, åh, så langsomt.

(Edvard Munch, norsk expressionistisk maler 1863-1944)

Here we stand then
at a great closing time
on the beach
in Munch-like loneliness,
together, and yet
staring each separately
at a noiseless white cargo
out there on dawn´s coast.

The stones listen, soft as ears,
attentively to its non-audible drone.
It´s so terribly far away
as to Eternity,
and it sails, oh so slowly.

(Edvand Munch was an expressionist norwegian painter 1863-1944)


Imens er der et møde
i det fjerne Megalopolis,
ved lange mahogniborde
uden et støvfnug.

Intet bliver røbet.
Alt er venten.
på det forfærdelige Intet,
der spejler sig i bordpladen.

Meanwhile there´s a meeting
in distant Megalopolis,
at long mahogany tables
without a speck of dust.

Northing is revealed.
Everything is waiting
for the dreadful Nothing
reflected in the table top.


Hvem er det,
der husker hvad,
og hvad er det,
som absolut må glemmes,
for at ikke kæberne
skal begynde at hakke
mekanisk frysende
med beskyldninger?

Who is it
who remembers what,
and what is it
that must absolutely  be forfotten
if not the jaws
should begin to peck
with accusations?


"Den ene lever endnu;
den anden er forsvunden."
Nu er det den Anden,
der kræver sit liv tilbage.
For der en rest af Uendelighed
i den levende,
som frister Døden.
Den kommer igen
for at få sin del.
Dér er den,skyggen,
i spejlet, og bag det.
I uret på væggen, og i
knokkelgrenen bag ruden.
Dér danser den
sin Danse Macabre, igen, igen.

"One is still alive;
the other one is gone."
Now it´s the Other One
demanding to get back his life.
Because there is a remnant
of Infinity
in the living which tempts Death.
It returns
to have its share.
There it is,  the shadow
in the mirror, and behind it.
In the clock on the wall, and
in the bony twig behind the window.
There it dances
its Danse Macabre, again, again.


Og sådan bliver den ved
som en tro facsimile,
med sine laksko,
manchetknapper, ure,
cigaretetuier, lightere.

Den knipser til støvgran,
polerer sine negle blanke,
ser hånlig ud,
spankulerer som en påfugl,
og tier, frem for alt  tier.

And thus it continues
as a true facsimile
with its patant-leather shoes,
cufflinks, watches, cigarette cases, lighters.

It flicks off dust specks,
polishes its nails,
looks scornful,
struts like a peacock,
and keeps silent, above all silent.


Den er i habit, måske,
og måske er den ikke andet
end et skræddernes påfund,
voksfigur, en hjælp
til omsætningen af skjorter:
dens væremåde
er besynderlig ens,
når den vælter verden.

It may be in a suit,
and maybe it is nothing besides
a tailor´s whim,
a wax figure, a help
in the circulation of shirts:
its ways
are peculiarly alike
when it upsets the world.


Når børsgadens stenhjerte banker
hårdt bag vesten på dens herrer,
både trist og glad
- en bleg og nøjsom glæde -
mens kuben derinde summer højt
af tal og bud,
mens dens relikvie-honninghjerte
udlægges i en fed avis
som dagens kurstab, valutakurser,
og dens bier stivner i guld i bure,
kun fingereret af lys og skygge,
uendelig langt fra de mørke mænd,
der gravede guldglansen op af jorden.
"Snart er vi alle døde."
Den lever af krak, dens solskin er gys.

When the stone heart
og the street of the Stock Exchange
knocks hard behind the waistcoats
of its gentlemen, both sad and glad
- a pale and frugal joy -
while the beehive in there
loudly whirs from numbers, bids.
As its relic honey heart
is transformed into a fat newspaper
as the day´s fluctuations, currencies,
and its bees stagnate as gold in cages
only fingered by light and shadow
infinitely far from the dark men
who dug it out of the earth.
"Soon we will all be dead."
It thrives on failure, its sunlight thrills.


Og nu, mens det sker,
det store stille langt derude,
føler gaden sig lidt hellig.
Store flag er med i det der sker,
og hænger slapt i døsen;
deres dybhavstilstand,
hvor de ånder sammen,
er en tankes vågnen.

And now as it happens,
the great silence
out there in the distance,
the street in front of the Stock Exchange
feels a little holy.
Big flags take part
in what is going on,
and they hang limply in the lethargy;
their deep-sea state of mind,
in which they breed together,
silently, is the awakening
of an idea.


Her udenfor står vi,
på Tidens gadebund,
hvor Skæbnen svajer hid og did
i fællessjæl:
der gydes.

Og der ædes,
og lyset grønnes af de små,
som i en dam,
der varmes lidt af solen.

Out here we stand
on the bottom of Time,
where Destiny is swaying
back and forth
as a communal soul: it´s time for
spawning.

And for eating;
light gets greener from the small
as in a pond,
heated a little by the sun.


Men nok kan verden ses som tal
dog kun fra den ene ende.

Fra den anden ende
er verden vand.

Begyndelsen er dér
hvor vandet er.

Den ligger og ruller som en dråbe
på det simple grønne blad.

The world is often shown as numbers
but only from one end.

From the other end
the world consists of water.

The beginning is
where the water is.

It lies rolling as a drop
on the simple green leaf.


Og på et øde loft
kan travle hvepse inspireres
til et bygværk
der overgår de fleste
selv om det er gråt som pap
og ingen penge værd

Det bærer på et budskab
når mestrene er borte:
Pas nu på!
Lidt giftigt er det måske
lidt skræk er der tilbage
lidt spøgeri, lidt ånd.

