A Lovesong

You ask me:

“The North – ain’t that the place of boring landscapes,
interrupted by ugly cities in eternal rain?
Meaningless meadows, somewhere in the fog,
where you try in vain not to surrender to the wet?
Where one is always surrounded by cold, by dampness and by storms?”

And I answer:

Come on, take your navigation tools.
Adjust your perspective.
From now on, your clothes shall be made of sailor’s yarn.
Cast the nets of your looks
and fish between the waves for new perspectives.
Put the binoculars into the right position,
and soon your eyes will be singing a song,
set it to sea sharpness,
and it will clear your view.

Because what I like about the north
is exactly what you complain about
viewed from a different angle.
Because I like this tartness
the gray, the salty roughness,
the water, the fog,
the pounding rain,
the billowing seas
the threatening gestures of the weather,
when clouds tower high in the sky.
I like the feeling of being gagged by gusts of storm.

I like the cows and the dikes with cotton wool sheep.
I like the dunes, the softness of the sleeping mudflats.
I like the vastness of the fields and the endless view
where the sky is only a hand wide above the wandering horizon.
I like the storm battles
and I like it, when the sky opens again.

Yes we like contrasts here:
even our cows are black and white.
We have dinghies and cutters and ebb and flow.
We have clods and crabs and harbor smell.
And we have cranes and seagulls in the salty air.

I sit on a bank until wanderlust calls me.
Oh swarms of herring, oh weather changes, oh milky seas,
oh end of September, oh storms dripping with rage,
oh yellow rain jackets,
oh rubber boots!

Our weather comes with flashing lights,
and it changes rapidly
– you may call it moody –
I would say it has temperament.
And we are drawn to the water
like a seagull to the bait.

Here we say “put some butter to the fish”.
And because we’re used to the weather, we say “keep your ears stiff”
should the storms approach,
in the darkest colors.
There is no complaining about the weather here –
instead we have windjammer parades!

We have the hugest sky and the stiffest breeze
the thickest fish and the softest meadows,
the sharpest shells and the wettest mudflats,
where seals cuddle and sheep mate on dikes.

Whoever decided to shape this country—
that cook must have been in love, ’cause even the air is too salty.
Yes i like this rugged, rough, country and the people.
The open blue, the beach on the borders
of the never ending sea.

I like the cows and the dikes with cotton wool sheep.
I like the dunes, the softness of the sleeping mudflats.
I like the vastness of the fields and the endless view
where the sky is only a hand wide above the wandering horizon.

And no matter how often I travel
and move to distant places
a stiff breeze always carries back my heart.

Land between the seas,
even the trees bow to you
you are the true reason
why the compass needle points north!

For the German original of this text I thank Mona Harry, a very talented Slam-Poet (translation T.T.) ,
and for the beautiful images I am ever so obliged to Uta Warbaum, one of the greatest builders in Craft I know. The images were taken on her region “Deja-vu” which at the moment is closed to the public because Uta is in the process of renewing it.

Tosha Tyran
with fog in her eyes and in her heart…

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