March 1st, 2024
Photo credit: Aleksandr Buniatov @abuniatov
The first Grønt Marked I went to was in Nørrebro, across from Rondo bakery, I remember biking up in the August sun.
I sat down with my table and typewriter and ‘poet for hire’ sign without asking for permission. A shot of courage, no plan, and there I was, open for business.
From showing up uninvited, to being so welcomed and having my poetry become a regular market occurrence. To have somewhere to go and hangout on Sundays, even if it is -4 degrees outside. To drink coffee and befriend the volunteers, and discuss the progress of our knitting projects. To talk to farmers, try every one of their cheeses, or be taken on an apple variety taste bud tour. To write poems about their lovely goats, dedications to wool, or the power of camellia seeds. To be so close to food. But more the people that actually make it.
Photo credit: Aleksandr Buniatov @abuniatov
To get to be the poet sitting a stone’s throw from the tomatoes is something I’m forever grateful for. For the community of the market, how welcomed I was, and how a part of something I feel. The magic of this farmers market, all the stories told to me in those Copenhagen squares, the space allowed for my poems.
It will be a long winter without Sunday plans. But come May, as the ground is becoming less hostile, more open, everyone will gather under the yellow and white striped awnings of the Grønt Marked again. You’ll put on a pair of capris, and amble over. Whether you leave with a basket full of vegetables, a jar of jam, or just a grounded feeling, a sense of connection, the Grønt Marked will have succeeded.
I’ve written a poem, as an ode to this market:
From soft to squash,
The escalation of the dirt’s offering,
Hands fosterings,
July Strawberries laughing themselves to tears.
Because we’ll wake up on sundays
following
Matching the seasons,
Becoming practice
Again.
The goat cheese in your purse
The blue cast eggs.
Did you know how many varieties of potato there are?
The map is very small,
The yolks and whites came from here,
Apples luxuriating in their skin too,
So did you.
The wind rages, rain coming sideways and hail
shattering kombucha glasses,
more times than last year.
Reminding us the importance of this ground.
To listen to the ones tending it.
At the Grønt Marked
You’ll find us weekly,
Beneath yellow and white,
A garland along Refshalevej,
Nestled by Litueans, held in place.
Filling Skjolds square all the way up to the balconies
Resting on Axel Møllers garden grass.
come
With the tide of bikes and babies
To be and to say hello.
Then homewards
A basket full, chard stalks,
all charisma yellow and magenta.
Or just hands, hanging lightly by sides,
Your root system replenished.
GRØNT MARKED
An ode to
The Grønt Marked
By Daiva Saffron Friedmann
March 1st, 2024
Photo credit: Aleksandr Buniatov @abuniatov
The first Grønt Marked I went to was in Nørrebro, across from Rondo bakery, I remember biking up in the August sun.
I sat down with my table and typewriter and ‘poet for hire’ sign without asking for permission. A shot of courage, no plan, and there I was, open for business.
From showing up uninvited, to being so welcomed and having my poetry become a regular market occurrence. To have somewhere to go and hangout on Sundays, even if it is -4 degrees outside. To drink coffee and befriend the volunteers, and discuss the progress of our knitting projects. To talk to farmers, try every one of their cheeses, or be taken on an apple variety taste bud tour. To write poems about their lovely goats, dedications to wool, or the power of camellia seeds. To be so close to food. But more the people that actually make it.
Photo credit: Aleksandr Buniatov @abuniatov
To get to be the poet sitting a stone’s throw from the tomatoes is something I’m forever grateful for. For the community of the market, how welcomed I was, and how a part of something I feel. The magic of this farmers market, all the stories told to me in those Copenhagen squares, the space allowed for my poems.
It will be a long winter without Sunday plans. But come May, as the ground is becoming less hostile, more open, everyone will gather under the yellow and white striped awnings of the Grønt Marked again. You’ll put on a pair of capris, and amble over. Whether you leave with a basket full of vegetables, a jar of jam, or just a grounded feeling, a sense of connection, the Grønt Marked will have succeeded.
I’ve written a poem, as an ode to this market:
From soft to squash,
The escalation of the dirt’s offering,
Hands fosterings,
July Strawberries laughing themselves to tears.
Because we’ll wake up on sundays
following
Matching the seasons,
Becoming practice
Again.
The goat cheese in your purse
The blue cast eggs.
Did you know how many varieties of potato there are?
The map is very small,
The yolks and whites came from here,
Apples luxuriating in their skin too,
So did you.
The wind rages, rain coming sideways and hail
shattering kombucha glasses,
more times than last year.
Reminding us the importance of this ground.
To listen to the ones tending it.
At the Grønt Marked
You’ll find us weekly,
Beneath yellow and white,
A garland along Refshalevej,
Nestled by Litueans, held in place.
Filling Skjolds square all the way up to the balconies
Resting on Axel Møllers garden grass.
come
With the tide of bikes and babies
To be and to say hello.
Then homewards
A basket full, chard stalks,
all charisma yellow and magenta.
Or just hands, hanging lightly by sides,
Your root system replenished.