October 1, 2004

• Poems Of Ingar Gørse

  
  

   

  
  

  “Beautiful Little Flower”
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  beautiful little flower,
  

  
  

  but always alone,
  

  
  

  spending her days
  

  
  

  dreaming about men
  

  
  

  that she will never embrace;
  

  
  

  for the years now make
  

  
  

  unkind lines on her face.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  she watches babies grow,
  

  
  

  children dancing outside her flat;
  

  
  

  as untouchable as the music,
  

  
  

  as silent as the snow.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  always in love, but never loved,
  

  
  

  she hides behind the alter of fear,
  

  
  

  and she watches her dreams crumble
  

  
  

  and turn into tears.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  the wind laughs all around her
  

  
  

  mocking her aching bones,
  

  
  

  beautiful little flower,
  

  
  

  she’s always so alone.
  

  
  

  
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  (Untitled)
  

  
  

  ________
  

  
  

  
   

  
  

  i want the moon
  

  
  

  to dance for you
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  to glitter in the lakes
  

  
  

  of your brown eyes.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  i know i can do it,
  

  
  

  i know i can teach the moon
  

  
  

  i have done it before
  

  
  

  when i was a child.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  i went to where the mountains gathered
  

  
  

  and i went and spoke
  

  
  

  the language of the trolls
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  and the moon smiled at me
  

  
  

  and it danced for me
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  like it will dance for you
  

  
  

  my little one.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ah, my little one
  

  
  

  with skin as white
  

  
  

  as the rays of the moon
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  your smile dances too,
  

  
  

  you, my own little moon.
  

  
  

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  “The Man of Ice”
  

  
  

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  in his white gloves
  

  
  

  the smile melts
  

  
  

  as if it was made of snow.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  out onto the ice
  

  
  

  his excuses fall,
  

  
  

  frozen ideas. hated by us all.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  the tutting nod
  

  
  

  on his great fat head
  

  
  

  sways to and fro like an englishman’s.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  even a troll will be
  

  
  

  more understanding to us
  

  
  

  than this cold man of ice.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  the man of ice
  

  
  

  shakes hands with a german officer,
  

  
  

  which is why
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  he does not love us.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  we can not pay nearly enough
  

  
  

  for him to be
  

  
  

  upon our side.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  a shot rings out
  

  
  

  through the air,
  

  
  

  as we run the man of ice
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  laughs.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “it will be a cold summer throughout Norway”
  

  
  

  says all,
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  all but the man of ice.
  

  
  

  
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  (Untitled)
  

  
  

  ________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  she is softly turning in her sleep
  

  
  

  whilst inside her head, fires rage
  

  
  

  demons scream out for her soul
  

  
  

  and her little ones lie snapped
  

  
  

  on metal prongs.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  and yet you would not think it so
  

  
  

  to see her soft face there,
  

  
  

  to hear her gentle snore
  

  
  

  and to touch her small hands.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  but oh, i know it is so,
  

  
  

  because i too dream of those demons
  

  
  

  the demons that i saw only yesterday
  

  
  

  moving quietly up the mountain.
  

  
  

  __________________________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  (Untitled)

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  we dance in no moonlight,
  

  
  

  when the clouds are thick
  

  
  

  and where our shadows do not exist.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  we dance in the fields,
  

  
  

  as we collect the eggs,
  

  
  

  and the shadows are so thin
  

  
  

  that we women can not see them.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  we dance in the kitchens
  

  
  

  we dance with our babies,
  

  
  

  we dance where the shadows
  

  
  

  are light and fresh.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  for when the men wake,
  

  
  

  angry and bitter,
  

  
  

  they will beat us women hard
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  for having shadows of our own.
  

  
  

  
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  “The Infinitive Horizon”
  

  
  

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  (“The horizon of Norway never sleeps” Ibson.)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  where the horizon
  

  
  

  is a mirage,
  

  
  

  a shimmering cloud
  

  
  

  of either snow or insects,
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  and where i take
  

  
  

  my child to bathe
  

  
  

  in hot steaming waters,
  

  
  

  or to play
  

  
  

  in the ice-mirrors
  

  
  

  of twisting trolls…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  that is where i call heaven,
  

  
  

  that is where i want to be
  

  
  

  when i pass breathing
  

  
  

  and perhaps thinking…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  let me go there
  

  
  

  to where the eyes strain to see,
  

  
  

  and where you can never touch
  

  
  

  and never reach out to…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  let me be
  

  
  

  always looking upon this world
  

  
  

  of blue and green and white,
  

  
  

  the world where i was born
  

  
  

  and where i shall die.
  

  
  

  ——————————

  
  

  Ingar Gørse

  • 12:11 pm
  • 47 Comments