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About Literature / Professional Robert Hansen32/Male/Denmark Recent Activity
Deviant for 15 Years
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Statistics 488 Deviations 2,657 Comments 30,223 Pageviews
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Newest Deviations

Literature
To my lover, that she might escape
I've held you here, close in-between
my knuckles, so bruised with mute
mutiny, they beat at the thighs and the ribs of me
we can pretend that we're lovers, not
drowning together to gather
love scraped from under nails
or concrete halls, from
painted walls beneath
high-way-gray ships of the sea,
that are skies that are meant to be
burning with passion and purity
but wreck the horizon with infantile agony
and sails to the endless, oh, anywhere at all
I'm sorry, this place
will get the best of us yet
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 5 0
Literature
Beach Poem
the sun
the silver crows
my heart
a pair of ragged claws
the waves
the dunes
desire
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 2 1
Mature content
a night between us :iconrober2:rober2 1 0
Mature content
Foreplay :iconrober2:rober2 1 0
Literature
On forgetting
The worst part is
the books that are unwritten as you speak
the letters writhe themselves off paper
fly off like carrion birds,
drown themselves in inkwells
And our conversations fade
into meaningless noise
the syllables force themselves
down your throat
and mine
and have no longer been spoken
static
I am forcing your body
into air, a ghost
seen in some crowd
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 2 3
Literature
A meditation
i will reach
like a breath
a body
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 0 0
Literature
Letter to a former lover
I wrote you letters
of these hollow woods,
perhaps your tongue was tied
or planing out your teeth with supple motion
licking forth a better smile
a brighter future, at least
you never answered or gave word
that you had seen the fog riding
from beneath the trees on grey stallions
or that the woods themselves were
leaning out and giving way and
turning grey, mist breeding
hollow spines on brittle branches.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 147 37
Literature
On farewells
It is not that your hands
are not here to be held, but that
they are pointing over hills I cannot cross
to seas that are salt with excitement
just as
the trees do not grieve the passing of the leaves,
except that they are over the horizon.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 2 2
Literature
Dead air
This air between us, dead as hair
and soft as tombstones,
is alive with the corpse
of a look you once gave me.
These looks
These looks are as living
As fat worms in rotting coffins
chewing out the livers
of people who lived and embraced,
who were closer than anything
but worms to the flesh
(they meld into each other, are
full of each other)
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 2 10
Literature
on relationships
I will burn you to the roots
of you and grow a garden
from your ashes. I will drag you
(Heels grinding firmly
into ground)
to the edge of who you are
and throw you over, lover,
I will carve you from
Your molars and your bones
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 3 3
Literature
mockingbird
At night the birds came to your bed,
flew through your dreams and sent
your head spinning with a flurry of feathers.
They cawed and they clawed
at your hopes, turned them
black as the soul of a graveyard crow.
You woke with a mouth full of feathers,
and talons instead of a heart.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 2 2
Literature
What the merman sang.
I should have been an octopus
with eight arms to hold 
you sin-singing sirens
and not be torn.
My heart should beat ink and be
much colder than this sad, red vessel
which sputters and struggles and coughs
and quivers at a touch.
Anything but this;
My unelastic holster not letting 
me spout ink and hide among the rocks,
no cephalopod soul, but a man,
uninked and unable to cross
this ocean between us, 
of old aunts with wagging fingers
and dreams of babies that will never be;
and not the passion of this,
the only moment.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 4 5
Literature
A Summer Poem
You broke like thunder
from a heavy sky, you spoke, then
of summer, of naked bodies meeting
in the rain, and then the way your hands
could not find hands, the way your heart
could not stop beating, beating, beating
until you were shaking, until you were -
Thunder clapping
   Rocks rumbling
      A building falling; 
        A crumbling shell
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 27 36
Literature
movement
I no longer love.
This movement is a movement in empty air only
Empty air in an empty room
without shadows
without shadows or darkness or light, empty
almost
of this movement.
And yet.
There is a movement which is a movement.
There is a sound which is a sound.
There is even a love that is not any more,
and a movement towards the door.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 1 5
Literature
A Meeting
You will notice first, the bone jutting
from my meat, it is called teeth,
These are my lips;
This, like so, is called a smile.
And then there are the fabrications that I wear
The layers of silk, of wool,
of iron air
(indeed there is an air that I am not quite there)
- And feathers I have wrapped into my hair
And Afghan pearls, and finally
My hands, hare-fleet, and meeting
yours.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 160 28
Literature
Mudita
It is as if the stones have grown
wings, they
are joining the birds in flight and
song - they have thrown
off the green of their moss, they
are content to watch.
And the dunes are meeting
the waves at the shore;
they hug each other tight, listen
to their travelling tales - brothers
at last.
:iconrober2:rober2
:iconrober2:rober2 4 9

