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I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embrace a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

Godt sagt! (2) Varsle Svar

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

Godt sagt! (4) Varsle Svar

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern….

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of that?
I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

Godt sagt! (0) Varsle Svar

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Ann Helen EHelena ENickBookiacJohn LarsenAmanda ATrude OmaDemeterSigrid Blytt TøsdalSverreBjørg L.Astrid Terese Bjorland SkjeggerudJulie StensethNicolai Alexander StyveJoannTorill RevheimKirsten LundMorten MüllerMarit AamdalMarenKaren PatriciaElisabeth SveeTore OlsenJakob SæthreTonje-Elisabeth StørkersenHavÅsmund ÅdnøyJarmo LarsenHenrik  Holtvedt AndersenLars MæhlumAnniken RøilbrekellinoronilleEvaVibekeMats L.Karamasov11Emil ChristiansenIngeborg GLaila