Dér hænger deres verden
på loftet mellem spindelvæv
og stiller dig sit spørgsmål:
"Er det mon ikke for at blive huset
menneskene gemmer gifte?"

And on a deserted loft
the busy waps may be inspired
to a building that surpasses most
although it´s grey as cardboard
and not worth a dime.

It carries a message
after the disappearance
of the master builders:
Please beware!
A little poisonous it still may be
a little fear is left
a little haunting, spirit of the place.

There hangs its world
up in the loft between the cobwebs
asking its question:
"Isn´t it to be remembered
that humans hide some poisons?


Svaler jager
lavt og højt med åbent gab
i spændstig flugt
og spændt dekoration:
de kvidrer henrykt
efter egne noder.

Swallows hunt low and high
with mouths wide open
in supple flight
and as excited decoration:
they chirp delightedly
after their own score.


Blomsterblade på et bord
vugger som lette både
røde og gule af den sol
der skabte dem
og af den jord
de stræber mod nu
det visnes hvilen
bliver fylde
for dit sind
de vugger dig
i blomsterdrøm.

Petals on a table
rock like paper boats
red and yellow from the sun
that once created them
and from the soil
they aim at now.
Withered at rest
they are fulfilling
wishes of your soul
they rock you
into their flower dream.


Hvad er bedre i sin form
end strandens sten?
Hvor findes større drama
end et strandet marsvin?

Gråt som bøgetræets bark
de glatte bøgesøjler
der 'tilfældigt' stod
hvor denne døde svømmer lå.

What is better in its form
than stones found on the beach?
Where do you find a greater drama
than a stranded porpoise?

Grey like the bark of beeches
those smooth beech pillars
that 'accidentally' stood
where this dead swimmer lay.


En vinter lå der seks døde svaner
på den samme strand,
nu øde, isgrøn, blå.
Da foråret kom
var de forsvundet i havets bølgerus.
Det er som muslingskaller,
de brudstykker,
mågen efterlader i sit værksted
omkring en amboltsten
imelem sandskorn.

Kysten er lang,
uendelig,
og den går i ring,
som du selv når du følger den,
som horisonten
de forsvandt bag,
de døde og de levende
på jordens våde bold.

Og pludselig kan det ske,
at et overjordisk neonbånd
spændes omkring Andegården.

One winter six dead swans
lay on that beach,
deserted now, ice green and blue.
When spring arrived
they all were gone
in the ecstacy of waves.
Everything is constantly changed,
like shells, the fragments
of the sea gull´s meals
left in the workshop at the anvil ston
among the grains of sand.
The coast i long, it circles
like yourself
as you follow it,
like the horizon,
where they disappeared,
the dead and the living
on Earth´s wet ball.

And suddenly a supernatural
neon band may be strectched
around the Duck Pond.


(Pause)


Der er nu noget råt
ved sådan et musvågepar,
når det ligesom løsgør sig fra skoven
og blødt svæver ud over det grønne.

Deres land - det er tydeligt nok.
Og som de hænger dér, stirrende ned
er der noget gråt
og uheldssvangert over landet.

There´s something quite raw
about a pair of buzzards
as they seem to loosen themselves from the forest
and softly float over the green.

Their land - that´s for sure.
And as they hover, gazing down,
there is something grey
and sinister about the land.



                                    Danmarks                 gamle vold-
                                 steder. fæst               ninger, klostre
                               domkirker, købsta    dkirker og landsby-
                              kirker er ikke blot       noget i landskabet
                            De er landskabet selv fra begyndelsen. Smukt
                              og et bevis på god byggeskik i gammel tid.
                               Landskaber er menneskeværk.Med ikke
                                   så lidt hælp fra Gud,   men dog kun
                                     hjælp. Hvem vil ikke indrømme,
                                       at det er forbløffende ofte, at
                                          det lykkedes for de gamle?
                                             Gamle huse vidner tav
                                                 st om et evigt liv.
                                                   Som ordene
                                                     komposi
                                                       tionen
                                                        nu

                                       "Mangen svunden vårdag
                                                 står blå
                                           i hjertets grå ruin"
                                             (Sophus Claussen)


                                 Denmark´s o         ld ramparts
                              fortresses and         its monasteries,
                            cathedrals, town     churches & village
                          churches aren´t just part of the landscape.
                         They are the landscape itself from the start.
                         Beauty and proof of good building customs
                            in ancient times. With a great deal of help
                             from God, but after all just help. Who
                               won´t admit that often the old did 
                                  succeed in what they aspired?
                                     Old houses silently tell of
                                              an eternal life.
                                              Like words 
                                               composed 
                                                  now

                                    "Many a faded spring day
                                              stands blue
                                   in the grey ruin of the heart "
                                        (Sophus Claussen)
                                        
Side 97/Page 97 

"Engang var et grys klarhed dig."
         Alexander Blok 1880-1921)


"Once a dawn´s clarity was you."
       A.B., Russian poet 1880-1921  

Ensomme blomster

Klynger af påskeliljer i det høje græs
omkring det lille forsømte bindingsværkshus
en kilde til undren i dette forår
hvor alting tøver

Hvordan kan det være de har forsamlet sig
lige her og står som om de snakker
med vinden der puster lidt til dem
så deres gul klokkehoveder gynger?

Så står der pludselig en stige
op ad stråtaget og gule totter lyser
et par steder på det grå tag
der er nok nogen der er glad for det hus - endnu

(Robert Schumann: Einsame Blumen,
Waldszenen Opus 82)

Lonely Flowers

Bunches of daffodils in the tall grass
around the small neglected half-timbered house
a source of wondering this spring
as everything lingers

What is the reason why they get together
especially in this place, standing
as if they chatter with the wind
that blows a little, making their yellow bell heads swing?

