RED DOOR 31

For the past two decades, Knud took daily
walks to the fjord near his home, where
he would sit on a bench and ‘receive’
poems that he felt were waiting for him
there. These walks resulted in collections
of poetry nearly annually for the last
years of his life, many of them conveying
a sense of connection to nature and the
fact of aging and mortality. These poems
I selected from for the 2020 bi-lingual
poetry book, New and Selected Poems of
Knud Sørensen. You can check that out
here: michaelfavalagoldman.com/books/
knud-sorensen-new-and-selected-poems/
Besides these two books, Knud’s
poetry and prose also appeared in such
esteemed pages as The Harvard Review,
The Columbia Review and Rattle.
be King of Sweden. But now I have a book
for sale in the United States.”
It was meaningful for Knud to have a
connection outside of Denmark, and to
have his writing translated. And I think it
has been meaningful for his readers too. I
imagine that other readers, as I have, find in
his writing an awakened sense of valuing
history and of our tenuous and bittersweet
place in nature.
When I learned of Knud’s death, I wrote
the following poem in his honor, and the
poem was read today at his funeral. I hope
you will find in my words a bit of Knud’s
spirit.
Ære være hans minde.
Knud kept careful track of his steps on his
walks, tallying at least 8000 steps each
day into his 90s, with the excess of 8000
steps going towards his ‘bank,’ from which
he carefully withdrew as his walks became
shorter and less frequent. I have often
wondered this past week how there is no
one to receive the poems at the fjord now.
Maybe someday someone new will come
along to take up where Knud left off.
One day I was visiting Knud, and we were
getting ready to go out. It had rained
earlier, and we were on the second floor
of his house. As we were about to leave,
I slipped past Knud to exit first, onto the
little patio, which had quarry tile, as did
the stairs down to the walk. The tile was so
slippery my feet went right out from under
me, and I nonchalantly grabbed the railing
with both hands to keep from sliding down
the stairs. I turned back to Knud without
making a fuss, suggesting that we go
through the door downstairs, since it was a
bit slick. I have often thought back on that
moment as the time I saved Knud’s life.
As Knud’s poems become available in
English, he and I performed together at
his hometown library. It was a lively crowd.
After the readings, an audience member
asked Knud how it felt to be translated.
This was late in his career, when Knud was
88. Knud responded, “My father used to
say, if you keep at it long enough, you can
become King of Sweden. I never wanted to
That Day Arrived
for Knud Sørensen, 1928-2022
We do not come from nowhere.
There was someone here before us
who planted seeds
put down roots
looked at the sky
and tried to predict the future.
It is so easy to forget
or assume
that everything starts now.
We are all that came before,
however shameful and joyful,
which we may never live up to.
The story is indelible,
closer than our fingerprints
we are constantly leaving
on everything,
barely a thought to the future,
so caught up in now,
until redeemed by a story.
Knud was a storyteller.
He knew
when a narrative bears weight.
Knud did not write for himself.
He wrote for the story.
He wrote for the timelessness
in the story
so that we would remember
we are more than just this.
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