Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Poet’s secret word

  When I reread Secrets, this collection of poetry I rekindle my dark passions. My poems and stories are more than anything honoring the night and the savage human being.
  What is misplaced is once more found. Each morning we wake up in today’s dead society we lose a little bit more of what we truly are. My poetry helps me and will help you recover from that.
  They are openers, shining a dark in the gray light of day, moonlight and mist and shadow and fire revealing what civilization and a thoroughly oppressive society keep from you.
  When we are strongly encouraged and forced to work and stay awake during the day, where oppression is at its strongest we lose something infinitely precious.
  Well, this is a place where you will find the opposite and different effect, the opposite desires and stirrings. I am proud, I am, so very proud.
  I write, partly to inspire people, especially those walking the shadows to empower themselves, and at least it works for me… and also for a few others I know about. That also feels good, so very good.
  These thoughts crystallized in my mind (you guessed it) late one night, but also while I was groaning half asleep after the alarm clock had sounded the next morning.
  I had no intentions of writing a back cover text, for instance, but planned on only displaying the words, the subtitle «descriptions of what cannot be described».
  When I reread these poems my ambitions on their behalf and on the behalf of the publication grow. Perhaps I didn't fully understand and appreciate what this was about until I read it through. And I hadn't, until recently.
  But that night something… clicked and it keeps clicking.

  With this all the poems I have written in English have been published, except those that came to life and dishonor in South America and Thailand in the latter quarter of 2003. They were inscribed in my Diary of a Traveling Man late 2003 paper notebook and that one is more than likely lost forever at some hot and moist beach.
  I have made several attempts at recreating them, but it just doesn't work. Can I recreate the sound of the wave hitting the shore at exactly the moment I wrote a particular line, or the distinct and unique echoes of a door slamming in the soft wind from a shore in Pataya or a reef in Tierra Del Fuego? No way!
  You will find strains, pieces of them in this collection, though, inevitably, since they never really go away.

  I finished this two years ahead of schedule. It was done. The last poem had been engraved. The puzzle was complete, or as complete as it will be.
  On the maxi collection containing all the other collections up to August 2003 I used small fonts and tight spacing in order to reduce the number of pages and the sales price. I wanted this one to be different, to be big and spacey, easy on the eyes and spirit (but demanding on the mind and heart).
  This will probably, the way it looks right now at least be my last collection of poems. I have said all I can say and will say with my four hundred and thirty-one pieces of poetry, with this particular method of expression, and any more would be to repeat myself both in form and content and I try extremely hard to not do that. At this point I feel like I have covered every single piece of my interests and passions extensively. If I should even attempt to write another, it will have to be something completely different. Even ideas for single poems will be ignored if they don’t bring something radically new to me.
  If I live to be a hundred I will most certainly return to poetry, in one way or another, though. For now a prolonged break feels very right. What started in 1989 as hesitant and coincidental steps has at this point run its course. And it feels strange writing that, but not wrong.
  The problem is, as you might guess, even as I sit here writing this, that the ideas keep flooding me like a waterfall.
  I expected nothing less…

  One Sherwood Forest
  210. night 12068, in the 13. year in the time of the Twilight Storm.

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