About the Author

I Poets & Poetics

In Defense of Poets
My Fantastic Pen
The Poem
On His Blindness 1-3

II Love

Blind Man's Bluff
Women of Copenhagen
When I Go Blind
Show Me Your Breasts
Café Pushkin
The Soul Dance in Its Cradle

III Conclusions

Deepest Inside All
Tokyo, Encore
The Vietnamese Arises
The Conclusion
Visit from My Father
The Marrow


World Voices Home

The Literary Explorer
Writers on the Job
Books Forgotten
Thomas E. Kennedy
Walter Cummins
Web Del Sol

My Fantastic Pen

I prefer writing
with a used pen found in the street
or with a promotional pen, gladly one from the electricians,
the gas station or the bank.
Not just because they are cheap (free),
but I imagine that such an implement
will fuse my writing with industry
the sweat of skilled labourers, administrative offices
and the mystery of all existence.

Once I wrote meticulous poems with a fountain pen
— pure poetry about purely nothing
but now I like shit on my paper
tears and snot.

Poetry is not for sissies!
A poem must be just as honest as the Dow Jones index
— a mixture of reality and sheer bluff.
What has one grown too sensitive for?
Not much.

That's why I keep my eye on the bond market
and serious pieces of paper. The stock exchange
belongs to reality — just like poetry.
And that's why I'm so happy about this ball point pen
from the bank, which I found one dark night
in front of a closed convenience store. It smells
faintly of dog piss, and it writes fantastically.

Translation P.K. Brask & Patrick Friesen
© Niels Hav