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Secrets Are Good Untold


My words are blind,
the letters secret clues,
that, left to themselves, are just like driftwood
on the shore,
or the cuneiforms of long-legged waterfowl
in the sand of the archipelago skerries,
swept away
by the swell from a distant rumble
under the horizon,
after a brief conjecture, spoken
and broken

Somebody, clearing the tables
in the hospital cafeteria,
involuntarily hits a metal lamp shade
with her elbow,
spreading a Stockhausenesque tam tam vibration
all across the pre-lunch void

I let my associations listen;
the tables hold up something,
be it a sense of time,
or a recollection of all the people
having been seated

I know there are mountains out there,
with mighty 45° screes
made up of Volkswagen-size rocks;
I've seen them, I've crept up them
with and without somebody,
but mostly they brood
by themselves,
heavy,
dressed in boulders
and steep angles,
sunlight treading cautiously
up the slopes,
as the news reports, tight spun, crawls
out of the radios,
setting the world on fire,
the rocks hot and heavy
- but at night the moonshine soothes,
covers all matter in bleak dreams
with the far-flung logic of Eastern thought;
Kuan-yin at the edge of everything,
the voices dance
around me through the lunch hour,
thud off the walls,
sail in the sunlight that echoes through the windows
off the snow cover in the hospital garden,
in the clatter of kitchenware, porcelain, forks
and knives,
as the white-clothed ballet of surgeons,
psychiatrists and nurses mix
with the happenstance patients and janitors
dressed in blue,
soaring across the indeterminate stage
of Sunderby Hospital
somewhere at the end of winter;
laughters and insisting high-pitch words
rising from far off a distant cafeteria area,
while close, just a table away,
and old couple talks intimately,
in low voices, kept to themselves
as it should be
at the far end of life
close by,
as the war drags on in The Ukraine
and my mountainbike is being serviced
at the bicycle workshop
in Luleå

Ah, all those animal tracks in the snow
deep in the forest,
known by nobody but fellow snow sneakers,
soon snowed over or melted away:
sign language seen but by firs, pines, birches
and clouds

Secrets are good untold;
truths are alive under your skin,
stories are never-ending
until told




Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 79 gånger
Publicerad 2022-03-14 17:30



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