Peter-Clement Woetmann

- Denmark -

Peter-Clement Woetmann is a Danish poet, born in 1985 in Copenhagen. He is a graduate of the Authors' School (2006) and holds a BSc in Landscape Architecture and Urban Design (2012).

Peter-Clement Woetmann debuted as a 20-year-old with the collection of poems Fortunately, the Forest Has Disappeared in 2005. Subsequently, three collections of poems have been published: My Inner Pompeii (2010), 105 Variations (Arena) and Behind the Hills, the Coast - a Lament (2017).

Since 2014, he has worked with theater texts, and from 2015 to 2017 he was employed as a resident playwright at Aarhus Theater.

He has received The Morten Nielsen Memorial Grant and the Three Year Scholarship by Danish Arts Institute among others.

“There is something hesitant about Woetmann's writing,” wrote literary critic Christian Stokbro, when Peter-Clement Woetmann's second collection of poems My Inner Pompeii was published. As a reader, it can sometimes seem as if Peter-Clement Woetmann's words doubt themselves as they appear on paper. As if they want to hide again.

There is a force in that hesitation. It leaves room for doubt and tenderness.

Peter-Clement Woetmann has participated in literary experiments several times. Among other things, his third collection of poems 105 Variations (2015) was a result of him writing 1011 sentences, which a ‘poetry machine,’ in collaboration with the audience, put together in new ways. The results were at once chaotic and light. Here is an example:

Listening no longer made sense. The sentences are filtered threads. Like this morning. There was a standstill in the air, a standstill in the gray walls. On the balcony, this stream of new words, new sentences: You sparkle somewhere in my pages.

Again, we experience this hesitation. The sentences will not really stand on their own. They look cautiously ahead like the sun on a frosty winter day, gently and insistently at the same time.

In 2014, Peter-Clement Woetmann wrote texts for theater for the first time. It was in connection with the ballet performance In feeling - a war ballet, where the Danish Royal Theatre's dance laboratory Corpus and the experimental theater Black/White joined forces for a performance that mixed sober stories from Danish war veterans with poetry and ballet.

The work seemed to usher in a more political period in Peter-Clement Woetmann's writing. However, this is not a political statement that results in bombastic attitudes, but rather something that seems like a search for a new political language, a poetic policy.

The collection of poems Behind the hills, the coast (2017) can be read as a study of the inherent paradox of global inequality: While one person rejoices, another dies. While the poet stands in the mild Danish nature, refugees drown in the Mediterranean. Peter-Clement Woetmann insists on visiting this repressed truth in an almost mesmerizing tone, whose measured simplicity leaves reality brutally clear:

My body is not the dark sea one early morning in March

Peter-Clement Woetmann's hesitant entry into poetry has found a strength that makes him one of the most relevant writers of his generation - even though he never seems sure that it is a role he wants to take on.

By Thorkil Jacobsen

Translated by Jeremy Thomas-Poulsen

More about the poet

Poetry

/ (Untitled)

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is birds that take flight together
to dizzying heights in the sky.

My body is the dunes, the lyme grass, warm
sand blue sky.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er fugle der flygter omkring med
hinanden højt svimlende et sted på himlen.

Min krop er klitrækkerne, marehalmen, varmt
sand blå himmel.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not the waves, my body is not
the waves’ body.

My body is the light sand, the sand’s
bright sting on my cheeks.

My body is the wind’s body, the feathers afloat
in the sky.

My body is seashells, razor clams,
sun-dried seaweed, fingers dried in the sun.

My body is the ice cream stand, the parasol outside
the ice cream stand and the white plastic chairs outside
the ice cream stand.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke bølgerne, min krop er ikke
bølgernes krop.

Min krop er det lyse sand, sandets lysende
prikken i kinderne.

Min krop er vindens krop, dovne dun på himlen.

Min krop er strandskaller, knivmuslinger,
soltørret tang, soltørre fingre.

Min krop er iskiosken, parasollen foran
iskiosken og de hvide plastikstole foran
iskiosken.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not an ocean.

My body is not blue shimmer beneath
the pale blue sky.

