Columbia Records
Yes, yes,
I'm busy 'round and about
on this limited slab of time,
sometimes realizing the limited allowance
I keep making ample use of
Yesterday, out roller skiing
down a September road in Northern Sweden,
it struck me that I'm about to turn 77,
albeit acting like a 30-year-old,
speeding 'tween spruces & pines
in these brown bear wilderness habitats
How is that?
I see younger persons than me
sitting back, dying off,
without even a Bob Dylan song for comfort,
being carried off to old age homes
or cemeteries
while I go speeding down the asphalt or gravel
in frosty morns on racing bikes or MTB:s,
or release the first of two fat, 530 pages long,
hard poetry instalments
But as of now I tap my nose
& read Italo Calvino's
If On a Winter's Day, a Traveler,
my right eye itching,
my roller skis waiting in the hall,
the Day waiting downstairs,
Death waiting somewhere
beyond the next cup of nothing;
a solitary solemnity if ever there was one,
but till then this body's sucked up
by physical laws & Columbia Records,
and the Musca domestica from a preceding poem
lingers, takes me for a ride,
gives my vulnerability some energy,
vast amounts of amounts
and lots of happy haphazard haphazards
– and to be sure,
I have collected a good number
och Calvino books over the years,
without reading; just collecting,
and now I let them explode over me
in a firestorm of words, sentences, stories,
pushing the limit, grinding me down, pulling me up,
my sense of sense growing with my bodily charm
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-09-26 at 12:53
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