The poet 

A bit late perhaps but now he is lauded
like an apostle. When he was alive
he went about and managed on his own
it wasn’t only Mr. Shark the debt collector        
who poisoned the view. His books                                 
were the brunt of all manner of scorn,       
he was suspected of being a folk poet,         
correctly as it turned out.

I met him only once, in an open door.                         
Paralyzed by that diffidence which so often spoiled       
my special moments I stared at my shoes.
He laughed, greeted me with an open gesture;    
a pair of curious eyes took in my person
without judgement, as if to say:
We two could get along.

Once I had sent him some poems,
he published them in a journal.
They are in there still. No more contact.
I was ashamed of my own dismay.
Passed him with a shy nod.

Many years earlier, young and enthusiastic
on my first real visit to Copenhagen
I took the local train to Vangende
Just to walk up and down the main street
searching for the special magic
found in his books. Without success.
Everything looked so disappointing and ordinary.
 

Only decades later I understood why.
The quarter I was intimate with in his books 
is found only there – it’s a mythological place
created by the writer’s fantasy. The Vesterbro
he wrote of hasn’t existed either.
 

Not before now, when we can’t go
to Vesterbro or Vangende without at the same time
entering his dream. It has long ago melted into one
with the real places, because his voice        
set words to something so many of us bear
in our personal baggage. No one could achieve more. 
 

Translated by Heather Spears

© Niels Hav