Then suddenly  there is a ladder
leaning against the thatched roof
and yellow patches light upa couple of places on the grey roof
somebody must be fond of that house - yet

(Lonely Flowers is the title of a piece in the German
composer Robert Schumann`s  Waldszenen Opus 82)

Side 98/Page 98   a

Billedet

Ikaros falder
fra en virkelighed
til en anden

Sådan falder virkeligheden
sammen med drømmen
den overmodige

Og billedet bliver stående
i evigt rum
en skål af lys, et offerbål

Over faldende virkeligheder
mod klodens lille liv
der runder sig i drøm

(Efter Ikaros, der kom for nær ved solen og brændte sine vinger,
findes endnu øen Ikaria - i det Ikariske Hav)

Image

Icaros falls
from one reality
into another

Thus reality falls
into dream
too rash

And the image stands
in eternal space
a bowl of light, a sacrificial pyre

Over falling realities
towards the globe´s small life
rounding in dream

(After Icaros who got to near the sun and burnt his wings,
the island of Icaria remains - in the Icarian Sea)

Side 98/Page 98   b

Swing Nocturne

Kansas City in Missouri
dér var det swing begyndte
Count Basie sidder ved sit flygel
vender sig ud mod os

Nu aner vi en rumby
i de få akkorder
midt i et Big Band´s blæserklang
et miniature-maleri

Blues i natcafeen
og det tomme ballroom
stille mens det lysner
i en by der er en tilstand

Som morgenmælken
på alle dørtrin dengang
som duerne i parken og på pladser
og i sten - la lune blanche

(La lune blanche er en tilfældig indskydelse fra
radioen i det øjeblik digtet blev skrevet - svarende til
Nocturne i titlen)

Swing Nocturne

Kansas City in Missouri
that´s where swing began
Count Basie sitting at his grand piano
turning halfway towards us

Now we imagine a spatial city
in the few chords
between a Big Band´´s brass band sound
a miniature painting

Blues in the night café
and the empty ballroom
silent streets as dawn arrives
in a city that´s a state of mind

Like the morning milk
on every doorstep then
like pigeons in the park and public places
and in stone - la lune blanche

(La lune blanche - French for the white moon -
is a casual inspiration from the radio in the moment
the poem was written - corresponding to Nocturne
in the title)

Side 98/Page 98   c

Elvira Madigan

En god radio
er som Mozart
det er ikke lyde
det er bærebølger

Midt om sommeren
en blodbøg
minder om
Elvira Madigan

Cirkusprinsessen Elvira Madigan og Grev Sixten Sparres tragiske selvmord har ikke forhindret en valfart af brudepar til Tåsinge, ikke mindst efter den svenske film om dem med Mozarts musik)


Elvira Madigan

A good radio
is like Mozart
not sounds
but sound waves

In the midst of summer:
a copper beach
reminding of
Elvira Madigan

(The suicide of the circus princess Elvira Madigan and Count Sixten Sparre has not prevented a kind of pilgrimage by newlyweds to the island o Taasinge where they are buried, especialy after the Swedish movie about the romantic tragic couple)

Side 98/Page 98   d

Pierrot Lunaire

Stjerner er distante
det at de er små
får natten til at stråle
mættet med mystik

Nu siger de at Pierrot
kun er månesyg
men hvad var digt
hvis alt var ligetil?

Pierrot Lunaire

Stars are distant
the fact that they are small
makes the night
satiated with mystique

Now they say that Pierrot
just is moonstruck
but what would a poem be
if everything was plain?

Side 98/Page 98   e

Ordenes fængsel

Vi står i gæld
til ordene

De skylder ingenting
men de har brug for os

Tavst venter de
på talen

Tavst skriver vi
får talen til at gå i hi

Og tiden går
mens ord består

The Prison Of Words

We are indebted
to words

They owe us nothing
but they need us

Silently they wait
for speech

Silently we write
make speech go underground

Time passes
words endure

Side 98/Page 98   f

Torso

Den gamle guitar
er nu kun et vrag

Det er som en torso
i en øde park

Man mærker
evighedens vibrationer

Begriber lidt af
gentagelsens logik

Torso

The old guitar
is now a wreck

It´s like a torso
in a neglected park

You sense the vibrations
of Eternity

Conceive a little
of reiteration´s logic

Side 98/Page 98   g

Katte & Musik

Kattens drømme
er i violinens lyd

Og harpiks der blev rav
elektrisk

Måne, perlemor og
fiskeskæl

Catgut
gypsy

Løve
klo

Cats & Music

The cat´s dreams
are in the violin´s sound

And resin turned to amber
electric

Moon, mother-of-pearl and
fish scales

Catgut
gypsy

Lion
claw

Side 98/Page 98   h 

Efterår

Et rødt blad
på den grønne plæne: efterår

En klarinet
på et nodeblad: evighed

Fall

A red leaf
on the green lawn: fall

A clarinet
on a music sheet: eternity

Side 98/Page 98   i 

Lydskrift

Når kuglepennen svæver over papiret
gisper det efter meningen

Punktet strækker sig til linie
lyden i det blir til ord

Skriftens sfæriske musik
er svag og fin

Sound Notation

As the ball pen hovers above the paper
it gasps for meaning

The point stretches to a line
the sound in it turns to words

The spherical music in this script
is faint and fine

Side 98/Page 98   j 

Kend dig selv

Menneskeflokke på flugt
til byen

På landet er der ro
eller det modsatte

At finde sig selv
er svært i neonlyset

Der er et mål
og det er altid fjernt

Know Thyself

Crowds fleeing
to the city



In the country peace
or just the opposite

To find yourself
is hard in neon light

There is a goal
and always far away

Side 98/Page 98   k

Derude

Derude
blæser det

Suser og bruser

Som ville det komme
herind

Det bliver derude
når aldrig ind

Suser og bruser

Out There

Out there
the wind blows

Soughing and roaring

As if it wanted
to get in here

It stays out there
never gets in

Soughing and roaring

Side 98/Page 98   l 

Rejselysten

Flyet ses fra alle sider
mens det drejer rundt på startbanen
en stor og rolig styrke
bestemt til noget mere

