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 "DRØM"/"DREAM" 1957
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.
Linoleumssnit fra billedserien "Drøm" trykt i få eksemplarer på en korrekturpresse 1957. Billedet viser højhuse, som var noget nyt i Danmark på det tidspunkt, samt antydning af månens nærhed, det som blev til virkelighed 12 år senere med månelandingen.
Disse samlede digte fra 50 år senere kunne lige så godt have heddet "Gensyn med Drømmeland"; men 'Suburbia Revisited' har vist sig at passe endnu bedre, netop på grund af Internettet, hvor communities eksisterer i den globale landsby eller forstaden Suburbia.
Linocut from the picture series "Dream" printed by myself in a galley press 1957. The picture shows tall houses, not quite skyscrapers, which were new in Denmark at that time, and a close moon which came still closer 12 years later with the moon landings. This collection from 50 years later might as well have been called "Dreamland revisited" but 'Suburbia Revisited' is even more appropriate because of the Internet where communities exist in the global village or Suburbia.
Linoleumssnit fra billedserien "Drøm" trykt i få eksemplarer på en korrekturpresse 1957. Billedet viser højhuse, som var noget nyt i Danmark på det tidspunkt, samt antydning af månens nærhed, det som blev til virkelighed 12 år senere med månelandingen.
Disse samlede digte fra 50 år senere kunne lige så godt have heddet "Gensyn med Drømmeland"; men 'Suburbia Revisited' har vist sig at passe endnu bedre, netop på grund af Internettet, hvor communities eksisterer i den globale landsby eller forstaden Suburbia.
Linocut from the picture series "Dream" printed by myself in a galley press 1957. The picture shows tall houses, not quite skyscrapers, which were new in Denmark at that time, and a close moon which came still closer 12 years later with the moon landings. This collection from 50 years later might as well have been called "Dreamland revisited" but 'Suburbia Revisited' is even more appropriate because of the Internet where communities exist in the global village or Suburbia.
 DIIGTSAMLINGEN "LYTTEPOST"/COLLECTION OF POEMS "LISTENING POST" 1959
"Lyttepost" med linoleumssnit af forfatteren blev trykt i Løkkes Bogtrykkeri i Nyborg og omtalt i det københavnske tidsskrift "Hvedekorn" samtidig med 3 digte, der blev trykt i bladet. Disse debutdigte blev pænt omtalt i dagbladet "Information". Denne begyndelse førte til oprettelsen af Fisker-Nielsen & Løkkes Forlag i København 1959. Dette firma var efter tre års aktivitet deponeret til 1967, hvorefter jeg selv startede Løkkes Forlag i Nyborg, som udgav både avis, pocketbøger og internationale lærebøger samt pressestof til lokale ugeaviser i Danmark.
"Listening Post" was printed at my father´s print shop at Nyborg 1959, and was mentioned in the Copenhagen magazine "Hvedekorn (Wheat Grain" the same year when it printed three poems by me. This debut was positively reviewed in the Copenhagen daily newspaper "Information", and it lead to the foundation of Fisker-Nielsen & Løkkes Forlag at Copenhagen 1959. This firm ended 1967 when my own personal publishing firm was started at Nyborg, Funen.
"Lyttepost" med linoleumssnit af forfatteren blev trykt i Løkkes Bogtrykkeri i Nyborg og omtalt i det københavnske tidsskrift "Hvedekorn" samtidig med 3 digte, der blev trykt i bladet. Disse debutdigte blev pænt omtalt i dagbladet "Information". Denne begyndelse førte til oprettelsen af Fisker-Nielsen & Løkkes Forlag i København 1959. Dette firma var efter tre års aktivitet deponeret til 1967, hvorefter jeg selv startede Løkkes Forlag i Nyborg, som udgav både avis, pocketbøger og internationale lærebøger samt pressestof til lokale ugeaviser i Danmark.
