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Articles tagged "Denmark"

After Inger Christensen: Humans, Plants, and Planets in New Danish Poetry

In 2011, when I moved from my home country, Denmark, to New York, I was pleased to discover that I shared an idol with several literary Americans. The idol was Inger Christensen (1935–2009), a Danish writer particularly known for her mathematical approach to poetry—and considered the foremost Danish poetic experimentalist of her generation. Through translator Susanna Nied’s mastery, Christensen’s poems have gained a devoted following in English. I was less pleased to...

Face (still life)

What’s the deal with your face, Dad? It seems abandoned. You are not dead, but your face: as if immersed in water. Your skin is colorless and molten — the eyes impossible to penetrate, buried behind a mask of high tension wires, subtle electric growl. You vent short gusts, like those from the bellows we use for the hearth: Your eyebrows crease together, lips drawn taut, nose expels air and silence. You slouch a little, look away. Your hair is impeccably coiffed.   "Face...

from “Third-Millennium Heart”

The will to have no openings, to avoid areas where humiliation and assault take place. In terms of the blood stream, not wanting infrastructure, it’s the same. Sun chariot and moon chariot wheel at the slightest external touch, transporting bright shiny humiliations within the corpus and abracadabra out into every screaming corner. I use expensive drops: anger’s sweat, tablet, pastille, ointment. Balm. Brew three bags for a pot of coma. With a rock I block the cave’s...

from “Everything Shimmers”

  Then suddenly beech woods, all green behind the dozing eyes a deer leaps across the forest road scents of acid and moss and cheek against bark, sunrain between trunks, I'm home and hear the Baltic Sea crash against big rocks far away and I rest like a fairy or a witch in the sweet smells of the forest floor we can so easily forget what we are who we are that we are, but it takes only a little call to waken the sleepers, as now, in the forest, for LISTEN,...

Father My Unborn Son

I spill twenty liters of darkness and a childhood up against the wall A Stone-Age hand a paperback Koran Maybe I could have loved you if I was your father and not your son

To Arrive

When you get off the airplane, it will not be like Kabul airport, or like other cities of Afghanistan for that matter, where they drive stairs up and attach them to the door and then take down the passengers one by one. These days, there have been improvements everywhere, old man. But we, we are lagging behind, and war has taken us further and further back. The only thing we think of is devastation, and not creation . . . they will drive the bridge up and attach it to the airplane door,...

A Car Trip

After Nikolaj slams the car door shut they realize that Tobias isn't in the car. “Damnit,” he says, and looks at Mie, who unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out. He watches her walk back to the house, he sees her fumble with the key. “When are we there?” Signe asks, and Little Brother begins to cry. Nikolaj turns and reaches down to grab the pacifier, but it scoots away underneath the front seat. “Give him the pacifier,” he says to Andreas, who is...

Danish


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