My body is pale pink skin on crumpled sheets.

My body is flickering caresses beneath
the pale blue sky.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke et hav.

Min krop er ikke blåt glitrende under den
sartblå himmel.

Min krop er sart rosa hud på et krøllet lagen.

Min krop er flimrende kærtegn under den
sartblå himmel.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.
/ (Untitled)

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the big nets the boats haul
in their wake, not the fisher’s body.

My body is not the ocean’s body, not the sound of
waves that crash and crash and crash against the shore.

My body is not the container ship’s body far
off on the horizon.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke de store garn bådene slæber
efter sig, ikke fiskerens krop.

Min krop er ikke havets krop, ikke lyden af
bølger der slår og slår og slår imod kysten.

Min krop er ikke containerskibets krop langt
ude i horisonten.
/ (Untitled)

My body is the smooth bark of the beech tree and a squirrel
darting out of sight.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the rusty containers headed from
one place to another.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er bøgetræets bløde bark og et egern
der piler i skjul.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke de rustne containere på vej fra
et sted til et andet.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not the sailboat’s flimsy body, not
the seagulls tugging at the wind above the sailboat’s
flimsy body.

My body is not the pale blue sea now nearly
standing still.

My body is not the two bodies on water skis in the
now nearly still sea.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke sejlbådens spinkle krop, ikke
mågerne der hiver i vinden over sejlbådens
spinkle krop.

Min krop er ikke det sartblå hav der nu næsten
står stille.

Min krop er ikke de to kroppe på vandski på det
nu næsten stille hav.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.
/ (Untitled)

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the whispering static of
the radio in late September.

My body is not the gleaming metal of cars, not
the gleaming hulls of ships, not the white line
the planes draw across the sky.

My body is the sparrow’s body, the sparrow
hopping about in the bush.

My body is raspberries and gooseberries, blackcurrants
and redcurrants.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke den susende rumlen fra radioen i slutningen af september.

Min krop er ikke bilernes blanke metal, ikke skibenes blanke skrog, ikke den hvide linje flyene trækker hen over himlen.

Min krop er gråspurvens krop, gråspurven hoppende omkring i sin busk.

Min krop er hindbær og stikkelsbær, solbær
og ribs.
/ (Untitled)

My body is the blackberry’s body.

My body is the sun-soaked rowboat on
the beach among the dunes.

My body is not the life jacket, not orange in the
bright warm sand.

My body is not the lighthouse’s body, not its red
blink blink pause blink in the black night.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er brombærrets krop.

Min krop er ikke den solmætte robåd på
stranden mellem klitterne.

Min krop er ikke redningsvesten, orange i det lyst varme sand.

Min krop er ikke fyrtårnets krop, ikke dets røde lys lys mørke lys i den sorte nat.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.
/ (Untitled)

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the nomad’s body.

My body is not the beggar’s body.

My body is not the bodies of war.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke nomadens krop.

Min krop er ikke den fattiges krop.

Min krop er ikke krigenes kroppe.
/ (Untitled)

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the sunlit sea and the boat on
its way across the sunlit sea.

My body is not the ship’s engine, not the thick
smell of diesel.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke det solblanke hav og båden på
vej over det solblanke hav.

Min krop er ikke skibets motor, ikke den tætte
lugt af diesel.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not the body close beside another
body close beside another body close beside
another body close beside another body close
beside another body close beside another body
close beside another body close beside another
body close beside another body.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke den krop der sidder tæt på en
krop der sidder tæt på en krop der sidder tæt på
en krop der sidder tæt på en krop der sidder tæt
på en krop der sidder tæt på en krop der sidder
tæt på en krop der sidder tæt på en krop der
sidder tæt på en krop.
/ (Untitled)

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the dark of a cargo hold and the sound
of a ship woven into a breath.

My body is not the eyes shining in the dark
cargo hold, clammy hands bowed head.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke lastrummets mørke og lyden af skibet der fletter sig ind i et åndedræt.

Min krop er ikke de blanke øjne i det mørke lastrum, fugtige hænder bøjet nakke.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not body washed ashore on
the coast of Italy.

