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WELCOME

My name is Simone. I'm a poet and writer from Denmark who occasionally writes in English. A couple of years ago, I published my historical novel, Lest They Leave, a queer spin on Paris in the 1920s, though it's now only available in its online format. I also write a lot of poetry in English, some of which can be found in the same journal as linked above.

Inspirations include ballet and the Japanese all-female musical theatre, the Takarazuka Revue. I admire (English-language) writers like Sylvia Plath and Fani Papageorgiou. Beyond that, poets like Sappho, the French Renée Vivien and the Danish Mette Moestrup.

Currently, I'm working on: a poetry collection based on La Sylphide as well as a Danish novel which I'm writing with my girlfriend, whom I published (indie) the first installment of the series with last year.

Feel free to friend me or comment around as you wish.

Current Music: agnes obel / riverside

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25poemsamonth may table

I have a bird in spring	A wounded deer leaps highest	She dealt her pretty words like Blades	In the peaceful west	Nature - the gentlest Mother is
It keeps the nerves progressive	The saddest noise, the sweetest noise	I could not fix the Year -	Good Night, because we must	The Dark - felt beautiful -
Without external sound	The Judge is like the Owl	A sweep of Gray	And the Juggler of Day is gone	She staked her feathers - Gained an Arc
What is forbidden utterly	The Pendulum begins to count -	Whose limit none have ever seen	And still the pensive spring returns	It makes the Parting tranquil
By Processes of Size	My Faith that Dark adores -	To gather Paradise -	If anybody's friend be dead	And putting love away

Current Music: agnes obel / over the hill

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What is forbidden utterly

1836

The boy knows nothing, I know even less. I know the sway of his hair and the greenery in his irises, I know how strong his arm is, when he puts down doe and stag. I know the strength of the distance he puts between us, when I finally dare to come close and he still does not recognise my efforts, even less my existence. He has heard of my kind, but I am air to him and perhaps the first leaves of the birch, the last rowan berries to feed a robin, a starling or my sisters in whom he only faintly believes. Likewise, he believes only faintly in me. I am a winged thing like them. Let me exist in your dreams, at least, I whisper right next to his ear, causing him only to move through my left arm, the adjoining shoulder, the side of neck. Is this what we call a butterfly kiss, I wonder, I want. Could you not be a winged thing, too?

Current Music: agnes obel / louretta

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The Pendulum begins to count -

2016

There is a clock in this room, it is its sole inhabitant, I count for nothing, the clock counts more loudly than I. I hear her in the kitchen, she is cooking something I feel should be a stew, but it does not sound stew-like, it sounds much less heavy than flesh and broth. The house into which I have found my way carries a scent of familiarity, but nothing I see or touch or hear knows me any more than I know it. The sound of the clock, red numbers in the shadows, like an owl's eyes making out its prey, marking it, sings to me, it sings of a before and an after and an in between, a still not yet. Whispered so quietly, the words have no end or beginning to them. "Is that you?" asks the girl preparing something else than stew, she asks uncertainly, her footfalls draw nearer and as if pulled in by invisible hands, I sink into the wall and I am gone. The last thing I hear, wings carrying me through the bricks and through the mortar, too, since I am lighter than all existing things, is the girl telling no one in particular, least of all herself, "It is never you, is it?"