"Listening Post" was printed at my father´s print shop at Nyborg 1959, and was mentioned in the Copenhagen magazine "Hvedekorn (Wheat Grain" the same year when it printed three poems by me. This debut was positively reviewed in the Copenhagen daily newspaper "Information", and it lead to the foundation of Fisker-Nielsen & Løkkes Forlag at Copenhagen 1959. This firm ended 1967 when my own personal publishing firm was started at Nyborg, Funen.
 From Copenhagen to poetry.com
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 .
Bronzemedaljen er fra Hollywood 2002, International Poet of Merit Award, ledsaget af en sølvpokal med indgraveret navn. En professionel digtoplæser, Allen Rose, læste et af mine digte på engelsk op. Som forfatter og forlægger har jeg tidligere vundet en sølvmedalje, 20th Century Achievement Award, fra Cambridge, England, og en guldmedalje,Millennium Medal of Honor, fra American Biographical Institute, foruden en række andre priser. Jeg er optaget i The International Poetry Hall of Fame.
Min biografi står i flere internationale dictionaries, sidst i Great Minds of the 21rst Century,ABI og i en årrække i den meget kendte Dictionary of International Biography, Cambridge, IBC.
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This bronze medal, International Poet of Merit Award, is from The International Society of Poets´Hollywood Convention and Symposium 2002. A silver medal from IBC, Cambridge, England, and a gold medal, Millennium Medal of Honor, from ABI, USA, are among the prizes poetry has brought me since 1993. I have also had two first prizes in ISP magazine "The Poet´s Corner", and several CDs among international poets as well as several Editor´s Choice Awards in the North American Open Poetry Contests. I think poetry is the main factor in all the arts. I studied at Monterey Peninsular College 1955-56, and was a member of the drama group "Monterey Players". Speech was one of my favourite courses as well as music; I played the clarinet in MPC Band. In Denmark I had poems read by an actor on the radio in 1961 when I had poems published in the Copenhagen anthology "Profiles. Young Danish Poetry".
Bronzemedaljen er fra Hollywood 2002, International Poet of Merit Award, ledsaget af en sølvpokal med indgraveret navn. En professionel digtoplæser, Allen Rose, læste et af mine digte på engelsk op. Som forfatter og forlægger har jeg tidligere vundet en sølvmedalje, 20th Century Achievement Award, fra Cambridge, England, og en guldmedalje,Millennium Medal of Honor, fra American Biographical Institute, foruden en række andre priser. Jeg er optaget i The International Poetry Hall of Fame.
Min biografi står i flere internationale dictionaries, sidst i Great Minds of the 21rst Century,ABI og i en årrække i den meget kendte Dictionary of International Biography, Cambridge, IBC.
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This bronze medal, International Poet of Merit Award, is from The International Society of Poets´Hollywood Convention and Symposium 2002. A silver medal from IBC, Cambridge, England, and a gold medal, Millennium Medal of Honor, from ABI, USA, are among the prizes poetry has brought me since 1993. I have also had two first prizes in ISP magazine "The Poet´s Corner", and several CDs among international poets as well as several Editor´s Choice Awards in the North American Open Poetry Contests. I think poetry is the main factor in all the arts. I studied at Monterey Peninsular College 1955-56, and was a member of the drama group "Monterey Players". Speech was one of my favourite courses as well as music; I played the clarinet in MPC Band. In Denmark I had poems read by an actor on the radio in 1961 when I had poems published in the Copenhagen anthology "Profiles. Young Danish Poetry".
 Gratis digte/Introduction to free poetry
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
 GÆSTEN/THE GUEST
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
 NYSKABELSE/INNOVATION
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
 URTID/PRIMEVAL
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
 Digt/Happy Days
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/TRICKS
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
 UTÅLMODIGHED
"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
 SIRENER/SIRENS
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
 LYTTEPOST/LISTENING POST
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
 EN NY DIGTNING/A NEW FICTION
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
 FORVENTNINGSFULD OPTIMISME/EXPECTANT OPTIMISM
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
 SPORT/SPORT
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
 HOBBY/HOBBY
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
 EKKO/ECHO
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
 ERINDRING/REMEMBRANCE
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
 EN FÆSTNING/STRONGHOLD
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
 MANDEN DER KOM TIL MIDDAG/THE MAN WHO CAME FOR DINNER
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.