Formen bærer på en skjult melankoli
for den skal ses som evig ny
men vi er ikke uforgængelige
og noget i den ved det: her og nu

Mod vinden går det
op i motorlarm
op over skyerne
på vej mod fjerne mål

The Travel Urge

The plane is seen from all sides
as it turns on the fairway
a big and calm strength
destined to higher goals

The shape contains a hidden melancholy
because it´s meant to be eternally new
but we are not indestructible
and something in it knows it: here and now

Up against the wind
up in engines´roar
up above the clouds
on its way to distant goals

Side 98/Page 98   m

UDGIVET NYTÅR 1987/88
VED FORFATTERENS 50 ÅRS DAG
Det siges ofte, at digte er svære
at oversætte.
Men hvis digteren selv gør et forsøg,
er der da gjort en begyndelse.


           Lyt til dit indre landskab,
           og du færdes i det fjerne.
PUBLISHED AT NEW YEAR 1987/88
AT THE 50TH BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR
It is often said that poems
are difficult to translate,
but if the poet himself makes an attempt,
it is at least a beginning.


          Listen to your inner landscape,
          and you are already opening
          a new horizon.

Side 99/Page 99

De følgende digte ses under eet som een komposition og er derfor alle placeret på side 99.
The poems in this collection should be seen as one composition and are therefore placed
on the same page 99. 

KOMPOSITION

Udviklingens hånd er stor og sikker;
når den tøver, er det meningen,
som når ord føjes til ord,
og bevægelsen er mellem dem.

Det der kaldes kaos, er en venten;
det forgangnine repeteres,
æltes ind i formen af det ny.
Bevægelse består af fuldendtheder.


COMPOSITION

Great and certain is the hand of development;
when it hesitates, it is intentional,
like the process of word joining word,
and the movement is between them.

What is usually called chaos is awaiting;
past events are constantly repeated,
moulded to be cast as new.
Movement is: perfections composite.


DET SAMME LYS DET SAMME STED

Blåt
bag skyer,
mågers spidse, bratte flugt i blæst.

Sne
i hvirvler
lægger sig på fårets uld.

Lys
tindrer som en krone på det sorte hav;
du ser de tusind rejsers spor.


THE SAME LIGHT THE SAME PLACE

Blue
above the clouds,
sea gulls in the gust abruptly fly.

Snow
swirling
down onto sheeps´ wool.

Light
glittering like a crown on black sea.
Behold the traces of innumerable journeys.


KOSMISK ØJEBLIK

Emil Gilels spiller
Tjaikovskys klaverkoncert,
store hamre i stort rum, blåt & guld.

Sydpå over cementbroen med de to kugler
og den krumme markvej
står solen helt hvid
over det blågrå skylag.

Birkene suser og bruser
i novemberblæsten,
det regner ganske lidt,
små nåle i lyset.

Ude over havet i øst
løftes skyerne op
og bliver til små hvide totter øverst.

Mod nord en stor regnbue
tværs over Storebælt.

Et skarpt blik fra den hvide sol,
små hvide bølgekamme,
kattekløer, længst ude i det blå.


COSMIC MOMENT

Emil Gilels playing
Tjaikovsky´s piano concerto,
big hammers in big space, blue & gold.

To the South across the cement bridge
with its two balls and the hollow road,
the sun is quite white,
shining on blue-grey clouds.

Birches rustling in november winds,
it´s raining faintly,
small needles in the limpid light.

Far out above the eastern sea
the clouds are lifted up,
blown into cotton fluffs.

To the North a huge rainbow
across the Great Belt.

A stern glance from the wihite sun,
small breakers, also white,
cat´s claws far out in the blue.


QUO VADIS?

Sko glemmer aldrig
gadernes sten, den plane flade,
og de vil samme vej,
som den vi gik engang:
ned på gaden, i byen,
til torvs, af sted,
blive større og se,
alle de steder der er.

Men i forstad og landsby
går der høns og ænder, duer,
hunde og katte og får og gæs
og er til som de husker de var;
deres veje er andre end vore,
de bor i et helt univers:
på græsplænen løber
en lille sort pony omkring.


QUO VADIS?

Shoes don´t forget
street stone, even planes,
and they tend to go
where we once walked;
down to the street, into town,
to the market, away,
growing, watching, seeing,
all the places in the world.

But in the suburbs and villages
there are hens and ducks, pidgeons,
dogs and cats, sheep and geese,
living as they remember they did;
their ways are different from ours,
they live in a complete universe:
on the green lawn
a little black pony runs around.


SKYSCRAPER ZIGGURAT

Fra ale verdenshjørner
kommer de flygtende
her til Ingenmandsland,
fragmenteringens territorium.
Vi har intet at give dem;
men de bliver og deler vore kår.

Brokker og dialekter
flyver som aviser i rendestenen.
Identiteterne får flossede kanter
som iturevne fotos.
Gummisålerne mindes os om
dengang de gik på Månen.

