It's nice that all of you sitting in here know how it is. You do not need to be persuaded or be introduced or charmed. We know the reality that poetry does not help.
Not when it really matters. When people die, the earth burns and the anxiety hit like a amaryllis. When the pure horror showing is the poem is not there.
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much later, when we still in some strange way is alive, though we may not even want it or know how we are going to stand out with that days completely disrespectful just rolls on, as the poem comes to the rescue. Not by giving some förnumstiga advice, thanks for that. Or with some wet medlidsamhet as creepy smeared around on the face.
Nah, the poem that saves the life, at least for a while, is the one who calmly and attentively take care of their chores. Much like verne in His quotes that initiates a Tua forsström's poetry:
”the Real live for me is really just verne that I watched a long time while he, with serious countenance, sitting at a small stream and over and over again washed the same äppelklyfta, which, he hoped, by this cleansing far beyond any reasonable thoroughness, able to escape from here where he, so to say, without private åtgörande had ended up in the wrong world.”
is a special raccoon. Australian wire-haired, very rare. I see her sitting at a lake. The same lake as always, I imagine, and wash the same small ordbit over and over again. A äppelklyfta. The word hare. The word grass. The word death though it is called girl. There is not any förnuftighet in this. The girl is still and forever dead. The hare runs and the grass grows. Anyway seems this slim collection of poems that truly live in a way that is magical.
”Notes” is a collection of poetry in five suites, in the last begin each poem with the line ”to learn and not forget”. It is important remember of course, but the most important thing we forget, if it hurts or is dangerous. Therefore, we must learn to cherish the love that hurt so much that we never want to have it (fixed it we want). And the children we loved so much, though they are not children anymore and we can't wear them in our weak arms.
And every time I try to write this clearly and straight so dwell or I want to twist me, or go for the easy irony or smart sharp for it can be pathetic and embarrassing and I wish I were a raccoon at a stream.
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the shame of the body, Tua Forsström, I think. How can she write so ogarderat easily. I have read this book probably fifteen times, and I start to cry each time. Especially when they are this idiotic, simple lines, just stands there, with the empty whiteness around, and constitute the entire poem: ”the Little grasses / little ones grass”.
How rentvättad can a äppelklyfta be?
”Come back to this room, the voice says,” it says in one of the poems. I know that the poem longs for, will not. There is a place where, as always, is up to But I am reading sucked in, in that room, and you know me – which I think is the truly magnificent with Tua forsström's poetry – still welcome. Come on in and sit here, " says the book. Watch the hare and the grass. Have you seen how cleverly verne twists his paws?