To my imprisoned friend

I hug you in the meaninglessness of nothingness
I put my arms around your shoulders, dear
I breath life into the sadness of your presentness
And gently dry your tears
I blow them on my fingertips
for them to swirl around
like drops of dew
and may they fall to ground my lovely one
for flowers to grow anew

Happy birthday!


by Liv Evensen (9/3/1999)

herbes.jpg (47108 octets)


The golden moonbeam snook its way through the curtains
searching along the walls
oops! colliding gently with a frame
ocean waves and all
darkness receeding
in a thin line
as the moonbeam travels around
up, upwards
90 degrees and straight ahead
hung it there in the ceiling,
"is it white" it wonders
the lamp is bare and round
there in the middle
it could feel that from its form
searching again onwards and on
90 degrees downwards to floor
mmmmm, there is something -
wow, something is moveing!

something round and something long
some hairs and something narrow
something soft and something wet
something tall and something small

A caress.
That is how it felt.

What if the moonbeam
turns round and round
there in the darkness
that which is there alive
bringing a message
from the angles themselves
for brighter times to come?


by Liv Evensen (3/4/1999)


the male black attire
cultivated outer finesse

as if it changes our inside
except to hide our colours
as if we do not treat each other
as mere clothes hangers...

Look at the Queen of our land
and all the other queens
yellow or green
silk and emeralds
that is all you ever see of them
the same with the kings and princes and
all the noblemen

As were we not all noble men and women
at heart
beneath our silks
beneath our scars
the rays of love and colours
are always shining through
the layers
of silke and fine attires

which unites us all
despite their effortless efforts
sparing nothing
to separate us from each other
into different classes

How futile!

In the depths of our souls
we are all the same
except that they have that


Can Attire speak?
Words of love and praise?

Can Attire sing?
What tune would that be
I wonder?

What slips of tongue does Attire ever make?
The only tears it ever sheds
is the tear in seaman's trousers

All that Attire can do
is cling
to a body's beautiful movements

Movements that are beautiful
liquid and gracefull
stumbling, running or hailing
wheelchairing or sailing
on the ship
through life's labyrinths...

So who cares about a dinner jacket!
No REAL kings or queens, my lovely friend.

Klem fra Liv

by Liv Evensen (3/4/1999)

masks.jpg (26820 octets)

Tears are infinitely beautiful
like drops of liquid light
a tear contains the pain
that once were
Tears are balmy for aching hearts
Like pearls of melted longings
Tears come from seas' bottom sands
Desert is craving it's buried tears
Desert that once was esctatic
with life's joy and colours

by Liv Evensen (27/5/1999)


A field
large trees of life

where the fog hung
from heavy branches

one moment
the veil lifted
like in a theatre

opened up for life
kids playing
barking dogs
running for the balls
eagerly trown by the fathers

grown people
in seriousness and laughter

blushed faces
coloured jackets

one moment
the fog vail lifted

two turned around
180 degrees
one glance over one shoulder

the foggy vail was coming down
like at the National Theatre

"I cannot lie to myself anylonger, Liv
I am full of life within
I am thinking in all directions"

by Liv Evensen (27/5/1999)


back to homepage

sign my guestbook -- send me an e-mail -- check my links -- tell a friend --

Copyright  1999-2001 Oslo, Liv Evensen. All rights reserved.