(for Théotime Langlois de Swarte & Le Consort)
Three versions, gradually more stripped down
The Seasons
– for an aging creature
with fading hearing –
are a butterfly’s dance
in the heart of the sun;
a shiver of breathless rapture
in the chamber ensemble’s playful rustle of leafy crowns;
a fleeting motion
in the bubbling periphery of perception;
a choreographed shadow just beyond reach
in a battered mosaic of sonorous rhythm,
an acoustically feral vertigo;
the corner of the eye brimming with adventures in noble foliage,
the day alight with seductive refinement,
stealthy in the shadow of a chance,
a capricious calligraphy on paper thin as breath;
a whispering shadow-play
across the metallic surface tension of the years;
an erotically accentuated Persepolis ornamentation
under the caressing relief-paths of naked hands
upon the receptive instruments’
ancient craftsmanship;
delicately searching bow-strokes on a partiture of hairbreadths,
a butterfly’s light truth
on Antonio Vivaldi’s seraphic thermals of the 18th century;
the mind lifted from gnawing melancholy
by the precision of bowing,
the helplessly dancing, diabolic attack
in the Spring’s equilibrist triumph-whirls
beyond the Winter’s right-angled drafts of icy hoquetus,
the taut embrace of love in beautiful attire
within the insanely fragile,
the pizzicato-fingered scarcity of power;
the raging, gently fingertipped tenderness,
that which lives until death
in a presence that is a remembrance
in Le Consort’s lustfully equivocal eroticism
embodied in the City of Water;
an openness bestowed,
astonished beyond Moon and Mars;
an open body
in a space exhaling
into a memory that listens.
II
The Seasons
for an old soul
with fading ears
are a butterfly dancing in sunlight;
a shiver of rapture
in the chamber’s leafy, playful murmur;
a fleeting shadow
on perception’s bubbling edge;
a choreography just out of reach
in a wild mosaic of sound;
eyes brimming with leafy adventures,
days glowing with subtle seduction,
capricious ink on the thinnest paper;
whispering shadows
across the metallic tension of years;
erotic carvings traced by naked hands
over instruments of ancient craft;
delicate bow-strokes,
a butterfly’s truth
on Vivaldi’s seraphic currents;
melancholy lifted
by precise motion,
Spring’s dizzying triumph
beyond Winter’s rigid hoquetus;
taut embraces clothed in beauty,
fragile pizzicato bursts;
raging tenderness under gentle fingertips,
living unto death
in Le Consort’s lustful, playful eroticism
in the City of Water;
a granted openness,
astonished beyond Moon and Mars;
a body open
in a space that exhales
into a listening memory.
III
The Seasons –
for an old ear,
fading –
a butterfly spins
in the sun.
A shiver –
breathless rapture
in leafy chambers;
fleeting motion
at perception’s edge.
Choreographed shadow –
just beyond reach,
a wild mosaic of sound;
eyes full of leafy adventures,
days aglow with subtle seduction;
capricious ink
on paper thin as breath.
Whispered shadows
over metal years;
erotic carvings
traced by naked hands
on ancient instruments.
Delicate bows,
a butterfly’s truth
on Vivaldi’s seraphic currents;
melancholy lifted,
dancing, diabolic attacks
in Spring’s triumph whirls,
beyond Winter’s rigid hoquetus.
Taut embraces,
clothed in fragile beauty;
pizzicato sparks,
raging tenderness
under fingertips.
Alive unto death,
presence as memory,
Le Consort’s lustful echo
in the City of Water.
A granted openness,
astonished beyond Moon and Mars;
an open body
in space exhaling
into listening memory.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-09-14 at 11:25
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Three versions, gradually more stripped down
La Quattro Stagioni 300 years
IThe Seasons
– for an aging creature
with fading hearing –
are a butterfly’s dance
in the heart of the sun;
a shiver of breathless rapture
in the chamber ensemble’s playful rustle of leafy crowns;
a fleeting motion
in the bubbling periphery of perception;
a choreographed shadow just beyond reach
in a battered mosaic of sonorous rhythm,
an acoustically feral vertigo;
the corner of the eye brimming with adventures in noble foliage,
the day alight with seductive refinement,
stealthy in the shadow of a chance,
a capricious calligraphy on paper thin as breath;
a whispering shadow-play
across the metallic surface tension of the years;
an erotically accentuated Persepolis ornamentation
under the caressing relief-paths of naked hands
upon the receptive instruments’
ancient craftsmanship;
delicately searching bow-strokes on a partiture of hairbreadths,
a butterfly’s light truth
on Antonio Vivaldi’s seraphic thermals of the 18th century;
the mind lifted from gnawing melancholy
by the precision of bowing,
the helplessly dancing, diabolic attack
in the Spring’s equilibrist triumph-whirls
beyond the Winter’s right-angled drafts of icy hoquetus,
the taut embrace of love in beautiful attire
within the insanely fragile,
the pizzicato-fingered scarcity of power;
the raging, gently fingertipped tenderness,
that which lives until death
in a presence that is a remembrance
in Le Consort’s lustfully equivocal eroticism
embodied in the City of Water;
an openness bestowed,
astonished beyond Moon and Mars;
an open body
in a space exhaling
into a memory that listens.
II
The Seasons
for an old soul
with fading ears
are a butterfly dancing in sunlight;
a shiver of rapture
in the chamber’s leafy, playful murmur;
a fleeting shadow
on perception’s bubbling edge;
a choreography just out of reach
in a wild mosaic of sound;
eyes brimming with leafy adventures,
days glowing with subtle seduction,
capricious ink on the thinnest paper;
whispering shadows
across the metallic tension of years;
erotic carvings traced by naked hands
over instruments of ancient craft;
delicate bow-strokes,
a butterfly’s truth
on Vivaldi’s seraphic currents;
melancholy lifted
by precise motion,
Spring’s dizzying triumph
beyond Winter’s rigid hoquetus;
taut embraces clothed in beauty,
fragile pizzicato bursts;
raging tenderness under gentle fingertips,
living unto death
in Le Consort’s lustful, playful eroticism
in the City of Water;
a granted openness,
astonished beyond Moon and Mars;
a body open
in a space that exhales
into a listening memory.
III
The Seasons –
for an old ear,
fading –
a butterfly spins
in the sun.
A shiver –
breathless rapture
in leafy chambers;
fleeting motion
at perception’s edge.
Choreographed shadow –
just beyond reach,
a wild mosaic of sound;
eyes full of leafy adventures,
days aglow with subtle seduction;
capricious ink
on paper thin as breath.
Whispered shadows
over metal years;
erotic carvings
traced by naked hands
on ancient instruments.
Delicate bows,
a butterfly’s truth
on Vivaldi’s seraphic currents;
melancholy lifted,
dancing, diabolic attacks
in Spring’s triumph whirls,
beyond Winter’s rigid hoquetus.
Taut embraces,
clothed in fragile beauty;
pizzicato sparks,
raging tenderness
under fingertips.
Alive unto death,
presence as memory,
Le Consort’s lustful echo
in the City of Water.
A granted openness,
astonished beyond Moon and Mars;
an open body
in space exhaling
into listening memory.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-09-14 at 11:25
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
