Lolk Hjort

Her!

The following (after my explanation of the concept (: ) is a remix circle made by 5 people over e-mail.

What is a remix?

The rules for remixes are practically non-existant; Sometimes all the words of the poem are rearranged to form new meaning; Sometimes only some central word(s) or image(s) is/are reused. The idea is for the poem to go through a kind of metamorphosis, reappearing in a different form, but with some recognizable features making a certain reincarnation visible to the reader.

A remix circle is when one person writes a poem and sends it to another person; Then the second person remixes that poem and sends their remix to the third person; The third person remixes the remix and sends it to a fourth person, etc. The last person on the list sends their remix to the first person, and the cycle can then continue however long the participants want it to.

I believe the concept of the remix was either invented or made popular by the people behind the Danish poetry site digte.dk. I (as far as I know) invented the concept of the remix circle as shown in the one below. There are undoubtedly similar concepts stretching back much further into history. Unfortunately, I don't know anything about them. :)

I find remix circles to be a beautiful image of the nature of life itself, both the well-known circle of life and our more spiritual endeavours... but before I get too philosophical, here it is without further ado. :)

***

Re: A poem

Participants: Frederik, Kristine, Roger, András, and Cecilie.

***

---

Frederik

---

draped in net

there holds a place

in empty air drenched,

in dust and birds' yawn.

a group of walls, in

red, in wood in webs of

spider sleeps every corner.

i find a lost bird's scream;

wind's whistle. autumn sun

has touched my face.

---

Kristine

---

little spider spin your web

drape your dusty nets

cover the corner of my memory

where I don't want to return

I close my eyes to

a low autumn sun

within its last sparkling glow before winter

I can clearly see the red on the inside of my eyelids

---

Roger

---

for long we waited, in the mist of dawn.

our frozen breaths perfectly drawn,

desperate decoys guiding the rise

of our last hope in golden disguise.

it's rays across the snowy trees

like spider webs about to freeze,

reaching us with a shy grace

like faint memories of a lost embrace

---

András

---

Lenora called me yesterday

To ask about ingredients.

Then she sighed and said she may

Not invite her other friends.

Why did I feel struck by that?

We used to spend whole weeks alone!

But as she went on with her chat

I saw how different winds had blown.

For she has changed and I have altered

- Our social cobwebs did the same -

And I felt it, as I faltered,

That it's over: autumn came.

---

Cecilie

---

Lenora's wrinkles grow on her slowly, like a spiderweb, a weeping veil spun ever denser, erasing her face, erasing her gaze with each of the joys that mar her eyes. Near invisible in summer, the veil appears as shadows across her features in the low autumn sun, like a landscape made apparent only through the holes it makes in the light. I used to call her beautiful; Now confusing is the only word that comes to mind when I look at her faceless, pointless face.

---

Frederik

---

an invisible confidence draws

landscapes of light and glow in

the speed sifting the mind free

from time.

a landscape in pause brushing

the edge of summer, the breath

of autumn, into air dissolved it

stays behind.

in stillness of speed, a constant

stream of passing streaking the

translucent barrier; the carrier

of rain.

---

Kristine

---

streams of glowing silver reach her eyes

the full moon sends its beams into a room with no curtains

she turns her head

away from the moonlight

closes her eyes to these

carriers of cold beauty

a pause is all she wants

a dreamless night

---

Roger

---

Bitter raindrops from silver leaves

as soft poison to virgin lips

crafted carefully by sunray thieves

slide down her fingertips

Lately past dreams strike her back

with piercing pleasure and shivering pain.

Bits of innocence split under the rain

Abandonned unicorns being attacked

---

András

---

She was attacked by demons of guilt and mourning.

He could not be consoled by mint tea in the morning.

They did not know what happened to their children.

By the time they arrived, she was completely smitten.

The doctor said it was a cry for help from her part.

This did not prevent her brother's sudden depart.

It never became clear what happened in those days.

The parents kept looking for any kind of hope-rays.

She recovered, but could not bear bodily contact anymore.

He might have fled, but remained what he always was: a bore.

---

Cecilie

---

He attacked her with mint tea in the morning

and bodily contact. She remained what she always was:

bored, always suddenly departing,

looking for any kind of arrival. The doctor said

it was a cry for help on her part, but she always came back

eventually.

That did not prevent him from being

what he always was: Her brother,

beaming hope-rays at her, completely smitten.

He attacked her with mint tea in the morning

and bodily contact.

---

Frederik

---

in leaving, in departing;

bodily contact, looking for

always, and always, for

completeness in those

sudden bursts of white.

without saying, being,

without seeing, arriving;

together, remaining and

partly a cry, believing.

in mint mornings, arrival.

