papirfugl

The writer must be four people:

1) The nut, the obsédé
2) The moron
3) The stylist
4) The critic

1 supplies the material; 2 lets it come out; 3 is taste; 4 is intelligence.

A great writer has all 4 — but you can still be a good writer with only 1 and 2;
they’re most important.

- Susan Sontag, Reborn.

A little steadier

This is why I stick with me.
Independently, we stand
a little steadier, you see.

This way, I won’t take you for granted,
nor for something that you’re not.
A bonus, not a requisite, 
you add up as a plus in this long equation,
which I’m always working on.

Maybe you can help me solve it.
Could work. Might not. We could try…
But if my math is still correct,
This… This can’t amount to much. 
At most, a decimal, 
if your measurement is love.

Pleasure-wise? A dozen times I’ve wanted you
- and asked for more! It counted, too,
as something rather pivotal. 
A point affecting how my earth revolves.
But whether you could ever be 
a form of gravity to me… 
Of this I’m still unsure. 

Could you? Would I ever let you? Some say
that the feminist in women like myself
hinders me from finding joy 
when lying next to someone else.
Yet the promise that I made 
was not that of a rebel.
Mine is not a cynic’s stance, but in order to unravel

how to pick apart this we, 
to feel it in your bones 
how strong your own mind can become,
even, or especially, when growing on its own;
to see beyond the mist of myths 
that too often shroud your view 
on what relationships can do
for us, and me for you;

something must be given up. Something 
must be left behind, 
if this truth is to arrive.

This is why I stick with me. 
Independently, we stand 
a little steadier. You’ll see.

the dare

summer spread a quilt of light
over the entire town, and instead of snow,
we had feather-light answers swaying down
filling up our frozen flats
ridding them of question marks

outside, you recognized the streets
shuffled along the cobble stones
back to your flat, where you let her in
and heard yourself say: 
“sure,
sure you can leave 
your things with me”

and it suddenly hit you how tired you’d been
how heavy loneliness can feel
when we close our windows
in fear of the draft
the snow
the traffic noise
or whatever we fear might come in
whatever make those doors swing shut 
and humans lock their silences up

is it really that hard to do, to make 
a little noise, a little movement 
in the rooms which we think ourselves
too weary to share?

‘cause in the end, 
what scares you the most?
the silence – or the dare?

This is impro theatre

I’m told we do these things unscripted.
That both of us should improvise.
No costumes, props. Just us,
the light and the naked stage.

When he talks at me, I try to let go
but his lines sound old. Just quote upon quote,
goldfish food for those who can’t remember
the rush from doing real impro theatre.

In between clichés, he even assures me:
“I usually act, you know. But with you…”
With me you thought what, that I could be fooled?
You’ve rehearsed! You’re quoting other people’s verse.

This is supposed to be improvisation!
Not a flaunting of memorization.
Don’t you know that I’ve done plays, 
rehearsed but erased the lines for the sake
of hearing what you had to say?

I thought we took each other’s stages
in hope of seeing something new.
Or am I the one confused,
mistaking this place for somewhere else?
You for someone who plays by the rules?

Au, for faen

Et ark voldtatt av ordet “au”, skriblet om igjen og om igjen: Dét må være kjærlighetssorgens bedøvende injeksjon, og kroppens ufrivillige resignasjon.

kom inn

sommeren bredde
en dyne av lys over hele byen
fjærlette svar svaiet
ned og fylte frosne spørsmål
med strøm som prikket
varmt under huden
og med ett
flommet over

over var tiden med bleke kinn
og stive skuldre
over var den ensomme
søken etter ord, bevegelser
som skulle snakke for deg
si høyt til alle sammen
hvem du kunne vært

for første gang på lenge 
kjente du igjen gatene
subbet skoene over brosteinene
og tilbake til leiligheten 
hvor hørte deg selv 
svare: “ja, 
bare legg tingene dine her, du”

og det slo deg plutselig
hvor sliten du var
hvor tung ensomheten føles
når vi lukker vinduene våre
i frykt for trekken, snøen, trafikken 
eller hva det nå er som får
dører til å smelle og 
mennesker til å låse inn
stillhetene sine

er det alt for mye å be om?
er det så vanskelig? å lage litt støy
litt bevegelse i rommene
som vi er for slitne til å dele,
men for lette til å ligge stille i?