Seven poems by the Danish poet, and the author of seven collections of poetry and three books of short fiction, as part of World Poetry/Prose Portfolio, curated by Sudeep Sen. Hav's most recent book, Øjeblikke af lykke (Moments of Happiness) was published in 2020 

The dream of going home

and walking in clogs forever.

No more running around lost and stressed out in an airport,

taking part in futile receptions,

wasting time in useless meetings.

Living with a blank calendar

at a respectful distance from everyone.

Standing at the gable and staring

after the migratory birds

in March and October,

content

not having to go anywhere.

Listening to the wind

going hunting for a while

comfortable with one’s fear.

Seeing the sun rise and set

without problems,

pissing in peace

against one’s own fence post.

Standing in one’s clogs

and studying the stars

like a human being.

Is that too much

to demand of life?

The anaesthetists discuss astronomy

elevating in the lift

while patients arrive in taxis

accompanied or not by family.

The universe

consists of 100 billion galaxies.

If there are sentient civilizations

on just a millionth of those planets

we are far from alone.

Outside: cold rain,

December.

A sick person

sitting in the waiting room

among frayed magazines

with his threadbare life

has only one single prayer.

*

We want to leave traces

in words.

But language is no private invention.

To love, to be abandoned;

to discover the clock that counts the seconds

inside the body. The pain in the light,

fury,

helpless grief. Language knows all that.

What then is my own? Is it possible

to gain personal experience

and attach words to it

that are not simply conventional?

To make an addition?

Something has happened, something big,

yet I cannot explain

what it is.

Assertions betray themselves.

I must accept my embarrassment –

and listen to the words

reproducing with reality

everywhere.

Letters

no one has written

never arrive.

Snow covers the churchyard.

A taxi waits outside          

for ten years.                                                        

The dead have no telephones.

The wind sedated us mildly

as we strolled along the beach, three brothers

adults in adult clothes and taking long

adult strides

That’s why we turned around and walked back

through the dunes, calling each other’s names

which we still remembered. It was October

and the meadows were under water

But there at the edge of embankment stood God’s

blue Morris forgotten in the lyme grass

like a suicide caught in his own doubts.

A wreck without engine or wheels

The doors were open as if someone

had just left. But it was only the wind

drifting sand in to arrange

an exhibition beneath the seat

Rust had eaten at the car, the physics of wind

and rain drove knives beneath the paint.

Then the present arrived. We had to turn around

and recognize each other over the worn roof

Destroyed by memories and desire, adult and childish

faces against the slow moving time of the beach.

We crept into this Einstein-machine to kill time

or to allow our transformation

The one,

who says nothing

imagines

the silence

that surrounds his silence

says everything.

But that silence

speaks in its own voice

that’s the problem.

What’s most important happens

in the silent zone

but no one can control that.

There angels and demons speak in chorus.

If you want something said

you’ll have to say it yourself.

To wake up at night with a brain filled with insane

speculations is not so special,

most people have to face a monster.  

Some have to take meds to bear the pain,

to survive a loss or slip out of a depression.

They feel totally abandoned and alone

with the ogres — that’s how it is.

The devil walks about like a roaring lion.

Others make do with whatever dope is on the market

in retail:  tobacco, coffee, alcohol, orgies in food

or in asceticism.  Some succeed in disappearing

into work, or some other splendid passion.

We build small empires in the hope that they’ll serve

as fixtures for our homeless spirits on the day

we leave our bodies and step into eternity.

Everyone wants to leave their tracks – in gratitude

for being granted permission to walk on the planet and enjoy

it’s beauty; granted permission to love and hate

to the normal extent in a body with a normal address.

The task is for us to decipher our common experiences;

the horror and the misery that surround us, cling

to our clothes and seep into all of our bodies.

To notice what’s going on, and if possible

to say things as they are.