In A Strange Tense


I feel the wars fading

in back of my life


I sense them falling off

in the snow flurries

like old flakes of skin;

artillery, trenches, tanks


I meet my sister in a dream;

we are reconciled;

she's 84,

and maybe the dream readies me

for her imminent death


The night before

I met my late American wife Judith

in another very strong dream:

I took a bus to where she was,

but she was angry at seeing me,

telling me not to look for her


Maybe these dreams instead announce my own demise,

slipping recklessly and hopelessly

across the line

in a strange tense,

a strange light


I'm jotting this

while hearing an interview with Martha Gessen

on Swedish Radio, forgive me,

so whoever dies,

lets call for the death of the dictator

while the wars are fading

at the back of our minds,

just like songbirds dispersing

in all directions,

and observe;

Putin is nothing but a really bad habit,

which we all can cut


My hands are full of deeds

and my wrist displays a gold watch

from the Police;

long and faithful service


I'm reappearing in myself

with the regularity and stubbornness

of a bureaucrat and a fool


The war is raining,

the war is snowing,

the war is shining from a clear sky


The mood swings from birth to death


Humanity's eight billion voices

all have something to say,

but I cut them up electronically,

stir them

and enjoy the ring of the mixed choir


Those who don't yet exist, by a long shot,

converse cheerfully and carelessly

in the preparations for the ensuing,

while the blood dwindles

in my own recollections,

the sudden bull bawling of the snow scooters

in the chill startling


I go pick up a book by Birgitta Trotzig,

read, lie, let lay


Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 67 times
Written on 2023-01-21 at 10:43

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
There are wars and there are wars. Let us hope the one started by the cretin Putin will be fading - not from our minds but from reality. Your poem could seem strange, especially to the young, but there is a lucidity of the boundary between life and death that comes with age I feel. And the thought that dreams can foretell the future or be portents to it is not alien to my mind. So I read your poem and empathised with your mind flow . Bravo, Ingvar.