The Things I Say
The things I say have a headache
I say things meant to last,
but down by the country road they’re already gone
I make the speech-sounds rounder,
more plump & durable,
tell them about a gurgling Henri Chopin
and a carefree Arrigo Lora-Totino,
set them on the threshold of illuminated rooms
deep in November,
but the walls waver, the windows squint askew,
chafe the wallpaper,
have pain in kitchen lamps & toilet seats
and hear poorly in the after-swell of lettrism
in hallways & closets
I have opened my eyes,
say long-resentful things
that ought to have a chance to last
as long as the Ninth Symphony
in the vast air-chambers of the atmosphere,
but instead run burning
through the forests of Norrbotten
The things I say meet representatives of interpretation,
dressed up along hearsay and abided time,
the headache throbbing its thanks and farewell
What I say has a headache
and streaming old-man eyes,
yes, the headache is all that can be heard,
at an irritating distance
out toward Oxelösund,
the steelworks clanging & hissing
The things I say are double-bottomed
out in the birthplaces,
itch & ache,
grasp for hairs in a bald-headed world
The things I say
flee into shut-down workshops
with pain in vices and wrenches,
while the November nights fall silent,
one after another
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2025-11-03 at 10:36
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