by Tove Ditlevsen
tr. Cynthia Graae and Michael Goldman
Anxiety is old it
reeks of childhood it
has no object
is awakened by glances, words and
sudden noise
lives in recurring dreams where
the one you love
shows the deadly hatred he
hides by day.
People’s eyes are yellow they
are too close together and they
have no lashes
over them their
menacing eyebrows
run endlessly together
the corners of their mouths
dislocate and twist, watercolor-wet
do not look at them
slip away from any dangerous
and keen attention.
Wrap yourself in rhythms and
rhymes from the old
bygone songs
hide with the troll and
the dragon the
pure evil
shy away from all affection even
from the child who plays with and
caresses the cat
shy away from his expectation
his memories
his blocked future.
Seek the company of those who
peacefully turned away
want nothing from you
libraries waiting rooms
railway stations
people with suitcases
in hand have
firm contours
unknown
goals in a
world that is not yours.
All the others are transformed
under your stare as if
under windswept waves
they know that you see their
secrets and
innermost thoughts
hate your lurking and waiting
you do not know the day
of the catastrophe
approaching by the hour.
Anxiety is old your
father and your mother are
safety and danger
staring through your
lover’s eyes and are not dead.
Do not watch them. Lay
flowers on the grave light
candles at night
fold your hands and hum
in devotional horror the old
forgotten songs.
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