life is a series of jovial friskings
someone lights through your personal belongings
while he tells a joke that you forget
to laugh at
because you’ve lost sight of your passport for a moment
your prison guard has eyes like outstretched hands
and a crotch like smuggled heroin
and for a moment you consider
giving him your number, but you’re stopped by the thought
that his fingers in your body cavities
will always feel like
he’s looking for something
Above the clouds, everything is an optical illusion.
It’s a question of faith
that the airplane I’m sitting in is moving at 400 miles per hour
faster
than a horse carriage
and that another plane is not suspended in stillness
above the horizon at the end
of a tail of smoke
but is moving just as fast
without passing anything I can use as a background.
I’m not designed for great spaces.
I’m not mutated enough for these sights.
the moment I leave the country
my money turns to metal in my hand
and my language becomes a secret I can say out loud
I’m a radio broadcasting noise on all channels
I’m a newly built estate full of objects without function
their beauty preserved, but their sentimental value destroyed
because everyone who loved them
is dead
I recently travelled to Sheffield and back, and during the trip, I conducted the experiment of trying to write non-stop. It wasn’t easy – constant new impressions and being ushered from bus to train to plane etc. every few hours made for not-very-constant writing. But I did manage to complete a handful of writings, which were in Danish, but which could be easily translated into English. I figure this group of poems especially should be bilingual, considering the travel connection. :) So while I’m putting up a Danish poem from the trip every Wednesday, I’ll post the English version of said poem every Monday. The first one will be posted above immediately. I’ll tag these poems with ‘cph-shf-shf-cph’ and of course ‘English’.
CECILIE LOLK HJORT 