An Out-Of-Tune Madrigal
I'm old enough
to become overwhelmed
by the smallest occurrence,
the tiniest change of perspective,
the least of the least
I see the light
just as it explodes
Some things become obvious
just as they cease
I fasten my skis,
put on my face
and head into the wind
Nobody is there,
except everybody;
the sharp acupuncture nails
of the corn snow,
the windy voices of the gale
out of the semi-darkness
and the voices in my head
of cosmic creatures that brought me here
through the hidden silence
in the noise of the extended here and now:
Mother Viola, friends like Sune, Sture, Kjellström,
foes, poets, painters, writers, musicians,
passers-by
I'm a flickering flare
in this faceless, head-on reckoning
of days,
on skis,
dressed in my windproof face
and the howling strength
of a general disobedience,
on the edge of myself;
everything an out-of-tune madrigal,
persistent in the storm,
while emotions flow
across the field of vision
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2023-01-12 at 13:18
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