The Dagar Brothers
The Dagar Brothers screw their way forward
through the afternoon of Raga Miyan ki Todi
in Harg,
like the Northern Link tunnel-boring machine
once beneath Stockholm
between Karlberg & Frescati
On the third day
I let the body rest,
be embraced by sleep and dream
and imagination’s weightless play
beneath the dense inversion layer
of the heavy Indian blanket
The Brothers howl like sick wolves
in the ancient Eastern traditions,
rooting through their vocal resources,
yet at times grunting more restrainedly,
like a platoon of wild boars’ earth-milling snouts
turning upside down
manically tidy villa gardens;
brazen shadows in the night
Presence tilts ominously
amid the era’s deliveries of repetition,
while the Brothers’ wildly crazed rapture
burns in the mountain regions
My retreat dwelling in Harg
is encircled by Eritreans and Indians,
while Crazy Wolf MC in the neighborhood
rev up their Harley-Davidson machines
like the Dagar Brothers
their carving ice-scrape voices;
the horsepower tearing at their tethers
in motorway-panicked longing,
like naked dogs
desperately jerking at their chains
in a Buddhist parable
I lie myself into being
with rain against the window, May 13,
while the Dagar Brothers spiral upward
through bruised-blue skies
and fade away
through hearing’s outermost reaches,
until the present moment, in its tyranny,
bubbles up and over
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-05-13 at 17:20
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