A BOTTLE-BORN LETTER FOR ROBBEN ISLAND Poem by Jan Erik Vold

I take a felt pen
and draw
an
Indian

on the canvas
of the sky. That is my
monument. That is the help
we're looking

for. I put the sketch in an
envelope
and send it
to Robben Island.

*

Even if I've forgotten
the zip
code. Even
if I've forgotten the bank

account number. Even if I've forgotten
the social service
number, the
passport number, the bicycle

number. I send my letter in a bottle
to be thrown
into the water.
Provided there is an ocean.

*

When the planet no longer
is the
planet. When the magnetic
North Pole

starts to move
like the
migrating
Lapps. When the iceberg falls apart

and turns into
papier
mâché. Glides harmlessly
along the hull of the Titanic.

*

The
word WAR. The word
RAW.
Against this

reality
even Wittgenstein will have to keep
quiet. Stein
gen

witt.
Travelled on to RONWAY. Erality ex
ists. No, ex
pands.

*

How to avoid
the
rain? How
to avoid

the coming
of
dusk? How to avoid
the remote-controlled ravens, released

so deftly
that they leave
no marks. Not on the bodies
of our children.

*

No one is allowed
not to
look
like us. Not

to think like us, not to smile
like us, be in doubt
like
us. Trust

God
like us. Even if every country
were a wasteland.
That is written on the bank notes.

*

Digital
one-thousand-bills, which the poor
will never lay
their hands on. Fingerprints

of people
that got their hands
cut off. The cab driver asked: You pay
cash? Yes

paper money, the passenger
said, you know, those
with a
watermark stamp.

*

Like the modern
dental
drills. The pain comes
neither

before, during or
after.
The enamel
will look like new. It's only the gums

that have
to
be
extracted.

*

She asked: What are all
those cobble
stones
for? Those

you have tilted
up by a
lever? Do you think that the truth
hides

under the pavement? That that's where
they keep
the tram rails
hidden?

*

Even a human
being is made
of
paper. It may be torn

to pieces, it
may be
shorn to shreds, it may be burned. May
be crumpled

up and thrown
into the bin. A piece of paper
will get
no cemetery cross.

*

Old newsreels
from
the combats
on Okinawa. Some

of
the
most
cruel throughout

World War II. Because
of
the
bayonets.

*

A handshake, a firm look, a
human body
in
the one

scale. All the world's
stupidity
in the
other. Bad, we said, when

we were
kids, real bad. A blind mirror.
Two black gloves
in the sunset.