Nuuk conversations - October 2018

walking out the colors stop

once the door closes behind  

the grayness takes over, 

you can only keep on walking

each step echoing the sound of grinding teeth

sharp snow sweeps over white ice  

the ice knows it all

it knows the past 

it knows that you are uncomfortable on this land

the gray turns to dark 

as you keep on walking 

past the cold horizons

green ghosts over the black sky

in vast glimmering translucent lights

she crosses the street cursing the ice

her pink boots struggling with the frozen road


there is no poetry here

nothing to hide the rawness of her walk

and the hunger of her wandering

she is the ghost from the hills

the voice of the dead whalers

the dead Greenlandic hunters

she talks to no one anymore

the wind avoids her anger

more than anywhere it is brutal


the void brings the icebergs floating down endlessly

encapsulated frozen blue light

we want it so badly to shine with beauty and dignity

but there is no poetry just relentless ice and sea

through her the cold and wind speaks the story

everything has a soul she was told

now it is lost to the bright clear images of captured alterations

taken and replaced with white walls of novelty and deceit


she has wondered far form home, far from now in time

only to find no poetry will serve

any more

I do not understand what she is whispering

white walls of ice 

there is no poetry here

amongst this unmeasurable whitness

at a distance this unreal city

keep on walking 

over ice and snow

go to the mountains

to be Qivittoq