The Perfect Death

Sleep is the perfect death
How I enjoy to fall asleep
‘Tis as-I-leap and fall
into that gentle abyss
So gentle a Death
that it does not kill me
for I still am
        yet I know not
                     where

Within the human skull

Human Skull

There is a voice inside
A tongue that never goes dry
The discourse, the clattering
The endless commentary
Under our thin hairs
Echoes of words, so many words
Life is raped of its simplicity
Every object has a name
Who can resist the force of opinions
Rotting in his inert monologues
Behold this eerie creature
Whose existence is ruled by
thought

Strangers in the city

As strangers in the city
Their eyes meet briefly in a terrible gaze
In the depths they see the emptiness

A hungerless abyss – terror inexpressible
As the pieces move on the chessboard
History, its strategy unknown and obscure
Layers of reality unfold
As strangers that we always are
Appendixes to a greater immeasurable reality
Suspended in our lonely ignorance

Sharing fleeting glances in our anonymity

POEM ii

POEM  ii

Why do I feel I must carry
in distress and despair
the weight of the universe
                       heavily laid on my back
 
How can I ignore the monumental,
the towers of suffering all life
must sooner or later endure
                       and perpetually misunderstand
 
How can silence substitute
the boundless pain in every
instant of transience,
                          every day and night
 
Inexpressible this senseless world!
But a spark of total nirvana
when submerged in this chaos
                         I let everything go…

POEM i

POEM  i

In every metamorphosis there is
a symbol of the eternal resurrection,
the thousand faces of a timeless world
                                   born forever anew
 
As we drift aimlessly within
the corridors of a flickering instant,
in the huge vaults of time immemorial
                                 Man asleep, awakens!
 
But the amnesia of the cosmos
eagerly consumes our monuments,
of a civilization new and wild
                               imprisoned on earth
 
If we escape from the shackles
of our legendary blindness,
above these clouds of galaxies,
                             darkness becomes light.

Poem in rain and cosmos

 

Why must raindrops fall
and stir my soul like Debussy’s piano,
delirium in an orchestra of round ripples
each droplet unites with the puddle
in this unknown street of Nygårdvej
Why can I not resist this temptation
Of studying the motions of a
                                           fluctuating universe

I raise my head a few meters
a different world comes into view
a realm so close but so inexplicable
of these men and women of modernity;
so you see two worlds bound together
One as ancient as numberless time
The other new by cosmic comparison

And worst of all, I must confess
this thing frightens me above all:
the road mankind has fashioned for itself,
that relentless evolution of man’s world
not long ago we lived flat on a finite earth,
now the cosmos has expanded to insane proportions
we are a micro-dot in a cold dark shadow

Are children aware of our ancestral roots
before we were in trees, but now
riding in motorized wheels
is there a Nostradamus among us
who will reveal the end of our obsessions,
or will it never come to an end,
like this puddle should turn into ocean
                                       if these drops from heaven
                                                                   never cease to fall.

The old man on the bus

 

His gaze was dismal. His face pale and furrowed by his old skin. And those eyes… almost inert yet burning with sadness as if they were looking straight into empty meaninglessness. What happened to him? Had he found irrevocable proof that the universe has no purpose, had he understood the absolute nonsense of existence? His face was like an ancient ape, the first animal in the history of the universe to become aware of mortality – the original simian that understood:

 

I AM

but I must die one day”

Oh poor old man!

Those eyes scanning the infinite indifference of the civilized world. Somewhere in the glimmering of his left eye I read his thoughts.

 

They were thoughts of a hopeful pessimist:

 

My life in shadows.
My life in this modern world
Splendid technological forms unfurled
Nobody knows the monster that’s been created
But who will listen to my voice recluse and alienated
If only we could invent a new auspicious religion
To bury our fears and escape ever-lasting oblivion

 

 

The old man stood up and got off the bus and sat by a tree. And then we rode off into other streets, other corners.

Sky of Poetry

(July 11th – 2007)

 

And I’m still alive. Standing on a dim-lit bridge watching with disbelief the fantastic horizon as the fiery star’s return is heralded by the tones of pink, purplish-red, tawny and azure pigments in their respective order from horizon to zenith. It is 3.09am, and the moon is manifested by a thin ark of potent white, the rest of it obscure but visible: its entire orb can be witnessed from this bridge that overlooks on a magical lake hazily imitating the transcendental beauty of the sky. Below me two ducklings swim in the still water, small insects flutter around me, the glorious architecture of Copenhagen stands immobile while, progressively, this pen inks a few words as a substitute for a photograph, a camera that I do not hold now to share the explicit mystery
                        Of this solitary view.

A child’s wonder

The poet must rise and, in all opposition to the mediocrity of those living with eyes closed, must claim with a child’s wonder: I AM.

And to be is never dull and unworthy of our attention.

Every passing second grants us the deepest mysteries that can never be too highly esteemed.

From the rustling of blades of grass in the wind to the farthest kindling galaxies; from the ordinary to the extraordinary; existence in its entirety marvels the beholder.

A poet’s awareness is nothing more than a child’s wonder.

A requirement: the capacity to remain silent and observe passionately at what IS.

In that womb of silence we are all bound to become children, poets and philosophers;

Quietly revering the performance of an universe that will forever astonish us-

The humble spectators of the Great Unknown.

untitled poem

From where spawns the orgiastic revelry of words
The intimacy with language in its full ambiguity
The orgasmic explosion of poetry, rising from the
Deep unknown

The grand sea of letters that flourish in a titanic wave
Drowning the world with an army of symbols
And behold! They seize us like the fury of Jupiter
In the tempest of survival we hang to them
Our miseries have a name, they now bear a
Morbid face

Languidly reposing in the weaving of literature
The towers of pages whistling in the air
The voices, the cries and joys of forgotten lives
Many existences in a single sentence but a life
Never enough to peruse the endless deluge of
Human experiences

The lives of words carry the melancholy song
Of Death and Loss, perpetual fate of every born
Yet in lighter melodies thoughts inked in the past
Evoke the wonder of breathing, powerfully they are
Reminding us -the living- to seize the moment,
Always the moment.