Monday 30 March 2015

'Somewhere' quartet by the Danish poet Katrine Marie Guldager


somewhere in the world i

Somewhere in the world there lies a city
and somewhere in the city there lies a child asleep.
Somewhere in the dream I have seen you
and somewhere in the dream the dream
is not only a dream but a tall, fine sentence
with hair under its arms
and personality.

Somewhere in the world there lies a city
and in that city there lies a house
that is not a dream.
Somewhere in the world there lies a house
I have come to inhabit.

Somewhere in the world I was born
and somewhere in the world
my childhood home is on fire.
There is a house
that is not a story.
There is a house
that is not a person
and there

there I was born


somewhere in the world ii

Somewhere in the world there is a city
and somewhere in the city there is a cemetery.
Somewhere in the world there is a city
where all the stories lie buried in the cemetery.
Along with all the dead.
Along with the teeth of the dark.

The slimy words are born
in their own slimy darkness
and somewhere in the dark they are frightened
at their own power.
Everyone wants to tell a story:
It was that winter
that man
that feeling
and the story chooses a handful of circumstances
and leaves the rest where it lies.

Somewhere in the world there is a house
where I cannot be persuaded to anything
where the mouth is full of shining stones.


somewhere in the world iii

Somewhere in the world there is someone
who thrusts a knife into the shark’s soft belly.
Somewhere in the world the poems slip silently out
like reddish intestines.

And somewhere in the world there is a forest.
Somewhere in the forest thousands of ants leave
their bitter home, full of shame
carrying their torn-up leaves
torn-up sheets:
Crushed dreams.
Black will, pride.
For now is the time:

To find a place in the world,
To find that tiny still point around which all the rest whirls.
That dot.
That meeting:
Which is not death
just reminiscent of it.


somewhere in the world iv

Somewhere in the world time stands still.
Somewhere in my heart
my first sweetheart and I haven’t broken it off yet.
Somewhere in my heart
I land the pick-up in the grooves of the lp.

Everything is still so intact.

Somewhere in the world I lean back in a plane seat
keep a lookout for the stewardess
think about opening a book and reading a bit about
a Russian poet:
Excuse me, is it alright to give birth here?

But somewhere in my heart I’ve long since landed.
I rev up in a blue Volvo
that has already left the station, the city,
that place in the world.

I sit in the car listening to the radio and smoking.
For somewhere in the world I’ll always be a smoker.
Afternoon, dusk.
You can see me now.

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