Ikke så underligt at vagabonder
nu bliver stjerner i blitzlyset,
og Den tredje Mand et kuriøst,
næsten antikt, minde
bag betonslummens grå mur,
som massedrømmene projiceres på.

Ud over forstæderne
gik strømmen af biler
som fisk gennem havene
og de utallige små akvarier,
ud til baghaverne og de bugtende sideveje.

Ting står på borde og i montrer
som fossiler, der i et stilleben råber
'Husk mig'. Og vist husker vi dem, kun alt for godt,
og så hurtigt tiden løber
og så gamle vi er.

Med en enorm forbavselse
over århundredets drive
med sine sonder på vej til solen
vender vi os om
og ser os selv forkortet
i universets perspektiv.

Alt er lige modsat
og alligevel ikke helt uventet,
for hvad ventede vi mon
andet end denne formindskning af os selv,
i denne overgang.

Man kan jo ikke sige om os,
at vi troede for meget om os selv.
Tvært imod, virkeligheden
har overrasket os
med sine dyre gaver.

Vi er de overflødige
i en verden af knaphed:
derfor kommer de her
og føler sig udvalgt til det,
og de ser sig selv i os,
de har været her altid!

Fjernsynet er en del af os,
og vi er i det;
snart behøver vi ikke at se
ind i ilden, som i begyndelsen;
vi ved i forvejen,
hvad vi vil se.

Vi har forbrændt det,
vi har spist det,
vi har udmalet det,
vi har hørt det:
alle landskaber
blev det samme.

Vore ambassadører
går omkring derude,
vel vidende at vi ved det, og de smiler lidt
ad sig selv: det er ret langt ude
her ved Nilens tredje katarakt!

Efter dem stolprer
de små robotter,
vore kære små kæmper,
der kan alt,
når bare man husker at sige,
hvad ønsket er.

Det er næsten som om de græder
når nogen trykker forkert
på deres maver,
som en dukke der skriger,
men uden sjov,
for det var jo alvor.

"Nu er vi her
vil I ikke være med
i drypstenshulens nissefest?
Det er jo jeres gaver,
vi har med tilbage,
kan I ikke li´ os mer?

Det er jul i dag,
hver dag,
og vi er ikke kolde mer;
det går det går,
musikken spiller -
og der er hjul i maden!"


Ziggurat: Sumererne havde ny skrift,
vogne og post for over 5000 år siden.
De gik under.
Men så begyndte Gudea
med plan og målestok
at se en udvej for udlicitering
af et nyt Babylon.

POSTEN SKAL UD!


SKYSCRAPER ZIGGURAT

From all the corners of the world
they come, fleeing here
to No Man´s Land,
the territory of fragmentations.
We have nothing to offer them,
but they stay, and share with us.

Bits and dialects
lie like papers in the gutter;
identities get ragged edges
like torn photos.
The rubber soles remind us of the time
they walked on the Moon.

No wonder that vagabonds
now become stars in the limelight,
and The Third Man a curious,
almost antique, memory
behind the grey wall
of the concrete slum
on which mass dreams are cast.

Beyond the suburbs
the streams of cars glided
like fish through the seas,
 and the numerous small acquarias,
out to the bamboo gardens
and the winding byways.

Things stand on tables and in showcases
like fossils which in a stil life
silently cry 'Remember me!'.
Still we reemember them, all too well,
so fast time runs,
and so old we are.

With an enormous surprise
at the drive of the century,
with probes on their way to the sun,
we turn around,
and see ourselves foreshortened
in the perspective of the universe.

Everything is quite the opposite,
and nevertheless not quite unexpected.
For what did we expect
other than the diminishing
of ourselves
in this transition?

One cannot say about us
that we thought too much of ourselves
and our opportunities;
on the contrary,reality
has surprised us
with its expensive gifts.

We are the superfluous
in a world of need;
that is why they come here
and feel selected,
and why they see themselves in us:
they have always been here!

Television is a part of us,
and we are in it;
soon we don´t need to look
into the fire as in the beginning;
we know in advance
what we will see.

We have burnt it,
we have eaten it,
we have pictured it,
we have heard it;
all landscapes became the same.

Our ambassadors
walk around out there
knowing what we know,
and they smile a little, thinking
it´s rather far out
here at the third cataract of the Nile!

After them toddle
the small robots,
our dear little giants
which can do anything
if you just remember saying
what the wish is.

It is almost as if they cry
when somebody presses in a wrong way
on their stomach
like a doll screaming
but without fun
because it´s serious.

"Now we are here.
Won´t you join us
at the goblin feast
in our stalactite cavern?
It´s your own gifts
we are bringing back.
Why, don´t you like us any more?

It is Christmas today,
every day,
and we are no longer cold;
it works, it works,
the music´s playing,
and there are wheels in our food!"


Ziggurat: Sumerians had new script,
wheels, wagons and mail more than 5000 years ago.
They perished.
But then Gudea began with plan and measure
to see a way of liciting
a new Babylon.

THE MAIL MUST OUT!


TO DIGTERE

"Drengeårenes somre gik;
Ynglingeaarene kom, og paany gik Rejsen
til Storebælts bredder.
Paa Dyrehavegaards Altan sad Sophus Claussen
og jeg i Sommeraftenerne og røg Tobak
og snakkede Poesi, og Halvmaanen kom op
over Skoven og saa ud som - fandt vi i
vor Billedjagt - "som det krumme Horn
paa en Sommerfugls Bagkrop," og der fulgte Maanenætter og Solskinsdage,
hvis Trolddom sent brast..."

Således skrev digteren Johannes Jørgensen
i Nationaltidende 1911 efter et besøg i Nyborg,
arrangeret af Turistforeningen.
Refereret i Nyborg Avis´ Gamle Aargange 1942.
Claussens far var bl. a. ejer af Nyborg Dagblad.


