It happens that recently I wrote two poems, in quite a wild act of nostalgia. They aren’t much – more like a description of a feeling you get on a sunny day. Besides the fact of their simplicity, I still wanted to share them.
A poet of workers and life on the edge of Oslo. Despite his really precocious death, at the age of 28, he left us with three volume of poems. På stengrunn (On stony ground 1925), På gjensyn (On reunion 1926), and posthumously Hverdagen (Everyday).
The author of The Birds (Fuglane) and The Ice Palace (Is-slottet) is mostly known for his novels. However, not only he wrote novels, but also multitude of poems, such us Regn i Hiroshima, and Det ror og ror, whereas I translated myself the first one.
Remeber when I wrote about finding the weird statue or stone thing on little island in Hamar? If you haven’t read that, here’s link. As I promised, I will put the translation of the poem that’s on it, and all the information that I could gather about it. Enjoy!
Born in Oslo after the Second World War, inspired by André Breton, famous french writer and the leader of surrealistic movement. He created a whole world himself, just before he decided to end his life. Because life is sometimes too much to handle. But before he did this gruesome decision, he was the most influential modernist poet in ’80s and ’90s. His works are short, meaningful and for someone who’s not used to poetry – can be quite weird. His poetry isn’t called the background noise of the universe (David Winters at Full Stop) for no reason. Here are some of his poems that I’ve picked (and those who had english translation). Continue reading “Tor Ulven – the tragic poet.”
When it comes to poetry, I’m quite fond of it. It’s nice when something as simply as words can combine to such meaningful creations, and also not only define our world, but create its own definition of it. Norway is a country of many talented poets, among others – Sigbjørn Obstfelder, a poet from 19th century.
Today something different. To be more specific – a poem, I wrote after a walk through the forest. Because what’s better time for an ode, than the last day of the year?