Night walk

In this night I think of you
In this night I feel the sharpness of the moist grass
as I walk with heavy determination
through the midnight blue shadows of dusk
My breath inhales the fog
and with each pace - and breath - my body wanes until I am one
with the brisk night air
and penetrate the forestry green mould
in search for your coffin
to rest there tonight
in this night with you
in this night with death

Natvandring

I nat tænker jeg på dig
I nat mærker jeg det skarpe kolde græs
mens jeg tungt og målrettet vandrer alene
gennem midnatsblå skygger
Min ånde fyldes af tågen
og – skridt for skridt – udtyndes min krop og forvandles til luft
som kan gennemtrænge jorden
den klamme muld
finde din kiste og hvile der i nat
i nat med dig
i nat med døden

Promenade nocturne

Cette nuit je pense à toi,
Cette nuit je sens la finesse de l'herbe moite
En traversant avec une détermination ferme
Les ombres bleues que répand l’obscurité du minuit.

Ma respiration avale le brouillard,
Avec chaque pas, chaque souffle, mon corps décroît
Jusqu’à ce qu’il fonde dans l'air vif de la nuit.

Je foule la terre de cette forêt verte
A la recherche de ton cercueil.
Je désire demeurer en repos là, toute cette nuit,
Toute cette nuit avec toi,
Toute cette nuit avec la mort.

Adapté en français par Athanase Vantchev de Thracy

Hollow

To distinguish the need between you and me
I split the insects that crawled in our emotions;
those little monsters of insecurity and might
living off dead men on love’s battlefield
But never speaking a single word
to the valleys of the sea where I swam with you to drown
with the skull tied to my foot
that we knew had heard it all
to laugh at my confusion and your begging
And none of my tears echoed some clue to life’s route ahead
because I fell on it as he knew I would
Cupid the liar
who gave you me without knowing my strength
too proud to love might be my sentence
in fact that’s what I know I see
written on my mind
swaying in the hollow wind that blows

Dybet

For at skelne mellem dig og mig var jeg nød til at pille følelsernes insekter
de dyr af usikkerhed og magt som kravler i kærlighedens grav
i tavshed
når kraniets latter drukner dykkerens modløse kald.
Men ingen af mine tårer gav ekko om livet vej
for jeg faldt jo på den som han vidste jeg ville
Amor, løgneren,
der mødte os uden at se at jeg nok var for stolt til at elske
for det mærker jeg nu
i blæsten fra mit hjertes hule slag


Statues

Selling the Big Issue
Faces glaring down
at me
in front of British Museum
where I bought my first drug in a honest attempt of immortality
How am I so much different than the statues behind those walls
Am I not also a symbol of my time
and like them
stunning in my decadence
A product of the 21st century
On display
Frozen against his will


The other man

I never thought it would be me waiting through the blinds for your blinking signal
an eye replaced by the light of the cell phone: even crueller
I actually don’t love you so why am I waiting?
spare me from reference to Beckett: I am nether religious nor lost
perhaps unhappy to be second
especially when it is me getting and you giving to two
but the number is still mine
a numerologist would strike it from her name
substituting it for the winning one which is him

You promise to leave
I wait and yet don’t care that
status quo never ceases to be a sunny pool of nervous games

I should probably look a bit deeper through the many years of friendship
but I can’t swim
or maybe I'm afraid to catch you when he’s got you
although you say it’s me you love
and it bubbles in your laughter like we’re fighting over a child
your dumb contagious happiness is maybe what froze me

Last time we were all together he touched my shoulder
it is sore now
think he hoped that if he pressed hard enough he would see through me
maybe he already can
he certainly insists that he doesn’t see a thing of what he wants to see
when your mouth longs after mine in an absent second

But the sound hurts me
it’s probably the only guilt I’ve got
the intercourse of spit, lips and cheeks heard across the world
in all the bedrooms
and staring from the wall as I continue the meal
chewing politely assured of my irreproachable elegance and manner
he has no proof
besides the noise of thoughts, loneliness and waiting


London

I’ve forgotten how to release my joy
my only inspiration
that beats in me from across the river
in towers shining red with power
Maybe the ambitions forged in this city
prevent people like us from meeting in silence
without the influence of ancient resolutions
of achievement to be had at all costs

The few old friends I pass in the street don’t see me
following the last rhyme that we sang
one night in unison
our last
Yet the river still pulls
stirred by the storm of seagulls and pigeons
they survive
but also just from instinct inherited
like we in each our direction flow

Do you hear me calling from my mute bedroom
alone with those too much on track to understand
you could ever be behind
as I got off it
or at least got on it after you
I wonder where my road will lead me now
if the hunger and the gods I fought for
still deliver what they promised
when we said goodbye


BIOGRAPHIE
Daniel Martini [b. 1984], raised in Copenhagen, studied philosophy at University College London, and is a writer of english and danish poetry and short stories. His work has also been translated to French by Athanase Vantchev de Thracy. Daniel is currently completing his first collection of short stories and working on an anthology. He resides in London.

Daniel Martini [ne 1984], grandi à Copenhague, a étudié philosophie à University College London ecrit de la poésie et des novelles en anglais et danois. Ses poèmes ont été traduits par M Athanase Vantchev de Thracy. Daniel travail sur sa première collection des novelles et une anthologie. Il habite à Londres.

Website: www.danielmartini.com
Email:

danielmartini@live.co.uk