Favourites

Literature
A lion among sheep.
There are ghosts in my bloodstream
kissing concrete cells &
the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.
( foreign words
engraved into my marrow, birds in my chest
& wars not yet fought between my hips. )
I've taken myself apart every night
since I learned how to swallow a pen
without gagging;
limb by steady limb.
Passed around by grabby hands,
a sold, & borrowed daughter;
I am a lion among sheep,
drunk on life & ink.
:iconDearPoetry:DearPoetry
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 432 96
Literature
Perpetuity
Mother, I want to come home
to see familiar faces and places,
wooded trails my bare feet
would know by feel, even now.
I do not wish to be here
so ill prepared, with my
sad collection of wares,
my teenage son, running
from monsters we invited
no matter how unknowingly.
I've done nothing but
that which I thought best
though I confess, emotion
takes its toll on intelligence
for if it didn't, I wouldn't be here
pleading with your cold dead bones.
I am the mother now- sins committed
by my son are sins I also own, and so
it goes, and so it goes.
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 5 6
Literature
leaving the nest
i dreamed of
growing up a
willow but
didn't budge
from the oak
grove, stayed
unsubtle &
strong. where i
tried to feather
out my edges
i stayed firm
& full coarse.
where i tried
to love i lost
limbs & shed
another layer
of calloused
skin. where i
tried to weep
gracefully i
kept tripping
over my own
roots, kept on
sobbing some
thing awful.
:iconanyimacielgray:anyimacielgray
:iconanyimacielgray:anyimacielgray 18 22
Literature
Marie
The revolution started
with a lean hunger,
an empty purse,
and a mail order bride
(who thought a crown
was just a rich girl's hat),
eating cake
off her lover's belly,
growing plump and soft
while the crowd grew
thin and hard
with sticks and stones.
The city no longer smiled,
just tossed in its sleep
and dreamed of angry beasts,
swollen and shameless,
flat on their backs
while the gutters
ran with stars.
:iconPoetrymann:Poetrymann
:iconpoetrymann:Poetrymann 130 57
Literature
He Idles At the Break of Day
He idles at the break of
day with a hum-song
from his engine, winds careening
along windows cracked, and the
copious chirps of an April bird.
"Is it music?" He wonders - that
ordered-chaos-well-from-the-soul - an
ostinato engine to the stringing
of windly breezes - and the singing,
oh how the singer sings her sun-dust
melody, like angels from tree-lined
shadows on a horizon of blazing light.
:iconchadwood:chadwood
:iconchadwood:chadwood 115 45
Literature
Shift
When it came, everything
changed; the endless line
of traffic erased as if by
magic from her mind
the constantly clattering
prattle of people ceased
birds brooded in trees
beside the river's rush
so suddenly hushed t'
was almost startling
but not... she thought
of absolutely nothing
and in that space found
all she'd ever wondered.
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 2 7
Literature
Midnight Ride
Tonight no strings affix my wings to anything-
my bones become wind chimes to Chopin's notes
as I'm flown high and blindly blinking
through the milky way,  a water-light
shimmer on a glassy lake, brilliant, awake
as spring's first bobbing robin, twice as hungry.
I always thought  the stars were dot-to-dots, and still
the challenge lies in making all the right connections.
:iconSssorry:Sssorry
:iconsssorry:Sssorry 4 4
Coincidence by armene Coincidence :iconarmene:armene 1,242 153 crazy world by zenibyfajnie crazy world :iconzenibyfajnie:zenibyfajnie 4,462 235 Credo III by phantomderlust Credo III :iconphantomderlust:phantomderlust 319 33

Activity


realartizt.deviantart.com/jour…

So I stumbled over this journal earlier, and it's a deviant asking other deviants to send him pictures or poems which he will then use in a fucking commercial newsletter. Well, nothing wrong with that, except this particular deviant is supposed to be doing this himself, and he hasn't been doing his job and now he expects the others to do it for him.

For free.

But in return, he'll like totally put in a good word for them and maybe someone will buy their prints (sure they will).

What a fucking scumbag.

"Hey, why don't you come by my office sometime this week and do my job for me while I take a nap or play WoW (I'm like THIS close to getting an epic mount!) - I won't pay you, but maybe someone else will hire you afterwards. Sounds good?"

Look people, if you want to be read (or watched), there's nothing wrong with that. But send your poetry to a magazine, even if it's just for free. Don't let some scammer take advantage of you without at the very least getting a piece of the action - and if he's getting paid, it's not like he couldn't (scratch that - he CAN and he SHOULD) pay you a couple of bucks.

deviantID

rober2's Profile Picture
rober2
Robert Hansen
Artist | Professional | Literature
Denmark
I write stuff, you read it, sometimes the other way around.
Interests

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconaggerholmmichael:
AggerholmMichael Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2014  Hobbyist Filmographer
Hey, Minauko from GW here.

I stumbled upon your profile while browsing.

Håber det går godt!
Reply
:iconjadehater:
JadeHater Featured By Owner May 30, 2013  Student Photographer
Wow! Your really good!
Reply
:iconthekreggorian:
TheKreggorian Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2013
Your name came up today at the forum and I realized I hadn't said hi in a long time. I saw that you were active here recently so figured it was a good place to leave my greetings. Hope all is well. Happy new year.
Reply
:iconvigilo:
Vigilo Featured By Owner Oct 22, 2012  Student Writer
Happy birthday! :party: I hope you have a great day. :heart:
Reply
:iconvigilo:
Vigilo Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2012  Student Writer
Cheers for the watch! I hope I don't disappoint. :heart:
Reply
:iconrober2:
rober2 Featured By Owner Jul 15, 2012  Professional Writer
Yes... See that you do not!

[link]
Reply
:iconvigilo:
Vigilo Featured By Owner Jul 16, 2012  Student Writer
:lol: Sir yessir! :salute:
Reply
:iconarchelyxs:
archelyxs Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2012
Thanks so much for the watch, Robert! It is my honor. I hope you have a good night! :heart: :tea:
Reply
:iconpoetrymann:
Poetrymann Featured By Owner May 3, 2012  Professional Writer
Thanks very much for the views and faves!
Reply
:iconrober2:
rober2 Featured By Owner May 3, 2012  Professional Writer
You are of course welcome :)
Reply
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