 DET RENE DIGT/PURE POEM
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
 HIMMEL/HEAVEN
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
 LÆNGE UDE/LONG HOURS OUT-OF-DOORS
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
 FRA ET HUS I KRATTET/FROM A HOUSE IN THE THICKET
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
 EN TROLD/SPITFIRE
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
 PENGENE ELLER LIVET/THE MONEY OR YOUR LIFE
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/YELLOW LEAVES
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
 I DISTRAKTION/IN DISTRACTION
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
 SIDDER DE OG TEGNER+/ARE YOU DRAWING+
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
 FROKOST/LUNCHTIME
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
 NATURENS FREMGANGSMÅDE/NATURE´S WAY
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/ECSTATIC, NO
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
 EN TANKE/A THOUGHT
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
 MAN SYNGER IKKE MERE/WE DON´T SING ANY MORE
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
 BØRNESANG/CHILDREN´S SONG
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
 AFSTED I STØVET/AHEAD IN THE DUST
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
 BIBLIOTEKET/THE LIBRARY
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
 VINTER/WINTER
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
 FORM/FORM
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
 KED AF DET/SORRY
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
 GLAD/HAPPY
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
 KAZIMARS FLUGT/THE FLIGHT OF KAZIMAR
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 ORD/I LOVE WORDS
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
 SKAK/CHESS
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/THE WHITE HOUSE
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
 BEETHOVEN I FORHALLEN/BEETHOVEN IN THE HALLWAY
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
 FLYVEMASKINEN/THE AEROPLANE
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
 SWING/SWING
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
 FORÅRSLYS I FORSTADEN/SUBURBAN SPRING LIGHT
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
Udsigten i streg/The view in crayon
Udsigten i streg/The view in crayon
 PASTORALE/PASTORAL
"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
Oprindelig tuschtegnet ramme med håndskrift ogmaskinskreven grotesk tekst.
Original context of Indian ink frame, handwriting and typed gothic text.
Oprindelig tuschtegnet ramme med håndskrift ogmaskinskreven grotesk tekst.
Original context of Indian ink frame, handwriting and typed gothic text.
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
Oprindelig tuschmaleri og tekst i håndskrift og maskinskrift grotesk.
Original context of Indian ink painting (frame), handwriting and typed gothic text.
Oprindelig tuschmaleri og tekst i håndskrift og maskinskrift grotesk.
Original context of Indian ink painting (frame), handwriting and typed gothic text.
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
Oprindelig tuschmaleri med håndskrift og maskinskrift.
Original context of Indian ink painting, handwriting and typed gothic text.
Oprindelig tuschmaleri med håndskrift og maskinskrift.
Original context of Indian ink painting, handwriting and typed gothic text.
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
Som tekst og tuschtegning oprindelig var sat sammen.
This shows the original context of Indian ink painting and typography.
Som tekst og tuschtegning oprindelig var sat sammen.
This shows the original context of Indian ink painting and typography.
lærken står på sned den lille gård har sorte øjne
the lark ascends the little farm has eyes of black
Side 57/Page 57
Oprindelig kontekst af tuschmaleri og typografi.
Original context of Indian ink painting and typography.
Oprindelig kontekst af tuschmaleri og typografi.
Original context of Indian ink painting and typography.
 VENTETID/WAITING
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
Oprindelig opsætning af filtpentegning og maskinskrift i grotesk.
Original context of ball pen drawing and typewriting in gothic letters.
Oprindelig opsætning af filtpentegning og maskinskrift i grotesk.
Original context of ball pen drawing and typewriting in gothic letters.
 DAG PÅ HAVNEN/DAY ON THE QUAY
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
Oprindelig tuschtegning uden tekst.
