Kari Bremnes

Down where wave on rock is breaking,
Melodies are blending
Everything from summer song
To symphonies contending.
The jagged rocks must fall away,
All broken into sand,
But also there are smaller stones
To cradle in your hand.

Down where wave on rock is breaking,
The earth in constant motion
On the shoreline's narrow strip
The ever-flowing ocean.
We can always find our way,
If we understand
The constant tide of battle rage
Between the sea and land.

Down where wave on rock is breaking,
In the slanting moolight,
Sails that shine like silver
Moving through the quiet midnight.
Never-ending ebb and flow
With new tales being spun.
The music between sea and stone
And moon and stars and sun.

I would like to give you a song.
Not the one that goes you must never leave me baby
And I hate to see you go.
Not the one with a refrain
About your loving arms again,
So I'll celebrate your beauty.
But the words are hard to find.
They've been used a hundred times
And somehow don't belong.
Still I would like to give you a song.

I would like to give you a song.
Not the kind baby you must take me to the sea,
I know where the ocean lies.
I don't want to tell you that my heart belongs to Daddy,
It is you who are my prize.
Maybe I should sing of how your love thrills me here and now.
That you are, when you are there, the way you are.
But the cliches have their way.
Everything I try to say seems wrong.
Still I would like to give you a song.

I would like to give you a song.
Not the one that goes you must never leave me baby
And I hate to see you go.
Not the one with a refrain
About your loving arms again,
So I'll celebrate your beauty.
But the words are hard to find.
They've been used a hundred times
And somehow don't belong.
Still I would like to give you a song.

I would like to give you a song.
Not the kind baby you must take me to the sea,
I know where the ocean lies.
I don't want to tell you that my heart belongs to Daddy,
It is you who are my prize.
Maybe I should sing of how your love thrills me here and now.
That you are, when you are there, the way you are.
But the cliches have their way.
Everything I try to say seems wrong.
Still I would like to give you a song.

We'd been walking so far,
Where the houses lean together,
On cobblestones not made for my high heels.
As we drifted along,
Slowed down by the weather,
No need to talk
About the way that summer feels.

We went into a doorway
To a run-down bar beneath the ground,
To a place that the sun has never been.

Coming in from the day
To the darkness and the shadows,
The feeble lights could not dispel the gloom.
Slowly making our way,
We found an empty table.
The winter seemed to live inside this room.

This Copenhagen cavern:
A run-down bar beneath the ground,
A place that the sun has never seen.

Like a frail figurine,
She walked between the tables
With a vacant look and thinly braided hair.
She was all of sixteen,
Straight from a Dickens fable,
She was pleading for some money
For her fare.

The Copenhagen waiter
Wanted her back on the street,
But some impulse
Made us offer her a chair.

As I started to speak
I sensed a strong emotion.
She said I am from northern Norway, too,
She had come for a week,
A journey with her school friends
But a year had passed her by
Before she knew.

She said: I come from Senja,
A village on the outer coast,
But the climate here
Affected me much more.

Walking into the lane,
Looking back in through the window,
The light of day now seemed a little strange.
Would she leave for the train,
Would she stay another winter?
She moved betweeen the tables
Begging chance.

We'd been walking so far
Through cobblestone back alleys
No need to talk about
The way that summer feels.

You approach the town quite slowly from the water
As the dawn arrives and bids the night farewell.
You will feel the cold and hunger in your spirit
As you see the church tower mirrored in the swell.
You will sail around the cliff and watch the sun rise
Shining light upon the high and sleepy hill,
As the town awakes, washed in light and shadow
While the other towns still sleep so dark and still.

You will stand onboard and watch them throw the tow line.
You can see the men who catch it on the pier.
And you feel a chill as you leave the railing.
On down the bridge-way, the town is very near.
You might hear the hammers pounding in the shipyard
Or watch the boats leave toward the fishing ground.
Will they discover if it's worth this early journey,
To rise up before the other sleeping towns?

You must wave farewell to those who've stayed onboard now
Be on your voyage. There are secrets you must know
In this town that knew you once and held you closely,
That owned your morning hours so long ago.
You approach the town quite slowly from the water.
You're a stranger, somehow, as you walk ashore
In this town that hides old images and stories.
Maybe new songs that you will soon explore.

