A journey in creativity and faith

Month: October 2014 (Page 1 of 3)



Cold concrete

A smell of dust

And urine

Drops falling down from the ceiling

No. Drops from my eyes

Landing on my lips

The bars throw shadows of darkness

On my body


Words from whispers and letters

turned backs and fleeing eyes

Words inside my head

Shouting over each other

The words are parasites

eating brain cells

The words are strong as men





Words dehumanize me


Says the tag

Written on my soul


I lay against the wall

The wall stands firm and quiet

A witness to the soul eating words

An antique wall

Which I lean my tears against

Lashes, gobs and question marks

Are written on the wall

The wall is firm and quiet

While the words move down towards my heart

And my organs and veins

Lie rotting

My skin folds and shrinks

A tight noose around my neck

Gasping for breath

Fading within myself

Continue reading

Interview with Christian Poet Billy Charles Root. Come to love Christ for who he is

motif: wire post looking like a cross set against a rising sun

“Build me a bridge/and make it strong/make it stretch from here to heaven/and then paint it with a song […] I will lay myself upon the bridge/and carry the weight of hell/and when it’s over/I will come back.” © Billy Charles Root

I’ve decided to stop writing many times, but my pen will not let go of my hand – or my heart. I love to compose different symphonies of words and letters. Sometimes a creature pops out of my document, and I have to remind myself that words are not alive. It’s not the words that matter, but the life we breathe between the lines. I often ask myself

Why do I write?

Tim Grahl, the president of out:think, a firm that helps writers, says every writer must have a “why”. In his article I hate self-promotion Tim Grahl says a writer must know why he writes. It’s not about the writer, but his writing, the message he wants to share.

I agree with him. My writing is not about me. My WHY is not about becoming famous or rich, neither about my passion for writing. I write because I want to share God’s love with the world. However, I fear myself “For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I” (Romans 7, 15). I abominate my ambitions, pride, and desires for compliments. I fear losing my direction. If I forget my “why”, I must quit writing.

How can I be a Christian writer in 2014? How can I keep my focus?

With those questions in my mind, I called a Christian author on Skype. This September Billy Charles Root won a writing contest at CTU Publishing Group, and published his first book, Pressing On, a collection of Christian poetry, a collection of Billy’s heart of hearts, which he call his poetry. A poet from Oklahoma’s afternoon and a fellow poet from Denmark’s evening met to talk about faith and Christianity, and what it’s like being a Christian writer. Continue reading



I’m the cursor blinking at the end of a half sen

tence, waiting on the writer to finish

So I can begin on a new page


I’m captured

Between two bricks

I can’t move, will someone find me and set me free?


Two walls clash

Creating a sharp corner

Which sucks me in

I can’t breathe


A wind touches my neck,


I try to listen

To the silence, which speaks a language, I can’t understand


I turn around

The TV is running

The children play catch


The silence stands beside me

Observing with me

A mute voice tells me to




I sit down at the dinner table

My children come now


How I almost got robbed

A Wednesday of sunshine
The phone rang.

I picked up the phone
A hissing voice
Crept into my ear,
Roaring in the brain.
I switched hands.
The words materialized
Into human sized wraiths
Holding a staff,
drilled and twisted it
in my wound,
Hit the bones,
Searching for the gold of my heart

Bacteria came into the flesh
I could not breathe
All I could see was darkness
I was broken
Tossed on the ground
Blood and tears flowing like a river
Drowning the wraiths and bacteria

I dropped the phone
I rose up
I stopped bleeding
Started to breathe
I stomped on the floor
Punched a fist in a pillow,
raised my voice

“Go away.
Take your bacteria
They are not mine”

I felt my breast
The gold was still there

“You can’t steal my gold
you can’t destroy my value
I will heal
I will go to the Truth.”

[God, thou] hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb.

I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.

My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.

Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them.

How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them!

If I should count them, they are more in number than the sand: when I awake, I am still with thee.

Psalms 139:13-18


No one can steal the treasure in your heart

How pillows and poetry changed my life

Let me explain why poetry has become a part of my blogging journey.  Before you throw down your head on your pillow, I invite you to travel with me to the year


High school was not what I expected. Quickly, I realized I was different from everyone else. There was no room for me. I was alone, and there was no place where I could be myself, no seat for Mariane.
One day when I wrote notes in a notebook, my eyes stumbled across a peculiar instrument lying in the corner. It was a small brown harp, which was called a lyre. I picked up the lyre, and when it touched my paper, a new language was born – lyric poetry. Inside the words of this language, I found a room for my feelings and thoughts, I found a room for me. The notebook and lyre always had time for me, they listened to me, comforted me, and allowed me to be myself.

When I graduated from high school, it was time for grown-up decisions. Where should I live, what should become of me? My things were put in boxes, along with the notebook and lyre that went into oblivion. I tried to find a place where I could be myself. I lived in Norway, Copenhagen and other towns in Denmark. I had different jobs and I tried to find my calling. Something was missing.

After years of unemployment, I began writing again. I bought new notebooks, but I had no lyre.

Thousands of job applications later, my Unemployment Fund told me I did not do enough. I was not good enough. After I received this message, I could not find a room for me. I was getting lost in my own home! I couldn’t find myself, but my bed was still there. I threw myself on my bed and pounded my fist in a pillow until I sensed something hard. I had beat my pillow so hard that it had got a hole. I was about to drop the pillow when I discovered an instrument inside the pillow, it was my old friend, the lyre.

Thus, this blog will consist of blog posts and Pillow Poetry.

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