*
It’s dark in here.
*
I see clearer now. Thin afternoon light from a square
window high on the wall, a line across the cracked
floorboards. Soft quiver of dust there between light and darkness.
Hanging from the ceiling; large blankets of coarse wool. Dry tingling in the tips of
my fingers when I touch them.
*
Next to the door a brown uniform jacket with buttons turning green, I see
sleeves worn thin, full of darker spots.
Smell of leather and worn clothes as I walk across the floor. Human clothing.
Against the wall a small brown-painted chest. When the lid swings up towards the
wall, fine rust sprinkles from the hinges. Uneven letters have been
cut with a knife underneath the lid.
Dreng Salmondsen. Almost unreadable in the half darkness. Underneath linen
shirts and clothes of dark wool there’s a small cardboard box. The lid is smooth
and white, the bottom is red. A weak sweet smell when the lid comes off, almost
nothing. I turn, into the line of light.
(6)
*
Two pieces of paper from a calendar.
Twelfth of May Fifth of October
Small comb of matte metal
Blue embroidered letters on linen fabric: Jesus
Brown photograph of a woman with a big mouth
For Anne from Hege
Spoon with dark lines
*
When I walk up the steep stairway, mild air on my skin. A weak sound
escapes the wood with each step.
Out there eyes are being filled with pale sun. I lean against the wall, and feel
blood pulsing in my palms. My blood, an even weak rhythm.
*
March, snow is wet.
Light is all around the grey corners of the house.
(7)
*
From the bed I see the moon through uneven
glass windows,
Moon with unmoving face.
Shiny matte
and a thin ring around it.
The wind has gone quiet in the trees, in the tall lark,
in low bushes by the stone fence.
Somewhere in the darkness; red berries under
moist leaves.
*
I think of narrow men and pale children
(16)
*
The boat glides out from land, out from the river bank where heather grows high.
In hazy air a young man is making his way over shiny water. Headlands lie in
shadow, water is silver.
Beyond the cape he stands still in the boat, the piece of string from his hands a
matte stripe.
There man and boat are almost one with water and light, see-through
and shaking with big holes of silver.
As he gets close to the other side, he disappears from my eyes.
(17)
*
The smell of grass that falls under the scythe,
and a light cloud of yellow dust with each
stroke. Men in a line, white
shirts and pants of homespun black wool.
They move evenly forwards,
long, round movements singing in their bodies.
Underneath wide hats the face I know.
When I lie on my back in the grass,
heat collects and overpowers.
*
Hege, sister, thin in a blue dress, stands
on the hill and calls:
Anne, come.
(20)
*
On top of the hill
Two men under low clouds
Clear faces in the wind, clear eyes
And a thin flute, the sound over dry forest earth
Breath against silver
(25)
*
Five in the morning. It’s getting light outside.
Still all sounds are indistinct and distant, behind a film of wax. I feel
warmth from my own body, feel the heaviness in me. Human.
A warm body.
Sometimes I think there’s a spiral twisting deep into the earth, without
restraint, almost unnoticeably it twists around. Twists me around, when I lie
on my back with my eyes closed.
*
When I sit halfway up, I look out into the grey
morning. Out there the gate is open in the rain.
It’s getting light. The clock shows five, and I can’t sleep.
(30)
*
Blood streams down on thick hardwood boards, out from the open sheep’s
stomach. Blood on white wool. Red steaming stomach, white smooth membrane
over all that meat. Meat
meat. Food for humans, for me. Red warm. Hide me
The sheep’s eyes twitch long after the strike, flies are crawling over the inversed
eyeball, they sew themselves to it, they live.
Tongue out between short teeth. Legs strangely strained and stiff.
Torjus has warm wet hands, thin blood-water streams down and
blends with the mud around his boots.
I stand and feel my body warm in the wind,
my pulse beating in my temples.
They lead the last sheep out.
(31)
*
Sunday afternoon.
Hymns that taste of limestone and white altar table cloths.
Afterwards empty for a long time. Walk around with bare
feet, in a room of wide organ pipes and
vibrating old voices.
*
The weather vane is pointing north, unmoving.
*
The clock on the wall continues with even dry snaps.
On the table a black insect,
round and round in little circles.
(34)
*
Walk on roads when shingle is grey and wet.
Swallows dipping down from the sky,
low over wet fields.
Look at my own hands. See small muscles
move, and hair like down against light.
Can’t stand those hands. They’re a little big,
and mine.
