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the poet
Carl Alexandersson (he/him), a queer spoken word poet based in London, hails from Småland, Sweden. He was Highly Commended for the Edwin Morgan Poetry Award 2022, a runner-up for the Grierson Verse Prize 2022, and selected for the BBC Words First programme in 2021. Carl's work has been published in Atrium, Ink Sweat & Tears, Dust Poetry and elsewhere. His debut poetry pamphlet Förgätmigej // Forget-me-not appeared in 2023.
the poems
The cows on the ice
on clear winter days we'd ice skate on Sjöatorpssjön
our breaths were condensed precise fast-paced
as we'd circle the patch of ice we were told was safe
safety is a decision others make
*
on this frozen-over lake decades ago
Dad's childhood friend poured hot cocoa into his ice skates
to warm his feet which worked briefly before backfiring
nothing is as cold as heat fading
*
once, I fell through slipped from the pier
and had to get draped in a tablecloth the colour of snödroppar
in Swedish we have this saying
det är ingen ko på isen there is no cow on the ice
it means no danger everything's fine
*
once I poured hot cocoa onto the ice
thinking it'd melt but it just stained
*
Dad always told me if I ever go further out on the ice
I'd need to bring ice picks in case I fell in
on Sjöatorpssjön I learned how to listen
for cracks under skates for spring to break for danger
*
last summer, in the dark Dad and I heard our neighbours shout
there were cows in the lake having escaped their farm
for the cooling bliss of a summer night swim
we stood and listened as they brought them ashore
like we'd listen for the ice to crack
*
I'd like to not stain this ice this lake
this life if I can
*
in the end the cows on the ice were saved
safety is a decision others make.
Wind-bent trees still grow
in a city centre
park in Bilbao, my best friend reaches out and touches the trees
we pass
says man-made
things are too smooth, too flat; unnatural. I think of things I have
lost:
laying down
on grass, jumping from one rock to the next, picking wildflowers
bringing them home
which brings me
back to summer days with farmor and farfar by Sjöatorpssjön
reading Kalle Anka comics
in the shade
of an oak tree, holding the ground with my body; breathing
it in.
when did I stop
going for forest runs, stop walking into the kitchen with grass-stained
feet, carrying
wild strawberries
from the edge of the greenery? such sweetness in such small bodies.
I read somewhere
that twigs
don’t always break at their weakest point; that it is more
of a chain reaction
of small breakages –
and that rings out like my first phone. later on, my best friend
leans back
onto a patch
of grass on a hill overlooking the city, closes her eyes, exhales
deeply, feels
ground
against skin, and still, I don’t. instead, I look out at what’s been built
below. but also
further
at the hills in the distance, overlapping each other, wild waves
of green –
And I do
breathe
it in.
Skummeslövsstrand’s
shoreline
At 5 / at the shores of Skummeslövsstrand / we would collect the washed-up jellyfish / and place them in piles / I don't remember / why. Generally / I think the why-nots are more important / why not build a tower of jellyfish / reaching all the way to the candy floss clouds? See / at 5 / that made perfect sense
/... /
I want nonsense to make sense again / pick up shiny things from the ground and keep them / draw badly with crayons / so as to grace the fridge / with this representative testament of my nonsensical existence! And then / I want to munch on snow / and feel the water melt / into me / hold your hand and not question it / ask you what your favourite colour is / and your top 5 animals / and if you remember / how quickly we could exit a building / for recess? It was a question of seconds / holding each other / so close
/... /
Once / we went there in winter / holding plastic shovels close to our chests / stomping through the snow / in order to reach the shoreline / finding that oceans don't freeze the way lakes do / the waves stay warm by moving Mom says / and we run / all the way home / empty handed / convinced / the holes we dug in the snow / will still be there tomorrow
/... /
In Cornwall, I am told / collecting trinkets from the shore / is common practice. The belief / that whatever the sea washes up is yours / to keep / washed clean / of any claims / belonging to the sea and the shore and the clouds and you all / at
/... /
Once, my brother got stung by a lion's mane jellyfish / so badly / we had to scrape his entire back / with Dad's credit card. During the car ride / home / Dad explained why / that works / and his words made sense
/... /
We had asked the sea to play / with us / and it had said no / there is nothing left / to collect. Don’t ask me / again.
Publishing credits
The cows on the ice: Dust Poetry Magazine (Issue 10)
Wind-bent trees still grow: exclusive first publication by iamb
Skummeslövsstrand’s shoreline: The Hyacinth Review
(December 11th 2023)