I was torn by a thorn on the morning we met. What the hell did you do to me?
It was dark in my heart when the spark of your love found me out in Assisi.
You taught me how to live, how to kiss you madly. Just the thought of you, an’ I miss you badly. There’s nothing else to do but sing this song sadly here in my den.
Can’t you see I’ll never forget you, never regret the day that I met you, never believe that I can’t upset you ever again?
There once was a time every single day was a pantomime. Now that you’ve gone, it’s hard to understand why I’m hanging on.
You taught me how to live, how to kiss you madly. Just the thought of you, an’ I miss you badly. There’s nothing else to do but sing this song sadly here in my den.
Can’t you see I’ll never forget you, never regret the day that I met you, never believe that I can’t upset you ever again?
Not long before my wife died, she asked one thing of me: to remember her after she’d gone. My first thought was: “Well, I’m hardly likely to forget you, am I?” Then she said she wanted me to remember her the way she was before she “blossomed”. My first thought here was that she had already blossomed when I first met her. And I said so. But she was convinced she blossomed later. And she should know. She then said that she wanted me to write poems/songs about her, so “remember” was already then given the nuance of “commemorate”. She added that she wanted me to describe her from before I met her as well. No problem!
Today is our 36th wedding anniversary, the third one since Ann’s death. On the first one I was one of nine of her family members that scattered her ashes at sea from her cousin, Carsten’s, boat just off the island of Hirsholm, which houses the lighthouse she could see from her childhood home.
Family became all-important to Ann in 2012 after the death of her eldest brother, Anders. At her wake I found the speech she gave for him at his funeral in my jacket pocket. She’d learnt it by heart. I read it aloud for the gathering, and we could all see that what she’d said about Anders applied equally well to Ann herself. Here’s my translation:
Dear Anders – we are gathered together around you here today.
And it is with deep sorrow. Mum has to say goodbye to her son. Peter, Pia, Christian, and I – to our big brother. Dun and Else – to their brother-in-law. And Mads, Maja, and Anne – to their uncle. Grethe – to her soulmate and partner. Knud, Ingrid, and Viggo – to their nephew. Søren to his friend and fellow student – and many more along with us…
You were so alive – yes, so full of life and enthusiasm. And so strong. Now we are grieving, and our loss is a great and painful one.
We have lost someone who gave us so much. For us – your loved ones – you were the someone who gave us most. You were the one who was there for each and every one of us and played a part in our lives. The one who helped us, supported us, taught us so much – and understood us. You gave of yourself. And that is the most beautiful thing we human beings can give each other.
Anders – you were a good person! A true human being! And a beautiful person!
You were well-balanced and had integrity. That’s how you found your path in life. And it WAS YOUR PATH. And what a beautiful path you showed us – and so sublime! Even though it ended far too abruptly.
But you were you, Anders! In a class of your own, a unique individual. And the life that was yours was the life that YOU created. Your farm, your forest, and your barn, with your glassmaking and pottery and your creative courses – you created it all.
You did well in life, Anders! So well that you were admired and respected by many others. But for you it was never about the money, the prestige, or the success. No, because you were modest. You never made a big noise – never used big words. Your actions said so much more. They said it all.
For you it was about playing, curiosity, the desire to create, the challenge… that was your motivation – AND THE JOY OF CREATING AND WATCHING LIFE UNFOLD AND BE FULFILLED.
Anders, you always insisted that you were a craftsman. YES! And in all that you created, all that you accomplished IN YOUR WAY, HERE IN LIFE, indeed in the whole way you lived your life, you were also an artist – and a great life artist at that.
And what a gift that the most important thing for you in this life was us – your family, your partner, and your friends! I know I speak for all of us when, with love and gratitude, I say:
Thank you, Anders! Thanks for everything! For everything you were! And for everything you gave! And thank you for letting us join you on your beautiful, sublime path through life.
On our paths – throughout the rest of our lives – we will carry you in our hearts!
THAT’S WHERE YOU BELONG FOREVER!
Ann wrote her final book, a children’s book, Den smilende Kamel kommer til søen (The Smiling Camel Comes to the Pond) while she was terminally ill with cancer, publishing it herself just 3½ months before she died. It meant a lot to her that it was her cousin, Christine, that illustrated it, and that it was designed and printed by her second cousin, Erik. All the animals are representations of real people. Ann’s the duck, and I’m the owl.
It’s fitting that it’s Ann’s cousin, Claus, a fellow sæbynit (someone who lives in Saeby), playing the trombone in this recording of “Remembering Ann”, the third of ten pieces in this second edition of my pamphlet, Remembering Ann, with six new pieces:
Claus and I intend to record the two pieces not yet showcased here soon (“Ann Gone” and “Simply Standing There”). I would love to perform the ten songs in concert as well as – Dream on, babe! – do a proper album.
Today it’s 37 years ago that Ann and I joined forces in Assisi. Here’s the sung version of my latest piece for her. I intend it to be the final piece in my second edition of Remembering Ann. Thanks to Claus Bilde for the trombone. Here’s the text:
Now There’s Something Very Wrong
Now there’s something very wrong: there’s no boat in my sea. I can turn it into song, but it’s still off-key.