*
Down on the hills a man is plowing in the rain.
Johannes.
(35)
*
Wind blows through days, nights.
Wind and light in the maple tree when I awake.
Dark wind in the evening.
Float sleeping on streams of wind over a wide night.
Shiny see-through skin under my eyes in the mirror,
dry skin with little cracks in my palms.
Little boys stand on ropes and feel the wind
breathe, feel it lifting wide shirts. They tread easily,
with long steps, and roll around in the grass.
*
When I open the door, wind blows against my face,
I walk with short quick breaths. Down on the plains
I have to bend forwards and button the wool jacket
high in my throat.
(41)
*
Man is born of Woman, is of few days, and full of Trouble. He cometh forth like
a Flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a Shadow, and continueth not. For now
thou numberest my Steps: dost thou not watch over my sin? The Waters wear the
Stones: thou washest away the things which grow out of the dust of the Earth; and
thou destroyest the Hope of Man.
Job. Lean shadow. I sat by your side in the ashes, but you didn’t see me.
(42)
*
I walk over the mire, little bubbles escape the mud in between
patches of moss. Down there short light-red plants. Juicy stems and threads with
rows of sticky drops, clear in the light, they stick to the skin when
you touch them. If you bend down, you see flies stuck there. Dry shells
of flies. Brown water into my shoes now. My hair frizzes in the
humid air.
*
Slide through the landscape, slide in behind walls, tired.
Days are tightening around my body.
Hollow days of lye, of ash.
(43)
*
A dry cough is tearing at my chest, chasing black dots in front of my eyes.
Every so often I have to sit and rest my forehead in my hands.
Afterwards breaths like long knives in there.
Sometimes I walk out under the maple when it starts.
It has happened that I’ve lied down flat in the grass.
It has happened that I’ve tasted salt in my mouth.
(45)
*
Deep hollow spots between tendons on top of my hand. Every day deeper, a
little deeper. Skin tight over hips, bones protrude clearly, hard and
pointed. When the cough tears, I think the bones are coming out, digging their way
through the membrane of skin. I put my hands over my chest and hold on.
Close my eyes and hold, as I’m coughing up something with foaming
light red stripes. Coming from down there. From me.
The night brings burning cheeks, drives a great unrest through the body, long
stakes of fire and ice, holding me to the bed and burning me. Every night.
Icefrost in the fire. My eyelids close.
(48)
*
They say I have to go away. They turn away, and say I will be
healthy. They say calm, clear pure air, sunshine, white beds, help, medicine,
invigorating baths.
They say it will be good. Soon.
They pack clothing in a box, they come to get me, keep me steady, help me
into the carriage. They drive me off. Early morning, they stand there
and watch as I leave. April morning. I hold my head back
and hold on tight to the seat. I’m going away.
(50)
*
Tired, unquenchable, taut across a blanket of warm wool.
Jitter like heavy fire back and forth through my body, burns me dry.
The tall clock ticks, drives pieces of metal into unmoving
arms, leaves sharp grains of marble under my eyelids.
Weight of my head against soft down, soon everything must tear. Fall soon.
Streams of hot milk in my limbs, heavier than sea and mountain.
*
Sleep, right through a dense winter, wake up on the other side, open my eyes
and walk out warm into melting snow.
(58)
*
Her forehead is cold and wet. She lies with her eyes closed, opens them sometimes,
and then immediately closes them. Shiny eyes. Sharp twitches
through her body, you see muscles underneath thin skin, see them
stay taut a while, and quiver. Breathing is shorter now, and heavier, interrupted by
coughs. Coughs that drive blood out to the edges of her mouth. She is given half a
glass of water in which there is half a teaspoon of kitchen salt, then ice cold milk,
spoon by spoon.
(64)
*
. . . . Warm holes in my mouth . . . . Horselights . . . . Dead
men in red hats . . . . Summer-rain . . . . Winter
organ . . . . O MY SOUL IT WANDERS . . . . Bleeding
from the butter . . . . Fiddles twisted hands . . . .
Lazarus without peace . . . . in the wilderness . . . . AMONG THE
MANY THINGS OF THIS WORLD . . . .
Face will soon form big cracks
Little men with drums and whistles
are moving now
(67)
*
The next day the room is washed with concentrated green soap water, with
ammonium chloride added to remove the bad smell that has set in the walls. It
smells like wet wood for a long time, clean wood and green soap.
*
Windows stay open a few more days, in strong eastern wind.
(72)