TWO POETS

"The summers of our boyhood passed;
the teenage years arrived, and once again
the journey went to the shores of the Great Belt.
On the balcony of the Deer Park Estate
Sophus Claussen and I sat in the summer evenings,
smoking and discussing poetry, and the half moon
rose above the forest and looked - in our chase
for images -"like the bent horn of the butterfly´s tail", and there were moon nights and summer days,
under a spell that was late broken..."

The poet Johannes Jørgensen in the National Times 1911 after a visit to Nyborg, arranged by the Tourist Council. Quoted in 'Old Editions of Nyborg Avis' 1942.
Claussen´s father owned, among other newspapers, the Nyborg Daily News.


NYBORGS BROGEDE GOBELIN

Spillemandens søn
fra Sortelung ved Nørre Lyndelse i Årslev,
engang under Nyborg Len,
han blev i sandhed noget ved musikken.

Og nordisk ungdom spillede hans Chaconne
i riddersalen på Nyborg Slot,
hvor Chr. II har fået vist sin gode smag:
rustningen med den hollandske Vlies 
indgraveret på brystet, et vældigt smykke.
Var han måske også angst
for armbrøster og morgenstjerner?

Svenskerne spiller Nielsen så godt,
som var han deres landsmand.

Musikken er immateriel,
men den viser vej
til den have, Fyn er,
til en gammel ørns dysterhed,
til en barndom i åbenhed,
til en abe på taget af et slot.

Forsøgte aben mon at redde barnet
fra historiens tidevand?


NYBORG TAPESTRY

The fiddler´s son
from Sortelung at Nørre Lyndelse
by Aarslev, once in Nyborg County.
He certainly had a say in the music world.

And young Scandinavians played his Chaconne
at Nyborg Castle, in the Banquet Hall
where King Christian II had his armour
exhibited with the Golden Vlies engraved
on its chest, a weighty piece of art!
Was he also in anguish
of crossbows and maces?

Swedes play Nielsen so well
as were he their countryman.

Music is immaterial,
but it shows the way:
to the garden of Funen,
to an old eagle´s gloom,
to a childhood in openness,
to a little monkey high on a roof.

Did the monkey take the royal child
up on the roof to try to save it
from the tide of history?


LUNDEBORG

Du behøver ikke være nedtrykt
for at ta´ til Lundeborg.
For mig er det erindringen om,
at drengene sprang på hovedet i vandet
fra færgemolen, for perler og guld,
som de sikkert digtede sig til
efter Mads Lange til Bali.
Nu er der ingen færger,
men kun de sorte kniplinger
af dens portal til havet: surreelt.
Men det skal du ikke tænke på;
det er kun nostalgi som Nyborg Syd
og den lille færge, der gav egnen liv.
Nu er det sejlskibstid igen!


LUNDEBORG HARBOUR

You need not be depressed
to go to Lundeborg.
To me it is a memory
of boys jumping headlong
into the deep water from the ferry pier
like fisher boys did in far away places
like Bali, for pearls and gold.
Now there are no ferries,
just a black lace portal to the sea: surreal.
You don´t have to think of that now;
it´s only nostalgia
for the old railroad South,
and the small ferry bringing life to the area.
Now it´s again time for sails!


KAJBERG

Da vi kom der som børn
var der altid lyst;
gennem bøgetræerne sås kun
sejlerne i det lyseblå.
Det var nok for os.

Med afstanden fik det tyngde
og blev en slags sjælden drøm,
og da jeg så det igen,
var det i høstens tid,
og der var brombær og gyldent korn.


KAJBERG

When we were there as kids
it was always light;
through the beeches one saw
only sails in the light blue sea.
That was enough for us.

With the distance growing
its weight inncreased,
and it grew into some rare dream.
When I saw it again,
it was in the harvest time
with blackberries and golden fields.


DET GÅR OP

Mens sne smelter
fyger tallene videre

Pariserblåt fremkalder
gul jazztrompet

Dragen rasler igen med skællene
nede i Europas syge skove

Men der er gået lang tid nu
mørket er mildere nu

Der er sket noget i mellemmtiden
bølgen ruller ind og flader ud

Rundet om sig selv
går universet op

Vished er her
kun et øjeblik

før alle regner videre
på nye tab, værdiers skift.

"Verden er et flyvesand" står der  indgraveret
efter den fynske digter Ambrosius Stub
på en drikkekumme  på gågaden i Fåborg.


IT GOES UP

While snow is melting
figures blow away

Parisian blue recalls
yellow jazz trumpet

The dragon is again rattling its scales
down in Europe´s sick forests

But a long time has passed
and darkness is milder now

Something else has happened in the meantime
the tidal wave rolls in and fades

and rounded in itself
the universe goes up

Certainty is here
just for a moment

Until we all go on
counting new losses as values change.

"The world is a flying sand" it is engraved after the Funen poet
Ambrosius Stub on a drinking fountain on the walkers
street in Fåborg.


TYPOGRAFEN

Det at skrive
var for let for ham.
Han måtte gribe
hver bestanddel selv.

Han fik begreb om verden
gennem blyets klagesang;
nu lægger han det hele af
og går sin vej.

Under de store tals spiral
slår ny frygt ud,
og ordet synes ofte
uden vægt.

Færre vil se,
hvad  sjældenhed ved antimon får frem.
Men sættekassen kom på væggen,
købt af de unge på auktion.


THE COMPOSITOR

Writing
was too easy for him.
He had to grasp
each part himself.

Conceive the world
through lead´s lament;
now he lays off all that,
and walks away.