Now there’s something very wrong: there’s no star in my sky. I can turn it into song, but it’s still goodbye.
Distress is often left unspoken: it’s written down instead. What’s left, now everything is broken? These bagatelles, for all the tears I’ve shed. How I wish that I hadn’t woken this morning in my bed.
Now there’s something very wrong: there’s no girl at my gate. I can turn it into song, but it’s still checkmate.
Distress is often left unspoken: it’s written down instead. What’s left, now everything is broken? These bagatelles, for all the tears I’ve shed. How I wish that I hadn’t woken this morning in my bed.
They say that nothing lasts forever, but that’s not really true, ’cause I can promise you I’ll never ever forget you.
I thank my lucky stars that I’m a poet. Because I’m a poet I’m somehow able to deal with life, no matter how painful it is.
The last three years have been very painful for me. My wife, Ann, was part of me. Losing her has been like losing myself.
I said to a colleague early on after Ann died that I had nothing to be ashamed of. And I think that is key to my survival. I don’t give myself a hard time for having a hard time. I don’t blame myself for my grief.
I’m still grieving. Deeply. We have defensive mechanisms that blunt our experience of pain. I am still, gradually, shaking off this protective numbness, and this means that my grief still feels raw.
They call it Prolonged Grief Disorder. Ha ha! It should be called Prolonged Grief Robustness.
Despite my grief, or maybe because of it, I’m open to new romance. I fell for a lovely lady two months ago and have written the following piece. Click on the title for the sung version.
I’ll never ever ever forget that November night we met. I had you sitting next to me at our table, Emma. When I turned round in my chair, I was thrilled to find you there. I realised you were a real-life Cinderella.
There was nothing I could do but declare my love for you and the fact that we’re meant to be together. It’s been such a long time since I last played the role of Prince. Hand me back that identity for ever.
Why don’t we recover the identity of the lovers we were meant to be?
My cousin Steve has had a hard time understanding this love song as the lady in question rejected my advances shortly after we’d met.
“I thought you’d moved on,” he wrote.
I responded: “Poets never move on. That’s why they’re poets.”
This piece is more about me than it is about Emma. She was kind enough to agree with me that my making a move on a woman for the first time in almost 40 years was a very positive step.
I’ll be playing at a small one-day festival, Bette Gandrup, at the start of August. It’ll be my second time there. The first was in 2018. Here’s my set list as it stands:
The Town I Loved So Well The Bard That Sang Stromness Soon to Be Sixty Whiskey in the Morning What Do We Do with a Drunken Sailor? The Turquoise of Your Eyes A Karen Blixen Now Comes Another Year The Fields of Athenry Sunshine on Leith Streets of London Suzanne
Half covers, and half my own stuff. The only one of my own that I haven’t recently uploaded, both with a sung version and the lyrics, is here and here:
Now Comes Another Year
The day I met you, Ann, would be the day that I began to see I had to take a chance and ask you for a dance.
You showed me such compassion that I’d no choice but to cash in at the bank of destiny, forever you and me.
I wasn’t any longer wasting time looking for a reason or a rhyme. The bits fell into place. It’s hard to understand you’ve really gone. I can’t imagine how I’ll carry on. I miss your cheeky face.
You meant the world to me, you know. I couldn’t bear to see you go. Now comes another year of you not being here.
I wasn’t any longer wasting time looking for a reason or a rhyme. The bits fell into place. It’s hard to understand you’ve really gone. I can’t imagine how I’ll carry on. I miss your cheeky face.
I wrote this sonnet over a year ago, and it was published in Snakeskin along with the photo in June 2021. The archive at Snakeskin is unavailable at present, so I’m pasting both in here. The sonnet will also soon be appearing in Extreme Sonnets II.
This photograph of you, from golden years on Daisy Close one sunny summer day, still makes me smile, then splinter into tears. You asked me to remember you the way you were before you blossomed. Ever since I met you in Assisi long ago, you’ve been my rose, and I, the Little Prince, would see a simple garden flower grow into a Karen Blixen. Here’s the bed where your sweet-scented, pure-white petals shone. And even when an evil canker spread, you bloomed again, undaunted. Now you’ve gone, I sing for you, just like I’ve always done, and catch you smiling as you catch the sun.
She watched the car move out of sight, then lingered as she sifted her best memories of her days in light. Such moments must have lifted her as she prepared to face the worst, her own impending signing out that she would never be the first to advertise or whine about. She met her end with such restraint, such candour, such tranquillity, it broke my heart. She was a saint. God, grant me the ability to emulate her excellence, her courage, and her elegance.
The news flashed in. I shed hot, hot tears. Cancer had come like a thief. They gave you a month – you lasted a year. You had so much to give.
You had so much to give. You had so much to live for. You had so much to give.
It feels so wrong you’ve left me here, though you comfort me in my dreams. And every day just means we’re one more step less near the places we belong,
the places we belong immortalised in song, the places we belong.