A man down by the stream, and other poems
A man down by the stream
The sky is completely white.
It is scary like a fossil without history.
Remnants of spider webs
are hanging like abandoned ideas
about some final authority.
Weird egg shells, bad glue.
Happily, pigeons are still taking breaks
in boat-shaped moments, rain gutters, indentations
suitable for the purpose.
I see a man down by the stream
who seems to be looking for a pair of oars
without ever having
required a boat for himself,
but who knows, maybe the right oars
will appear in the grass some day.
The most important thing for him, he tells me,
quickly and while passing by, is to find them alone.
His glance is like a cat arching its back, a setting of
sails. No one should tell him anything, so most people
avoid that. Sometimes his hood is pulled up so hard
his face is similar to a giant withdrawn
eye ready to be shot out like some cannonball.
He has blinded himself
with something he thought of as light
for years.
A kind of lighthouse in the process of
absorbing itself.
I see a few kids walk by him. They pat his head
like they would do with a snowman,
The snow must not become too loose,
they say
before moving on.
*
The missed gaze of the animal
This is what I missed: the gaze
of the animal
upon the wild.
The gazes of the animals all in all.
There was not a single goat,
a single cow, on this trip.
Their warm bodies’ uproar and calm
placed a rooting of absence in the map
I subconsciously had brought along.
I walked and walked as if to step something up.
Until I noticed it and started to walk without
consideration for my shadows.
The landscape was awaiting the arrival of those animals.
In the way only they can hang out by the foot of a tree.
I felt like an apprentice who had arrived too early
at a workplace.
That, which lies outside any doubt,
lie around, collected itself
as each branch on the sky.
This is how we greet each other, something said,
which seemed to come from everywhere.
And in this way that trip was encapsulated.
It was, of course, not something I decided.
*
Mimingus, the forest troll, speaks
My nails. They are cold and blue like the place I live.
In the shade. In the shade that is.
Someone would say that I scratch a bit in reality.
Which reality?
Besides this very little is said about me
so I insist on taking the word here.
My bed rest is creeping. My limbs are slow.
Except on special occasions where I run so fast
many cannot even see me.
I utter short, abrupt sounds with long intervals
of silence. I love silence, just as I love all the beings
who inhabit my area. Because, make no mistake:
This is my area. If you consider yourself something
else besides a guest here, you are not brave, you are
foolhardy.
Once upon a time a long time ago I found a giant egg
stuck within the side of a cliff. As if the cliff itself had
spontaneously broken partially through the egg. And
as if time itself broke out in several streams. I tell you
I truly believe in the value of trance. During a trance one
can translate something in such a radical way it can forget
Itself completely. I once translated a stone to a tortoise.
It simply started by elevating itself above itself, that is
becoming the shell, and then started walking. A tortoise
moving is a sight for gods. The signs of the motion sketches
out something ancient. A breath. Like those many one can sense
when being completely quiet out there at the coasts. All those
who have been there before. All those who come after you.
Honored be their collections. Honored be their faces, hidden
or open.
In my dreams my nails turn red. They bloom. And then I start
to soar. During the day I sometimes tell my dreams that they
have to remain calm, because there are things to do. Because,
believe it or not, even to a forest troll there are many chores.
I fold parts of the forest floor into patterns that delight a deer.
It takes a lot of years to truly understand what pleases the
aesthetics of a deer. The infinite aspects of this kind of study
can make many beings stop. But to stop is not an option. It is
a job that needs to be done, and as many, who are not afraid
of singing, know, is holy. Oh well, one can take a break but that
is it. While the heart becomes big and life is celebrated, even in
totally inscrutable, inaccessible ways, the job is carried out with
a longing towards both the past and the future. A longing which
must not be exaggerated.
RUNE KJÆR RASMUSSEN
Rune Kjær Rasmussen is an animist, writer, singer, and occasional painter from Denmark.