Under the spirals of arithmetics
new fears break out.
More and more words 
seem to lose weight.

Fewer will know
what rarefaction through antomony can mediate.
But the young homes got a setting case
for decoration, bought from the auctioneer. 

Det hvide sejl, en stilhed der er fyldt
Et nærvær i det fjerne blå
Skel mellem hav og himmel
Adskilt og eet på samme tid  Over det er himlen høj
Den lytter og følger alt
Skyer støder sammen uden modstand
Landskaber blandes over flåder

Sangbund for vejret
Vindskulptur, glat som lakering
Rastløs og flygtig som småbølgerne
Mens en piftende hær af vind angriber

Hvor er meningen i det derude
Hvor er ordene der hører til
Dette billede af livet
Hvad er det værd i guld?


Digtet blev oversat fra ovenstående digt til engelsk af Else Mogensen
og vandt en Editor´s Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry fra The National Library of Poetry 1993.


White sail, a silence billowed
A presence in the distant blue
Divide between sea and sky
Division and union in one

Above the sky is high
It listens in and follows all
Cluds collide unresistingly
Landscapes fuse over fleets

Sound board for the weather
Wind sculpture, smooth as glaze
Restless and fleeing as the wavelets
While a whistling army of wind charges

Where is the sense in that out there
Where are the words belonging to it
This image of life
What´s its worth in gold?

This poem written in Danish was translated by Else Mogensen for The North American Open Poetry Contest in 1993. It received an Editor´s Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry by the National Library of Poetry. 

Let´s not be difficult, some tell me, but
'fortuitous'is not
exactly what was meant.
My problem therefore is
that I love incidents
which do come easily
but mixed with reason
tend to be precarious,
making me look
much stranger than I am.
Did I mean anything
by what I said,
when suddenly I stumbled
across a foreign sound
sopranosax, for instance,
bringing me back
to Petite Fleur (Sidney Bechet)
- derived from French,
but as you know if you like jazz
New Orleans and American.
A doctor thinks (in latin)
it´s dysmormphic (wrong)
to let your mind
wander about meandering.
So there you are:
I´m out of place
among the simplest
programmatic rules and politics.
And who would know
that I did plan
to follow nothing
like a river to the sea,
and see what it would tell?
There is a wonder
in forgotten words,
they wander too,
and like a fish
swim where they please,
until some angler
pulls them up
into the world of light.

All my contest poems in English from this point were written by myself in English and not translated.

First Prize, The Poet´s Corner 1998-99

Insignificant Moon
I ask the moon
what it wants to tell me,
and of course
it does not answer.
If it´s white or yellow,
orange or blood-red.
what does it matter when you´re not a fisherman or farmer?
Can it actually tell you something?
Of course it can, if you know what it means,
what´s in the atmosphere.
But an omen is too much to expect,
and what do you need it for
when you´re not planning
to invade another country - like a Caesar?
It´s much simpler
to turn on the light,
or television.
It doesn´t tell you much more
about tomorrow´s weather,
although it insists on doing so,
that it has all the answers.
At least it will have them in the future.
Of course I didn´t ask the moon.
It was only another way
of asking myself why
the moon always seems important
in spite of the fact
that it never tells you anything.

First Prize, The Poet´s Corner Magazine, Second Quarter 2003 Contest Runners-Up (together with poets from Colorado Springs, Scottsdale, AZ, Liverpool, UK,Gonzales,TX,Greenwood,AR, and Tasmania, Australia):

Hardanger Fiddle

I´m like an opinion poll;
Melodious, yet disharmonic;
Always insecure, not to believe in;
Fickle, fiddling in the field.
but the crowd assembles when I play.
It´s like the brook.
I´m the source that everyone listens to
Without believing it.
Nevertheless they listen.
Maybe there´s a clue. I´m the nix.


Third Prize (Bronze medal), International Open Poetry Contest 1997,
Anthology  Beyond the Horizon, editor Laura Fiorini:

Realia

Neither happy nor unhappy,
the real stands between us.

What can we do then, to explain
that what is palpable is not enough,

that the impression our steps have left
on the green grass means more to us?

What were the streets without them,
and what would things be without hands?

They would be real, but to us
they would be obsolete, and die.


Third Prize (Bronze Medal), International Open Poetry Contest 1998,
Anthology Outstanding Poets of 1998, Melisa S. Mitchell: 

Violin

A painting of a violin
should be a violin itself
for light to play on:
you miss it when it´s gone.

Within yourself you paint a violin that´s gone,
and wonder why a silent thing
awakens memories of other times
you never knew yourself.

Those times when violins were built
to meet demands for sweeter sounds
than life could offer at first sight,
hopes for the world to come.

A distant sound from within time,
imagined but to you as real
as the word you used to tell
what sounding board is for: it´s soul.


