(in four versions, three gradually more stripped down)
I
September’s skirts of rain
drag across the Per-Albin farmstead on the hill of till,
so that gutters and downspouts rattle loose
their communal babble,
drunken mimicries of silver and tin;
the wild wet hair-tangle of the witch
flung, in old folklore,
across the splattered faces of the dead and the living:
main house and outbuildings, stable and garage,
woodshed and wagon-shed, barn and tack room,
henhouse and quail cage and freshly mulched garden beds,
all of Noret’s windows locked in a watery duel
with the torrenting fishmongers’ windows of the 1950s
Yet the Western Bedroom’s Ship of Dreams lies still,
at anchor in the splashing sound-art of the rain –
no less than Bernard Parmegiani’s Aquatisme
from La Création du monde: Signe de vie.
And the day rinses the eyes,
and Norrbotten washes its feet in sky-water,
and the gifts of the mind in finely filtered light
II
RAINRITE AT NORET
September drapes the farm in rain,
sheets of water combing the ridge,
gutters chattering like drunkards,
tin and silver echoing one another.
A witch’s hair, black with storm,
lashes across the faces of the living and the gone –
barns and sheds, stables and lofts,
every window drowning in its duel with rain
But here, in the western room,
the Dreamship rests,
buoyant in the music of water,
its percussion no less than Parmegiani’s
subterranean hymn of life
And the day rinses its eyes,
and this far north the land
bathes its tired feet in sky-water,
its mind in a sifted light
III
RAIN MEMORY
Rain skirts the hill,
gutters babble silver
Witch-hair whips the faces
of windows,
of barns, of sleep.
Still –
the Dreamship holds,
afloat in dripping music
The north washes its feet
in sky-water,
its thoughts in sifted light
IV
RITE OF RAIN
The north lays out its altar,
September robed in water.
Gutters chant,
downspouts pour libations,
silver against tin,
a drunken choir of elements.
The witch combs her storm-hair
through doorways and faces,
the living and the lost
equally anointed.
Windows flare like eyes in trance,
barns bow their dripping heads,
and the Ship of Dreams in the western room
lies still,
a vessel of listening.
This is the rite:
the day rinses sight,
the land bathes its feet in heaven’s flood,
and thought itself kneels
in filtered light.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Read 2482 times
Written on 2025-09-20 at 13:15
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The Aquatisme at Noret
I
September’s skirts of rain
drag across the Per-Albin farmstead on the hill of till,
so that gutters and downspouts rattle loose
their communal babble,
drunken mimicries of silver and tin;
the wild wet hair-tangle of the witch
flung, in old folklore,
across the splattered faces of the dead and the living:
main house and outbuildings, stable and garage,
woodshed and wagon-shed, barn and tack room,
henhouse and quail cage and freshly mulched garden beds,
all of Noret’s windows locked in a watery duel
with the torrenting fishmongers’ windows of the 1950s
Yet the Western Bedroom’s Ship of Dreams lies still,
at anchor in the splashing sound-art of the rain –
no less than Bernard Parmegiani’s Aquatisme
from La Création du monde: Signe de vie.
And the day rinses the eyes,
and Norrbotten washes its feet in sky-water,
and the gifts of the mind in finely filtered light
II
RAINRITE AT NORET
September drapes the farm in rain,
sheets of water combing the ridge,
gutters chattering like drunkards,
tin and silver echoing one another.
A witch’s hair, black with storm,
lashes across the faces of the living and the gone –
barns and sheds, stables and lofts,
every window drowning in its duel with rain
But here, in the western room,
the Dreamship rests,
buoyant in the music of water,
its percussion no less than Parmegiani’s
subterranean hymn of life
And the day rinses its eyes,
and this far north the land
bathes its tired feet in sky-water,
its mind in a sifted light
III
RAIN MEMORY
Rain skirts the hill,
gutters babble silver
Witch-hair whips the faces
of windows,
of barns, of sleep.
Still –
the Dreamship holds,
afloat in dripping music
The north washes its feet
in sky-water,
its thoughts in sifted light
IV
RITE OF RAIN
The north lays out its altar,
September robed in water.
Gutters chant,
downspouts pour libations,
silver against tin,
a drunken choir of elements.
The witch combs her storm-hair
through doorways and faces,
the living and the lost
equally anointed.
Windows flare like eyes in trance,
barns bow their dripping heads,
and the Ship of Dreams in the western room
lies still,
a vessel of listening.
This is the rite:
the day rinses sight,
the land bathes its feet in heaven’s flood,
and thought itself kneels
in filtered light.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Read 2482 times
Written on 2025-09-20 at 13:15
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
Frances |
