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My name is Simone. I'm a poet and writer from Denmark who occasionally writes in English. A couple of years ago, I published my historical novel, Lest They Leave, a queer spin on Paris in the 1920s, though it's now only available in its online format. I also write a lot of poetry in English, some of which can be found in the same journal as linked above.

Inspirations include ballet and the Japanese all-female musical theatre, the Takarazuka Revue. I admire (English-language) writers like Sylvia Plath and Fani Papageorgiou. Beyond that, poets like Sappho, the French Renée Vivien and the Danish Mette Moestrup.

Currently, I'm working on: a poetry collection based on La Sylphide as well as a Danish novel which I'm writing with my girlfriend, whom I published (indie) the first installment of the series with last year.

Feel free to friend me or comment around as you wish.

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I have a bird in spring	A wounded deer leaps highest	She dealt her pretty words like Blades	In the peaceful west	Nature - the gentlest Mother is
It keeps the nerves progressive	The saddest noise, the sweetest noise	I could not fix the Year -	Good Night, because we must	The Dark - felt beautiful -
Without external sound	The Judge is like the Owl	A sweep of Gray	And the Juggler of Day is gone	She staked her feathers - Gained an Arc
What is forbidden utterly	The Pendulum begins to count -	Whose limit none have ever seen	And still the pensive spring returns	It makes the Parting tranquil
By Processes of Size	My Faith that Dark adores -	To gather Paradise -	If anybody's friend be dead	And putting love away

Current Music: agnes obel / riverside

Tags:

01	Package	02	Obscure	03	Skeleton	04	Nurse
05	Domino	06	Thaw	07	Waves	08	Burglar
09	Frame	10	Carpet	11	Insect	12	Mentor
13	Spirit	14	Wax	15	Trash	16	Womb
17	Burn	18	Flash	19	Anima	20	Gamble
21	Statue	22	Perfume	23	Wine	24	Reflection
25	Take	26	Magic	27	Fragment	28	Cats and Dogs
29	Hum	30	Flinch	31	Rush	32	Jester
33	Haven	34	Dusk	35	Chord	36	Indulgence
37	Freezer	38	Passage	39	Coast	40	Keepsake
41	Morbid	42	Shipwreck	43	Socks	44	Sand
45	Coin	46	Guile	47	Eyelash	48	Drive
49	Net	50	Destination

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I’m in the frustrating situation that I don’t have a computer right now. My laptop had issues with its keyboard, so it’s in for repairs. It has been a week now, can be as much as three. In the meantime, I have my phone and an old iPad, but it’s just not the same. Writing is mostly done by hand, then laboriously copied into a note on my phone for spell check and just the extra processing. In itself, it’s doable. I can live with this for a limited amount of time - but the freedom of my own laptop with the programs I know and all my stuff? I miss that desperately.

In the meantime, it’s back to being creative in more analogue ways. I do some collage things, scrapbooking. Cut a whole bunch of La Sylphide stuff out of old programs and books I had lying around from my balletomane days and although a part of me finds it sacrilegious to cut in these things, I don’t look in them otherwise. At least this way, I get to use the images for inspiration again.

I have signed up to write 50 one-sentence stories about La Sylphide at

1character and am really excited for this challenge. Hoping to be able to combine at least some of my fills with prompts from

25poemsamonth.

That’s a status and some upcoming things for the next week, at the least.

01	Blend	02	Stain	03	Island	04	Apple
05	Paper	06	Relax	07	Leaves	08	Proof
09	Ugly	10	Book	11	Brood	12	Mesh
13	Soft	14	Shelf	15	Alone	16	Fall
17	Knot	18	Crowd	19	Denial	20	Train
21	Fur	22	Chrome	23	Heart	24	Intention
25	Push	26	Look	27	Weight	28	Spider
29	Robe	30	Umbrella	31	Surface	32	Idea
33	Diamond	34	Blind	35	Flow	36	Movement
37	More	38	Honey	39	Weather	40	Blue
41	Double	42	Braid	43	Thread	44	Angles
45	Daydream	46	Nightmare	47	Honor	48	Palm
49	Screen	50	Warmth

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1836

The boy knows nothing, I know even less. I know the sway of his hair and the greenery in his irises, I know how strong his arm is, when he puts down doe and stag. I know the strength of the distance he puts between us, when I finally dare to come close to his chair and he still does not recognise my efforts, even less my existence. He has heard of my kind, but I am air to him, perhaps the first leaves of the birch, the last rowan berries to feed a robin, a starling or my sisters in whom he only faintly believes. As such, his faith in me must be even fainter. I am a winged thing like them. Let me exist in your dreams, at least, I whisper right next to his ear, causing him only to stand up, move through my left arm, the adjoining shoulder, the side of neck. Is this what we call a butterfly kiss, I wonder, I want, I wilt a little, my wings fall. Could you not be a winged thing, too?

Current Music: agnes obel / over the hill

Tags:

2016

There is a clock in this room, it is its sole inhabitant, I count for nothing, the clock counts more loudly than I. I hear her in the kitchen, she is cooking something I feel should be a stew, but it does not sound stew-like, it sounds much less heavy than flesh and broth. The house into which I have found my way carries a scent of familiarity, but nothing I see or touch or hear knows me any more than I know it. The sound of the clock, red numbers in the shadows, like an owl's eyes making out its prey, marking it, sings to me, it sings of a before and an after and an in between, a still not yet. Whispered so quietly, the words have no end or beginning to them. "Is that you?" asks the girl preparing something else than stew, she asks uncertainly, her footfalls draw nearer and as if pulled in by invisible hands, I sink into the wall and I am gone. The last thing I hear, wings carrying me through the bricks and through the mortar, too, since I am lighter than all existing things, is the girl telling no one in particular, least of all herself, "It is never you, is it?"

Current Music: agnes obel / louretta

Tags:

LET ME REMEMBER YOU IN VERSE.

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What is forbidden utterly

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