In the Sign of the Centaur

- interview with Bjørnvig

By : Marianne Barlyng & Erik A. Nielsen

Would you say it is typical that the work of a modern poet falls into two parts? If we take two of your contemporaries, Højholt, whose works falls into pieces of a very esoteric composition or a Gitte poem. Or another prominent example, Ivan Malinowski, who sometimes even publishes two collections of poetry at the same time, one political with a Marxist orientation, and the other with highly concentrated, modernistic poems. Is it a sort of condition for modern lyricists to rotate their crops in this way – to use Kierkegaardian expression?

Actually, I think so. But it is very hard for me to give a quick answer.
Now, I admire Malinowski´s poetry very much. We had a very positive relationship. Even though we were so different, we understood each other very well – through and through. He was a wonderful person.
But to return to your question. Yes, I think it is something that belongs to the times.

But many of the younger generations of poets stick to a single track – for example, Søren Ulrik Thomsen. What do you think of the work of this generation? Are they moving towards what you could call a neo-grandiloquence?

Yes, I have a great appreciation for Søren Ulrik Thomsen – not only for his poetry but for him as a person. I´ll never forget the time we happened to sit together at a writer´s conference only to discover that one of our favourite countries was Ireland. He had travelled in Ireland. We both had. We had an incredibly pleasant conversation about it. But I think he is a real poet . . . which I would not say about every one of current crop of writers. Sometimes, I get the impression that they should take a bit more time. That is easily said, but it is as if poetry does not become real for many of the younger writers until it is published. I would propose that they take a bit more time to reflect. I don´t want to moralize, but if I may cite from a modern Greek hexameter I hold dear, which goes like this:

no one mourns nightingales,
and everyone writes poetry

This really struck me. I don´t want to go around bashing these young poets. They have a right to do what they want. But those lines: "no one mourns nightingales, and everyone writes poetry" have made an impression on me somehow. I don´t believe it means that we should just grieve for the nightingales and write no poetry, but there is something about the sentiment that touches one. No one mourns nightingales, and everyone writes poetry.

What happens when you are in the process of writing a poem over a long period – which has often been the case for you? When it lies dormant, becomes roused, and then becomes dormant again? What is it that sticks with you and allows the poem gradually to become distilled over such a long process?

In a way, you can say that a poem comes into existence all at once. But you can also say along with Valéry: The first stanza is a gift of God, the second stanza is a hell of a lot of work. That is something I can really relate to.
But I can give you an example of the process by which a poem comes into being. I was completely absorbed with To One, the cycle of poems in The Star Behind the Gable. But I could only work on it in September and October. That is, this particular poem belonged definitively to that month – I think, it was October. And I had to write it over three or four years during autumn; I could only work on it in the fall, no other time. Otherwise, it had to be left alone, in suspension. Every so often, I would get curious and dig it out, but it was no use. It had to be in the fall.

From Marianne Barlyng (ed.): I kentaurens tegn, Gyldendal 1993.

Translated by Russell Dees