We should have begun again.
If we knew then what we know now.
Should have known what really counts
And what was unimportant, somehow.
Should have ventured cautiously,
Not quickly, so abrupt,
Closed our eyes, count to ten.
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
Should have learned each other's
Different ways of seeing.
Should have known that heart and soul
Will have their way above our own well-being.
We should have been more giving,
But the lessons pass too soon.
Turn to Buddha, turn to Zen.
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
Should have played a little more before life caught us.
Should have known about the pain
To enjoy the wealth of gifts that life had brought us.
To search for something to believe in.
What's a dead end, what's a door?
When to fight, when to make amends?
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
If we knew then what we know now.
Should have known what really counts
And what was unimportant, somehow.
Should have ventured cautiously,
Not quickly, so abrupt,
Closed our eyes, count to ten.
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
Should have learned each other's
Different ways of seeing.
Should have known that heart and soul
Will have their way above our own well-being.
We should have been more giving,
But the lessons pass too soon.
Turn to Buddha, turn to Zen.
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
Should have played a little more before life caught us.
Should have known about the pain
To enjoy the wealth of gifts that life had brought us.
To search for something to believe in.
What's a dead end, what's a door?
When to fight, when to make amends?
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

I always trusted my protection
Such a long time to be sheltered, to be safe
I always trusted my protection
Always, always

I was a Sunday's child
Forever walking in the sunlight
Tender voices, loving hands, a coat against the cold
I had immunity from danger
A world so young, songs unsung and tales untold

I always trusted my protection
Such a long time to be sheltered, to be safe
I always trusted my protection
Always, always

I thought that you can always find protection. I grew up with my father and mother, with my sister and brother, good people, kind people. They gave me food, clothes, shelter, they kept me safe from the burning sun and the winter cold. They watched over me and made good choices for me, the best choices. I came to believe that I would always be protected in this way, that it was the natural state of things. When I went out into the world I presumed I carried their protection with me like a shield, like a membrane and it led me to seek out the good in everything. Oh, but the most shocking realisation I've ever had is that the grown-ups are left and there is no protection.

I always trusted my protection
Such a long time to be sheltered, to be safe
I always trusted my protection
Always, always

The only protector you have in this world is your own will. And so it will be as when the lion lies down with the lamb, they're supposed to rest peacefully side-by-side but the lamb won't get much rest. If your own will weakens, what have you left? Instincts, intuitions, feelings to make your choices with. You're unprotected. Your will is your coat in the storm and if it fits, you're lucky. You can easily end up with the wrong coat. There should be a fitting room to try it on before you agree to take it. How can I get a new one, my old will is so weakened, have you got a second hand one, preferably strong? Some have weak wills that forever fail them. Some have a strong will that's never tested, but so it goes.

I always trusted my protection
Such a long time to be sheltered, to be safe
I always trusted my protection
Always, always

I saw that she was rather young.
She was standing at the counter of a dusty old arcade.
She must have weighed at least 200 pounds,
But everything she sold was slim and finely made.
I'd seen nothing so enchanting for so long.
This was Montreal, I was hiding from the rain.
She wore black fingernails and went right into a song,
As she slowly came to me with this refrain:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She chain-smoked as she handled dark velour.
These hand-made things she showed me in her dramatic fashion.
She saw for me these clothes held an allure,
The moire and silk seemed to stir my passion.
It was Dior, it was Chanel, a certain cut, a seamless seam.
The black-nailed girl could clearly see my weakness.
A weakness fed by a strange and sensuous dream.
With a joyless laugh she said those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She showed me last a handbag made of velvet.
In it were expensive stones like amethyst and jade.
Black sapphires had been shaped just like a rose.
For the funeral of a lover her mother had them made.
It probably was Paris where he died, is what she said,
As this big forgotten daughter glanced towards the window.
I'll sell the sapphires cheap, the man's long dead!
With a vacant laugh she gave those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

I saw that she was rather young.
She was standing at the counter of a dusty old arcade.
She must have weighed at least 200 pounds,
But everything she sold was slim and finely made.
I'd seen nothing so enchanting for so long.
This was Montreal, I was hiding from the rain.
She wore black fingernails and went right into a song,
As she slowly came to me with this refrain:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She chain-smoked as she handled dark velour.
These hand-made things she showed me in her dramatic fashion.
She saw for me these clothes held an allure,
The moire and silk seemed to stir my passion.
It was Dior, it was Chanel, a certain cut, a seamless seam.
The black-nailed girl could clearly see my weakness.
A weakness fed by a strange and sensuous dream.
With a joyless laugh she said those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She showed me last a handbag made of velvet.
In it were expensive stones like amethyst and jade.
Black sapphires had been shaped just like a rose.
For the funeral of a lover her mother had them made.
It probably was Paris where he died, is what she said,
As this big forgotten daughter glanced towards the window.
I'll sell the sapphires cheap, the man's long dead!
With a vacant laugh she gave those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.