---

Kristine

---

just

because of the sun

the sudden bursts of white

flashing light on melting snow

the merry dripping from the roof

naked trees dancing in the wild winds of early spring

just because of this

the tears of yesterday melt away

drip from blushing cheeks

evaporate into a warm promise of new arrivals

---

Roger

---

New arrivals come and go.

And eternal hopes of sweet soundscapes

evaporate into meshes of whispers.

Flying thoughts with flying things

aim for the head of our loved beings;

some hit and change,

some miss...

and ask for revenge.

Wounds renew,

woes, instead,

review.

---

András

---

Landing and departure.

A whirlwind of mixed emotions

disappears into the constant buzz of important announcements.

Carry-on items, a suitcase, a bag

fall out from the compartment over the head

some hit and change,

some miss...

you ask for orange.

A light dream,

the clouds outside

-- whipped cream.

---

Cecilie

---

Departure is the wind

carrying a machine upwards,

into the sky.

Arrival is a suitcase

landing on my forehead in perfect harmony

with the upward motion of the plane,

as if the object refuses

to let go of its position in space.

You ask for orange

as if trying to hold on

to color and flavor,

the well-known things,

in this moment of disappearance into strange

whipped cream, cotton ball shapes.

En undersøgelse i Ugebrevet A4 har sat gang i en del debat om selvcensur. Det får mig til at spekulere over, hvad selvcensur egentlig er? I undersøgelsen er det defineret som når man dropper et projekt (jeg går ud fra at projekt betyder værk), fordi det "kunne krænke andre menneskers religiøse, politiske, seksuelle eller etniske følelser". Den definition levner plads til meget, der ikke har noget at gøre med at være bange for trusler eller repressalier - f.eks. hvis man i en bog undlader at bruge ordet 'pik', fordi det kan virke stødende - hvilket man måske gør for at skabe en bestemt æstetisk effekt eller skrive værket ind i en bestemt genre (eller undgå en anden).

Når jeg tænker over, hvorvidt jeg udøver selvcensur, må svaret også være ja. Umiddelbart tænker jeg at selvcensur må være, når man skriver det, man tror at læserne bedst vil kunne lide. Og det gør jeg da. Det er hele basis for mit forfatterskab at jeg prøver at finde frem til det, flest mulige læsere vil kunne lide. (Selvfølgelig er nogle læsere vigtigere end andre - for mig fordi nogle læsere udviser en større evne til at lade et værk røre dem, og derfor vil jeg satse på at skrive noget, de kan bruge, i stedet for at satse på mere 'besværlige' læsere, dvs. dem der bruger bøger som tidsfordriv og derfor aldrig får det store ud af dem. For andre er nogle læsere måske vigtigere, fordi de tilhører forfatterens egen subkultur, fordi de er vedkommendes venner eller fordi de har magten til at give en karakter / et legat på basis af værket.)

Men jeg forudsætter selvfølgelig at en af de ting, læseren vil kunne lide, er umiddelbart at blive lidt 'krænket' - hvis den krænkelse på et eller andet tidspunkt så slår over i begejstring, fordi personen fik brudt en mur ned og lærte at se noget på en ny måde. Hvis folk bare bliver sure og ikke udvikler sig af det, har jeg vel fejlet i det, jeg forsøgte at gøre.

En debat om, hvorvidt det er kunstens pligt at provokere, spøger her. Det spørgsmål har været oppe at vende for ikke så lang tid siden, og jeg husker at jeg undrede mig meget over, at så mange af dem, der deltog i diskussionen, blandede provokation som et velkomment middel til eftertanke sammen med provokation som i at fornærme folk for fornærmelsens skyld. Som om de ikke selv kendte til det at blive stødt over noget for derefter at komme til at tænke nærmere over det og se det på en ny måde. Eller måske tværtimod som om de altid fik ny indsigt ved at blive pisset af (men det virker usandsynligt på mig, for de fleste mennesker er ret nemme at pisse af, uden at de af den grund virker klogere bagefter - snarere mere snævertsynede, som man jo ofte bliver af at være vred, fordi det er svært at rumme andet end sin egen fornærmethed i den tilstand).

Måske er det samme slags sammenblanding, der foregår i Ugebrevet A4's undersøgelse: Man forudsætter en slags kunstens pligt til at krænke andre mennesker, men skelner ikke mellem den krænkelse, der i sidste ende vil være velkommen, og den, der ikke vil tjene andet formål end at såre og skabe splid?

Nå, men det var egentlig meningen at dette indlæg skulle være en mere generel filosoferen over, hvad selvcensur er. Jeg tænker at det er, når man (her forfatteren) undlader at skrive det, man selv ville synes var bedst som tekst, fordi man prøver at tilpasse den til læseren. Og gør alle, der publicerer deres ting, ikke det i stort omfang? Det vil jeg da håbe, for ellers er der vel ikke nogen pointe i overhovedet at have læsere.