Three Pillows
At night I grab three pillows,
the exercise notebook, a poetry notebook,
a pen, some books,
a small analogue radio,
all my years and my face,
and walk across the upper hall,
from our bedroom
and The Great Ship of Dreams,
to a room on the opposite - east - side
of the house,
where I place these items and myself
for the night
Anna needs her sleep,
which I disturb a couple of times each night,
having to go up to urinate,
getting nervous when I do get up,
to wake Anna; nervous and tense,
which, in turn, makes my falling back into sleep
harder,
so these moves twice a day, eve & morn,
make good sense
Each morning I step back across the hall,
to the bedroom out west and the Ship of Dreams,
with three pillows,
the exercise notebook, a poetry notebook,
a pen, some books,
a small analogue radio,
all my years and my face,
to spend a few morning hours reading & writing
and not least thinking,
when my cognition is at its clearest & brightest
We are old folks now, making sense,
Cerberus howling in the distance,
while I fling open Gary Snyder's No Nature,
sensing our kinship, weeping a little,
inhaling & exhaling automatically
without thinking of it,
clicking in to my space-time slot,
remembering last night's Skype conversation
with my son,
vividly describing his hard ride to see my brother
on his 90th birthday,
the calmly bouncing heart within my ribcage
distantly related
to silversmith Anna-Stina Åberg's hammer
Nothingness slips by inconspicuously
as I put down the pen
and raise my gaze
Silence is mighty just below the surface
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Read 50 times
Written on 2024-08-30 at 11:48
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text