I met a poet, or closer to the truth, we re-met a poet. I recognised Arne from various art openings around Malmö. He was always happily drunk, and I was invariably with Harry and pretended that I was Norwegian.
Arne is a poet, so did not buy my passable Norwegian. He saw beyond it, like Underifrån, [from underneath] his most startling piece to date. By a strange twist of fate many of his poems have been translated into arabic, possibly because his daughter is married to a Moroccan. Maybe the poet like the profet is not accepted in his own country.
Renzo and I spent an hour over beers at the café trying to explain to him that emails were cheaper than six and a half crowns it costs to send snail mail. Like my pigeon Norwegian, Arne didn't buy it. . . he needed to hold the paper and then scribble some more on it.
Moral: Suffer the fool, until you are sure he isn't