My body is not body washed ashore on
the coast of Greece.

My body is not body washed ashore on
the coast of Spain.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke krop skyllet i land ved Italiens kyst.

Min krop er ikke krop skyllet i land ved
Grækenlands kyst.

Min krop er ikke krop skyllet i land ved Spaniens kyst.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.
/ (Untitled)

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the capsized boat on the open
sea, the silence when the sea settles.

My body is not the birds’ bodies, the soft feathers
in the warm wind.

My body is not the fishes’ bodies, smooth strokes of
silver in the dark sea.

My body is not the dark sea early one
morning in March.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke den kæntrede båd på åbent
hav, stilheden når havet igen bliver stille.

Min krop er ikke fuglenes kroppe, de bløde fjer i
den lune vind.

Min krop er ikke fiskenes kroppe, blanke slag af
sølv i det mørke hav.

Min krop er ikke det mørke hav en tidlig
morgen i marts.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not a motor that dies out early
one morning in the beginning of March.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not boat corroded by salt that sets
course towards Italy.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke en motor der går ud en tidlig morgen i begyndelsen af marts.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke båd hærget af salt der sætter
kurs mod Italien.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not the sun-soaked rubber boat
that drifts ashore on Greek island.

My body is not rusty containers on the way
across the Mediterranean.

My body is not the slam of metal doors
and everything now black.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke den solmætte gummibåd der
driver i land på græsk ø.

Min krop er ikke rustne containere på vej over
middelhavet.

Min krop er ikke lyden af metaldøre der lukkes til mørket er alt.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.
/ (Untitled)

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the resounding darkness of a truck.

My body is not harbours, desolate and grey.

My body is not the rocking rocking of boats,
my body is not the boats on their way across
the Mediterranean right now.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke lastbilernes rungende mørke.

Min krop er ikke havneområder forladte og grå.

Min krop er ikke bådenes vuggende vuggende, min krop er ikke de både på vej over
middelhavet nu.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.
/ (Untitled)

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not twelve men dead in a
shipping container on a ferry headed for
Greece.

My body is not too little air and still more
pressing heat.

My body is not three bodies thrown overboard from
overcrowded ship.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke tolv døde mænd i en skibscontainer på en færge på vej mod Grækenland.

Min krop er ikke manglen på ilt og den stadigt
tættere varme.

Min krop er ikke tre kroppe kastet over bord fra overfyldt skib.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not 200 bodies swimming
ashore from capsized ship.

My body is not the three unmoving bodies
left behind in the capsized ship.

My body is not 15 bodies drowned, 40 still missing.

My body is not 978 bodies saved by the
Italian coast guard, not the single body lifeless at
the bottom of the ship.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke 200 kroppe der svømmer ind mod land fra kæntret skib.

Min krop er ikke de tre ubevægelige kroppe efterladt i det kæntrede skib.

Min krop er ikke 15 druknede kroppe, 40 stadigt savnede.

Min krop er ikke 978 kroppe reddet af den italienske kystvagt, ikke den ene krop livløs på bunden af skibet.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.
/ (Untitled)

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind in the trees
in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not 50 dead on the fourth of March.

My body is not 300 dead in stormy
waters in the beginning of February.

My body is not 54 bodies dead of thirst in a
boat on the way to Italy.

Traslated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke 50 døde 4. marts.

Min krop er ikke 300 døde i stormfuldt
farvande i begyndelsen af februar.

Min krop er ikke 54 kroppe døde af tørst i en båd på vej til Italien.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not six Somalis dead of
dehydration in a rubber boat with 58 others.

My body is not four Eritreans dead of
dehydration in a rubber boat with 58 others.

My body is a not a boat drifting in the wind.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke seks somaliere døde af
dehydrering på en gummibåd med 58 andre.

Min krop er ikke fire fra Eritrea døde af
dehydrering på en gummibåd med 58 andre.

Min krop er ikke en båd der driver for vinden.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.
/ (Untitled)

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not stowaway passenger found dead in
landing gear of a plane at Heathrow.

My body is not stowaway passenger in free fall from
plane over London.

