Parallel Elite and Piles of paper, two poems by Boel Schenlaer

30 August 2018
Author :  

Boel Schenlaer  Swedsih Poet, Editor, essayist and translator.Her poems have been translated into eleven languages. English, Spanish, Arabic, Russian, Croatian, Macedonian, Slovak, Chinese, Lithuanian, Romanian and Bengali.  Beyond activities: founder and organizer of the scene of poetry (2002) PoesiOnStage and (2003)-Södermalms poetry festival, which since 2002 has presented foreign and almost 250 Swedish poets on stage. PoesiOnStage moved in autumn 2010 in poetry with breakfast on Monday mornings to the 00: 54. 8:30, home of plate/culture of the library. The Thursday night once a month is presented in world poetry there. Playwright/Debut: against spring rain (Mr. WDR 1994 & 1995) shortlisted for the prizeFuture, Berlin. In the cold (Mr. 1996 & 1997 WDR), out of awareness (SR 1998), closer to the heart(1997, commissioned by the Stockholm City Theatre, not built), with great expectations (1999, order)SR - not completed), life premium (built 2000 at home), a cow is at home (2003, barnpjas, ordered the Royal dramatic Theatre, not built). Does not build dramas: the letter of intent (1993), a real pleasure (1994), the first goodbye (2002) the last seconds, (2009).Located in ApS Nordiska Strakosch, in Copenhagen. Games translated into English and German.   The editor of the lover of poetry (2003-2004). All published in the Post scriptum




Parallel Elite


Ecce Homo Truman went out for a walk

which brought him to the alcoholics’ park.

There on the green bench sat Einstein.

So Ecce asked Albert if he ought not

to look for different company.

Forasmuch as the small birds’ screeching

there by the thorn bushes can be harmful.

But Albert squinted, inserted

a pinch of coarse snuff, took a mighty swig

from the bearded lapwing’s liquor bowl, cast his gaze

up towards the clouds and said cheerfully:

“Different company? I already have that.”




Piles of paper


Five in a doctrine. My belt. Morning on a table.

Jeopardy in the needle. A letter of crystal.

No one, no traces can be seen in the ball.

An expectant darkness should be visible.

I can hardly bear to see removals.


If there’s an “us” left at all.

I am on intimate terms with those

who are on poetic terms with me.

What I really know about the world

I am held to blame for, and every camp.


Some days it’s just not worth it.

The tulips flourish, everything’s alive

but a landscape of death shadows my cloth.

Every written book hit by water damage.

They earnestly cling fast to a train roof.


I belong, but I am past beyond.

Sometimes a whitewashed house, a dog

and a guitar leaning against a vending machine

can catch my gaze, I can make a grating sound

when a single meringue makes other people queue.

No one can take away my indifference.


Poems translated by Alan Crozier 


Literary Editor

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