I den internationale filosofiske antologi
Art, Text and Reception, editor Lars Aagaard-Mogensen,
udgivet på e-booksonline (uk), Plas Newydd, Rhoshirwaun,
Pwllheli, Gwynedd (Wales), UK 2001
blev følgende digt af Fini Løkke trykt på dansk sammen med redaktørens version på engelsk (omformet og forkortet til prosadigt):

Imagine, Columbus

Ingen ved
hvor Lucas Cranach kom fra
han dukkede bare op i Wien en dag
og blev designer for con-science
i universets Wittenberg
et par århundreder
efter at kær-lighed kom med troubadour
til borgene og Hjertebog og
nye skue-spil i salene
and conscience does make
cowards of us all
i Nuova York
som Stella Novas Nova Scotia
og Newfound-land: det ny

og hvor der for var dukker
voksfigurer sat i stedet
for et levet liv engang
kom der forståelse og gensynsblik
sub specie aeternitatis universitatis
Motion Picture Sciences
og billedanalyse, analytiker
der fastslog at det gentog sig
i frihed til at vælge selv
og at det var her
i al evighed

så sikkert står de nu de to 
med slangen over sig helt paf
og gennemsigtig og småøjet
i et kamera der tager det
og aldrig slipper det igen
de hører til
og løfter verden op i lyset
som havde de selv skabt
det sted hvor alting bevæges fra
ved netop at se sig selv udefra
distante mens de er her
i et billede af valg
og ingen ved
hvor Lucas Cranach kommer fra
selv en Polonius må gi op

For vel er Godard ikke CIAchef
Lemmy Caution ikke Hamlet
Anna Karina ikke Ophelia
og da slet ikke Cranachs Eva
med det universelle æble
som New York er før Nuova York
og dette ikke Rubicon
men Nuova York er da
en mulighed som Alphaville
en rund imagination, en boble
op fra den sunkne indre by
længere tilbage end Hiroshima,
Ur i Kaldæa, Babylon

Lars Aagard-Mogensens engelske version:

Imagine, Columbus

None knows where Lucas Cranach came from. He just
turned up in Vienna one day and became designer for
lokke-videnskab at Universe´s Wittenberg, a couple of
centuries after love-li(ke)ness arrived by troubadour
to castles and ballad book and new shew-plays to great
halls. Og samvittighed gør os alle til kujoner, in Nuova 
York as Stella Nova´s Nova Scotia and New-found-land:
the new. And where before were dummies, wax figures
made to double for a life once lived, came understanding
and revoir looks. Under aspect of universal eternity:
Film-videnskaberne, and image analysis, analyst who 
ascertained that it repeated itself and that it had been
here in all eternity. So sure stand now the two, with the
snake above, all staggered and transparent and wane eyed
in a camera that snaps and never lets go again: they belong
to, and lift up the world into the light, as had they them-
selves created the place from which all is moved by
exactly seeing themselves from the outside. Distant while
they are present, in a picture of Choice. And no one knows
where Lucas Cranach comes, even a Polonius must face a
fail. Certainly, Godard is not CIAdirector, Lemmy Caution
not Hamlet, Anna Karina not Ophelia, certainly not 
Cranach´s Eve with the universal apple, which is New York
before Nuova York  (nor is this Rubicon),  but after all
Nuova York is a possible Alphaville, a round imagination,
a bubble up from the sunken downtown farther back than
Hiroshima, Ur in Chaldaea, Babylon.


2002 modtog jeg den tredje bronzemedalje som International Poet of Merit
sammen med en sølvpokal ved International Society of Poets´Convention i Hollywood. 
En modernistisk glasskulptur med indskriften
Outstanding Achievement in Poetry
blev givet i 2008.
Kort tid derefter måtte forlaget bag antologierne lukke som følge af krisen og
overgang fra papir til elektroniske bøger. De tykke og tyndere bøger i gedigen tilrettelægning er nu en saga blott, og man ser negative omtaler på Internettet af poeter, som ikke vandt så meget, som de havde håbet. Det er kun, hvad man kan vente; det interessante ved International Society of Poets og International Library of Poetry er dog ikke, at de ikke holdt til evig tid, men var af denne verden, men at de faktisk holdt i mange år og uddelte rigtig mange penge til poeter over hele verden, i en verden, hvor det er forlæggeres børnelærdom, at digte ikke betaler sig. Her betalte de sig, og skrivende folk fik kendskab og selskab med mange andre poeter og skrivende folk fra hele verden. Skam få den, der taler ilde herom!
Mange af mine digte fra konkurrencer og antologier findes stadig tilgængelige på det nye site Lulu Poetry, søg Anadyomene, så kommer digtet, og klik på Fini Lokke over digtet, så vises alle lagrede digte, som kan klikkes frem. 
 Many of my poems from the contests in International Society of Poets are still to see at the new site Lulu Poetry, search Anadyomene, then the poem appears, click Fini Lokke in blue above the poem, and all the other poems appear which you can click to read.Some of these poems have won other prizes as semifinalists, and more than ten Editor´s Choice Awards for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry. Many of them have also been recorded on CDs together with other poets from many countries. I myself have had great pleasure reading such internationally published and listening to poetry well read by the excellent speakers. I call their art spoken typography, reminding us of the fact that modern poetry began with the newspaper and the typewriter. The Internet typography at this site, Lulu and other poetry sites serve  poetry today in a most satisfying way for any poet, especially when renewed interest in poetry may lead to poetry slams and recitals.

   Igennem et par år deltog jeg på engelsk i Workshop på nettet og nåede til den næsthøjeste level Master. Digtene på engelsk derfra gengives i en særlig menu Poets´ Workshop. Digtene begynder med Scholar Level og går gennem mange stadier til Master Level et år senere, gennem poet stars og reviewer gavels (hammerslag-points)
; ved Master Level havde jeg modtaget 1889 Poets Stars og 772 Reviewer Gavels, som svarede til Master Level i begge kategorier, efter at have skrevet og indsendt 63 digte og skrevet 214 reviews. 
Desuden henviser jeg til det spændende site www.poemhunter.com, hvor der 6 digte af Fini Lokke (ikke ø), som blev optaget på dette site, da jeg blev optaget i International Poetry Hall of Fame i 1996, 3 år efter at jeg var begyndt at deltage i de åbne amerikanske og senere internationale konkurrencer i USA. Der kommer også mange henvisninger når man blot skriver Fini Løkke på Google, herunder også poemhunter.