The Writer Poem by Malte Persson

Heaven - I jot down - above his head
is like an ancient iron pan
where fried stars are left
to cool off, like ideas. Everything
turned over, turned around, trying
to formulate itself - that's how it feels:
To be unable to see anything unfiltered.
To be unable to see anything without
reformulating it: Everything
(life: the living and the lived)
turned over, spiraling through
everything. In my pocket
a pen and a notepad to pick
the world-fruits with.
He has (who knows why?)
decided to write,
to write about


2

In a line for introspection.
A possible title: "Monotaur".
I buy new blackness, black toner
for my printer, on the internet.
I launder (dark things),
carrying bags of clothes over snow.
I cross out things to do
from a coffee-stained list.
Never finishing the last.
I forget to empty the pockets
of my jeans - fragments of poetry
will turn into fluff.
I think of apples and the novel.

Translation: Hildred Crill & Malte Persson