Original Indian in painting without text.
Oprindelig tuschtegning uden tekst.
Original Indian in painting without text.
 SKUMRING I EN LILLE HAVNEBY/DUSK IN A SMALL HARBOUR TOWN
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/MOTOR
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
Oprindelig kontekst af tuschmaleri og typografi.
Original context of Indian ink painting and typography.
Oprindelig kontekst af tuschmaleri og typografi.
Original context of Indian ink painting and typography.
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
Oprindelig kontekst af tuschtegning og typografi.
Original context of Indian ink drawing and typography.
Oprindelig kontekst af tuschtegning og typografi.
Original context of Indian ink drawing and typography.
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
 MALERISK UKLARHED/PICTURESQUE UNCERTAINTY
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
 NOTAT (1972)/ENTRY(1972)
Fiskerbåds dunken Fjorden lyseblå Gyldent efterår Snart november
Fishing boat bumping The fiord pale blue Golden fall Soon november
Side 65/Page 65
 SOUVENIR
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
 L. A. 1956
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
 GALAXEVÆV/GALAXY WEB
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
 ET ANDET SPROG/A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE
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
 KAST/THROW
"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
 OM VILSEVALSEN/ABOUT THE VILSEWALTZ
"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/THUS FAR
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
 BLADE OG RØDDER/LEAVES AND ROOTS
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
 CON AMORE/DO IT FOR LOVE
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
 IKKE UDGIVET CUT UP EKSPERIMENT/NON-PUBLISHED CUT UP EXPERIMENT
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
 BLÆSTSTRIMLER/ TAPES IN THE WIND
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
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
 PILOTENS TANKE/THE THOUGHT OF THE PILOT
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
 AFTENEN FRA HAVET/THE EVENING FROM THE SEA
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
 DEN JORDISKE KONCERT/THE EARTHLY CONCERT
"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
 Et Glas ved Storebælt/A Glass At The Great Belt
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.
 Budskab fra tomheden/Message From The Void. Første konkurrencedigt i The North American Open Poetry Contest 1993
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.
 Wonderful Sound. First Prize, International Society of Poets magazine 'The Poet´s Corner´1994 Fall Contest.
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.
Poet of Merit Award 2002 International Society of Poets
Poet of Merit Award 2002 International Society of Poets
Poet of Merit Award 2008 International Society of Poets
(glasprisme formet som en pen)
Poet of Merit Award 2008 International Society of Poets
(glasprisme formet som en pen)
Anthology: Where Dreams Begin International Society of Poets 1993
Anthology: Where Dreams Begin International Society of Poets 1993
Anthology: After The Storm International Society of Poets 1994
Anthology: After The Storm International Society of Poets 1994
Anthology: Outstanding Poets 1994 International Society of Poets
Anthology: Outstanding Poets 1994 International Society of Poets
Anthology: Best Poems of 1996 International Society of Poets
Anthology: Best Poems of 1996 International Society of Poets
Anthology_ Outstanding Poets of 1998 International Society of Poets (cover of French parchment embossed with gold letters)
Anthology_ Outstanding Poets of 1998 International Society of Poets (cover of French parchment embossed with gold letters)
Anthology: Best Poems & Poets of 2001 International Society of Poets
(with signed document of Editors´Choice Award which also followed the other anthologies)
Anthology: Best Poems & Poets of 2001 International Society of Poets
(with signed document of Editors´Choice Award which also followed the other anthologies)
Two smaller anthologies: Beyond The Horizon & The Sounds Of Silence
National Library of Poetry
Two smaller anthologies: Beyond The Horizon & The Sounds Of Silence
National Library of Poetry
5 international anthologies with selected poets from many countries in English, published by International Society of Poets and Noble House Publishers, London-Paris-New York, with special book design after Victorian style. 2003-2006.
5 international anthologies with selected poets from many countries in English, published by International Society of Poets and Noble House Publishers, London-Paris-New York, with special book design after Victorian style. 2003-2006.
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