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The Comprehensive Never Of The Hidden

A couple of years ago,
in a direct identification with history,
treasure hunts & all that's hidden and secretive
in the vast, wide never
that envelopes us,
I tossed a handful of coins
under a couple of large ice age boulders
in the depth of the forest;
minted monetary values
through many hands' transactions, agreements,
instalments, final bids & candy counters,
in the mystique & symbolism of Fairytales;
the wide-eyed mossy lushness
in memories of emerging cities that shimmer
in bright, sparkling strings of pearls
and glowworm spreads
under the International Space Station's Cupola,
heavy with leachates and fox gazes
in the ancient pulse and dense solitude
of the forest heart under the Moon;
the clipping eyes of owl vigils
in that which happens without us,
from my sower hand
that lets coins fly like birds
out of my sight

Now Anna breathes her sleep
beside me
on the voyage of the Great Ship of Dreams,
her wild untamedness in round table talks
with her steady orderliness
in the cabin of the night,
the table creaking
in the sea swell of fresh wills under the Zodiac

And in 1959
my slightly younger farm friend Kent Wretling
and I
dug down a time capsule at the forest's edge
where once the old farm community of Jogersta By stood,
but where, in 1959, only remained an opening
with a piece of sloping, fertile meadowland,
almost overgrown,
up toward the owl hooting and night jarring darkness
of the Kolmården Forest above Kiladalen Valley
with its wavering silver line of Kilaån River
zigzagging down towards the Nyköping Town
Baltic Sea inlet;
glass jar in glass jar
with selected current events;
a daily newspaper, written messages
and various objects,
buried deep in the ground and left
- or was it actually us who were left,
behind in the passage of time?

That day from the autumn of 1959 lives
in the earth,
leaving us to our fates
in time's relentless flight
inside the ongoing and ever-fleeing,
in the hocks of a remorseful and fearful god
who timelessly flees over the moors
with humanity's accumulated gene pool
in a thimble,
away from that day
that doesn't even have a name,
but lives in its unnameable namelessness,
which has our breaths
even when we no longer breathe;
when my heart stops quoting itself,
over and over again

Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 26 gånger
Publicerad 2024-02-27 11:47

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