Signe Gjessing
'The spring transports'
The spring transports
poling up and poling down to hell
as the sea cuts itself on the bottle floating on it,
a branch patterned in cold sweat. It breaks down with the bones of ideas.
Idea
floats like the transition
between child and adult
which are remelting
into the interconnected waters of hell
basins are smashed or ground down, regardless, I rise
obstinate in diamonds, scooped up, the scoop is worth more than the soup.
The basin parodies distant galaxies, so confident about its origin
that it dares to pick a fight with the mosaics of others—the origin stares at me,
I’m also confident. I can tear mosaics off and give them to
stars
like plants that grow outside the horse’s fence. Life’s mosaic,
I’ll keep. For God’s sake, the galaxy is wide open, like madness,
but only like.
.
On the way home, I crash into the sun
on its way down
like candlelight lit
in an already existing fire.
I use up the tongue like a lighter of
loneliness.
.
The writing crackles
with waves from the nervous hand gestures
like the radio crackles with noise from the Big Bang.
Signed the sun. As if the signature were taken out of everything.
Moonlight is cultivated by our growing hair.
From: Ud i det u-løse
Publisher: First publication on poetryinternational.com, , 2023
'De bron stuurt'
De bron stuurt
pilaar op en pilaar neer naar de hel
zoals de zee die drinkt uit de fles die in haar drijft,
een tak met een patroon van koud zweet. Breekt
met de botten van alle ideeën.
Idee
drijft als de overgang
tussen kind en volwassene
die omgesmolten wordt
tot het in geledingen verdeelde water van de hel,
bassins worden gesloopt of geslepen, ongeacht hoe, sta ik op,
tegenstribbelend in diamant, word opgeschept, de soeplepel is meer waard dan de soep.
Het bassin is een parodie van verre sterrenstelsels, zo zeker is het van haar oorsprong
dat het ruzie durft te zoeken met de mozaïeken van anderen – de oudjes staren naar mij,
ik ben er ook zeker van. Ik kan mozaïeken losrukken en ze geven aan
sterren
als planten die buiten het hek van het paard groeien. Het mozaïek van het leven
houd ik. Verdorie, het sterrenstelsel staat wijd open, als een krankzinnigheid
maar alleen maar als.
.
Op weg naar huis bots ik tegen de zon,
die aan het ondergaan is,
als een theelichtje
wordt aangestoken in een al bestaand vuur.
Ik maak mijn tong op als een aansteker van
eenzaamheid.
.
Het schrift schettert
met golven van handbewegingen van de nerveuze
zoals de radio schettert met lawaai van de Big Bang.
Was getekend de zon. De handtekening is als uit het heelal genomen.
De maneschijn wordt geteeld met ons groeiende haar.
From: Ud i det u-løse
Publisher: 2023, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
'Kilden sender'
Kilden sender,
stolpe op og stolpe ned ad helvede
som havet, der slår sig på flasken, der flyder på det,
en gren mønstret i koldsved. Den knækker sammen
med alle ideernes knogler.
Idé
flyder som overgangen
mellem barn og voksen,
der smeltes om
til helvedes leddelte vand,
bassiner smadres eller slibes, uanset hvad, opstår jeg,
vrangvillig i diamant, øses op, øsen er mere værd end suppen.
Bassinet parodierer fjerne galakser, så sikkert er det på sit ophav
at det tør yppe kiv med andres mosaikker - ophavet stirrer på mig,
jeg er også sikker. Jeg kan rive mosaikker af og give dem til
stjerner
som planter, der vokser uden for hestens hegn. Livets mosaik
beholder jeg. For søren, galaksen står på vid gab, som et galskab,
men kun som.
.
På vejen hjem ramler jeg ind i solen,
der er på vej ned,
som et fyrfadslys
tændes i en allerede eksisterende ild.
Jeg opbruger tungen som en lighter af
ensomhed.
.
Skriften skratter
med bølger fra den nervøses håndbevægelser
som radioen skratter med støj fra Big Bang.
Signeret solen. Signaturen er som taget ud af altet.
Måneskinnet opdyrkes med vores voksende hår.
From: Ud i det u-løse
Publisher: Gyldendal,
'The spring transports'
The spring transports
poling up and poling down to hell
as the sea cuts itself on the bottle floating on it,
a branch patterned in cold sweat. It breaks down with the bones of ideas.
Idea
floats like the transition
between child and adult
which are remelting
into the interconnected waters of hell
basins are smashed or ground down, regardless, I rise
obstinate in diamonds, scooped up, the scoop is worth more than the soup.
The basin parodies distant galaxies, so confident about its origin
that it dares to pick a fight with the mosaics of others—the origin stares at me,
I’m also confident. I can tear mosaics off and give them to
stars
like plants that grow outside the horse’s fence. Life’s mosaic,
I’ll keep. For God’s sake, the galaxy is wide open, like madness,
but only like.
.
On the way home, I crash into the sun
on its way down
like candlelight lit
in an already existing fire.
I use up the tongue like a lighter of
loneliness.
.
The writing crackles
with waves from the nervous hand gestures
like the radio crackles with noise from the Big Bang.
Signed the sun. As if the signature were taken out of everything.
Moonlight is cultivated by our growing hair.
From: Ud i det u-løse
Publisher: 2023, First publication on poetryinternational.com,
'The spring transports'
The spring transports
poling up and poling down to hell
as the sea cuts itself on the bottle floating on it,
a branch patterned in cold sweat. It breaks down with the bones of ideas.
Idea
floats like the transition
between child and adult
which are remelting
into the interconnected waters of hell
basins are smashed or ground down, regardless, I rise
obstinate in diamonds, scooped up, the scoop is worth more than the soup.
The basin parodies distant galaxies, so confident about its origin
that it dares to pick a fight with the mosaics of others—the origin stares at me,
I’m also confident. I can tear mosaics off and give them to
stars
like plants that grow outside the horse’s fence. Life’s mosaic,
I’ll keep. For God’s sake, the galaxy is wide open, like madness,
but only like.
.
On the way home, I crash into the sun
on its way down
like candlelight lit
in an already existing fire.
I use up the tongue like a lighter of
loneliness.
.
The writing crackles
with waves from the nervous hand gestures
like the radio crackles with noise from the Big Bang.
Signed the sun. As if the signature were taken out of everything.
Moonlight is cultivated by our growing hair.
From: Ud i det u-løse
Publisher: 2023, First publication on poetryinternational.com,
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