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Sunday, June 28, 2015

Bo Gordzelak Pedersen, Denmark, painter and poet: texts and paintings by Bo G.Pedersen

( Desert rose)

(Lake in the forest)

 (Landscape at dusk)

(In the woods)

Poem for St. John
Tell me, what is most empty, a day or a night?
With its lack of long enough reasons, or just the white light
yellowing. Stars. Then another cup of coffee.
Maybe language is, like when it's snowing and you
hide in an old shed.
Or raining, books of that –
with chapters on hours dripping from dying trees.
Let us ask about the landscape and get
no answers in return. There is no one here,
only these starling questions blackening,
spotting our eyes as if a sudden fall,
while we were numb,
had spread its wings to the end.
What beginning is the most empty, the one
that comes with flowers in hand,
or where you start to kneel with all that is broken?
Out of the zone of the spoken:
time, religiously, feeds on who we are.

( The empty grave, sold)

(The burning bush, sold)

I have the fall in my soul today
with its crackling of dry orange leaves
in hands of days much greater than me.

The swelling of something  that is nothing in my throat,

and the almost bursting of a blue deer's eyes,
caught, as it is, in its silent animal skin.

The rising moon wants Jimi Hendrix,

and I will give it.

And I will give myself to it, and prepare.

Already up there, which we cannot see,

some black stars are birds in flight. 

(The mushroom hunt)

Again we have so little, we
return to this, the just rubbing against
the bark.

How naked we are, how old.
Our Greek souls still haunting us, our
echoing music. 
But those intervals inbetween …

How naked we are
with our hands.

Somebody came to tell me
what I already had suspected,
that if there is no God for us 
to compare ourselves with,
our love is as real as it gets.

( Winter Mist)

(Terrain vague)

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