Short Poems

Crossing long fields,
frozen in its saddle,
my shadow creeps by

This is no longer a song, no human
hum. It can be heard reaching
as a last cry, in the depths of night,
of someone who has died.

Hvad Publikum har fundet for et Hold
I hans Produkter er mig ubegribeligt;
Thi allevegne seer man i hans Digt:
En nøgen Philosoph og en paaklædt Apoll.

When you are mixed with many I descry
A single light, and judge the rest thereby.
But when you are alone with me, why then,
I quite forget all women and all men.

The Samian virgins us'd often to play
With Crethis the witty, the pleasant and gay,
But now, when they seek her, she cannot be found,
Their sportive companion sleeps here under ground,
Discharging the debt which to nature we owe;
For all must descend to the regions below.

I hate political poems. Not for me,
the human wad that clogs the great high way.
A love that's everyone's business? Forget it. A drink
from the common trough? No, thanks. The public: yuck.

We are all creatures of flame. The butterfly: the intensity of a short life and fragility become color. My death is like shadow, my life aquiver, a pulse in the light; I am so close to death it makes me proud, cruel and demonic.
Unmoved, I flutter from Helen's lips to Adonis' wound. I love my death, the flame, more than anything.

We are alone in the dark. You up there have lips, rolled-up leaves, hands entwined with rosy blood and bluish veins, we are alone and cannot touch. We live our life fully, our fate is to resist the waves, that is what we become, and triumph and pain color us as the reflection of fall and of the sun colors the waves there near the surfa

Cowboy balladier
Memories rising like smoke
Sad songs, fire and stars

Carelessly over the plain away,
Where by the boldest man no path
Cut before thee thou canst discern,
Make for thyself a path!

Silence, loved one, my heart!
Cracking, let it not break!
Breaking, break not with thee!