The Forest at Dusk

New poetry by Hans Bjerkeskog

All day, I have swayed to the heave and savage rhythm
of the axe, the heave and bite into the sobbing bark.
The light pools in the west and my legs are numb stumps,
weary enough to sink into the black soil and rest here,
here amidst the forest’s eternal ephemerality.
But I must go back, my axe swung against the vastness
of the gathering dark, the veins of my hands like roots.
At the edge of the woods, the home and the hearth
and the resting place of the wild autumnal heart.
I stop, place my calloused hand on an ancient oak,
loose a stream of warm piss into the moss and the bracken.

Hans Bjerkeskog works as a lumberjack. His work offers a contemporary twist on ideas of Norwegian Romantic Nationalism, and an English translation of his most recent collection received the John Deere Award (USA) for Best Translated Collection of Poetry Involving A Chainsaw. He lives in a cabin deep in the Folgefonna National Park, with his wife and their seven children.

sonnet 17. i try to think of metaphors for your dick, but metaphor is dead

New poetry by s.v. svanetjøn

the pale spine of a novella generations of students will borrow
and then check back in unread

a chihuahua’s tongue seeking a pool of shadows
in the mad heat of tropical noon

a path formed from heel-crushed white pebbles
always leading to the fairytale house
no one can enter and return from alive

a tired one-liner from a christmas cracker
that i read aloud to seek approval
but whose approval am i seeking?

a fossil only i can dig out of the darkness of pre-history
out of a time that soon no one living will remember

a calippo turned to slush under the pressure of my hand.
i spit the juice.

s.v.svanetjøn was recently included on Bokfienden's list of 27 writers under 27 with the potential to "blow Norwegian poetry wide open." Their work has appeared in several anthologies, and been translated into 14 languages. They live with their pet cat, Humbert, and their first full collection is forthcoming from Gyldendal.