My body is not boy found dead by
the landing wheels in an American plane.

My body is not stowaway found frozen
to death by the landing wheels in a plane on its way to
Düsseldorf.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke blind passager fundet død ved
landingsstellet i et fly i Heathrow.

Min krop er ikke blind passager i frit fald fra et fly over London.

Min krop er ikke dreng fundet død ved landingshjulene i et amerikansk fly.

Min krop er ikke blind passager fundet frosset ihjel ved landingshjulene i et fly på vej til Düsseldorf.
/ (Untitled)

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not unknown body found in the river.

My body is not Asian body found dead in
wetsuit by the English Channel.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke ukendt krop fundet i floden.

Min krop er ikke asiatisk krop fundet død i
våddragt ved Den Engelske Kanal.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not three drowned bodies on the way
to Italy. My body is not the 22 bodies the coast guard
managed to rescue.

My body is not 12 women, two men and an
infant washed ashore on the coast of Libya.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke tre druknede kroppe på vej mod Italien. Min krop er ikke de 22 kystvagten nåede at redde.

Min krop er ikke 12 kvinder, to mænd og en
baby skyllet i land på Libyens kyst.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not 55-year-old found dead in
shipping container used as hiding place.

My body is not decomposed body washed
ashore near Lampedusa.

My body is not body crushed under the wheels of
the truck.

My body is not Egyptian man found dead in a
warehouse in Corinth.

My body is not the Iranian man found hanged
with a sheet in an asylum centre in Würzburg.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke 55-årig inder fundet død i container brugt som skjul.

Min krop er ikke nedbrudt krop der skylder i land ved Lampedusa.

Min krop er ikke krop knust under lastbilens
hjul.

Min krop er ikke egyptisk mand fundet død i en
lagerhal i Korinth.

Min krop er ikke iransk mand fundet hængt
med et lagen i et asylcenter i Würzburg.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not 16-year-old boy suffocated in truck when
he hid from the border patrol.

My body is not 40-year-old man thrown overboard
by smugglers.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke 16-årig dreng kvalt i lastbil da
han gemte sig for grænsevagten.

Min krop er ikke 40-årig mand kastet overbord af smuglere.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not Kidane, not the girl who saw her
mother and 11-year-old sister die in the black waves.

My body is not Bernard Hukwa, found drifting
down the Thames, dead.

My body is not Alain Hatungimana. My body
is not the body who committed suicide for fear of
being deported with his two children.

My body is not the body of Samia Yusuf Omar.

My body is not Mohamed Asfak’s body, not
Amdi Mostafa’s body, not Toumani Samake’s
body, not Riza Karadag’s body.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke Kidane, ikke hende der så sin mor og sin 11-årige søster dø i de sorte bølger.

Min krop er ikke Bernard Hukwa, fundet død
drivende ned af Themsen.

Min krop er ikke Alain Hatungimana. Min krop
er ikke den krop der begik selvmord i frygt for at blive udvist med sine to børn.

Min krop er ikke Samia Yusuf Omars krop.

Min krop er ikke Mohamed Asfaks krop, ikke Amdi Mostafas krop, ikke Toumani Samakes krop, ikke Riza Karadags krop.
/ (Untitled)

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

My body is not the unknown mother who
drowned off the coast of Greece with her eight
children.

My body is not the waves’ body.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Min krop er ikke den ukendte mor der druknede ud for grækenlands kyst med sine otte børn.

Min krop er ikke bølgernes krop.
/ (Untitled)

My body is not boats that sink, boats that
capsize, boats that wash ashore.

My body is blue eyes white skin.

My body is corn-coloured fields and soft wind
in the trees in a clearing in the woods.

My body is the hills and beyond the hills, the coast.

Translated by Jennifer Russell
Min krop er ikke både der synker, både der
kæntrer, både der skylder i land.

Min krop er blå øjne hvid hud.

Min krop er korngule marker og den milde vind
i træerne i en lysning i skoven.

Min krop er bakkerne og bag bakkerne, kysten.

Peter-Clement Woetmann

- Denmark -

Poetry

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