(mythic version)
I wake late,
drawn up from a dream
where I stand on a rain-dark square
speaking the language of work
to quiet a mother’s fear
I name the rooms of labor,
the furnaces, the labs,
the rolling mouths of steel,
as if reciting stations of a rite,
as if saying the names could shield her son.
Even the dead machinery listens.
An old woman joins my voice.
The union holds.
The wages are spoken of as shelter
Downstairs, water scours porcelain.
Anna cleans with post-festive fury.
From a small glowing device
a voice summons a song of return –
written while death waited nearby,
finished with what little breath remained
I retreat with my bowl,
clenched shut
against the rising cry
Outside, the world is sealed in ice.
Branches lie fallen like spent gestures.
Life insists on itself.
I take it whole
and cut it into the page
Once, Freedom moved west.
Now it stands ankle-deep in the sea,
hesitant,
watching dark shapes drift across the horizon
like debris in an aging eye
The old year lowers its gaze.
The new one hesitates,
turning thin pages of promise,
each line softened
by doubt
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-12-28 at 13:35
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Lazarus (III)
I wake late,
drawn up from a dream
where I stand on a rain-dark square
speaking the language of work
to quiet a mother’s fear
I name the rooms of labor,
the furnaces, the labs,
the rolling mouths of steel,
as if reciting stations of a rite,
as if saying the names could shield her son.
Even the dead machinery listens.
An old woman joins my voice.
The union holds.
The wages are spoken of as shelter
Downstairs, water scours porcelain.
Anna cleans with post-festive fury.
From a small glowing device
a voice summons a song of return –
written while death waited nearby,
finished with what little breath remained
I retreat with my bowl,
clenched shut
against the rising cry
Outside, the world is sealed in ice.
Branches lie fallen like spent gestures.
Life insists on itself.
I take it whole
and cut it into the page
Once, Freedom moved west.
Now it stands ankle-deep in the sea,
hesitant,
watching dark shapes drift across the horizon
like debris in an aging eye
The old year lowers its gaze.
The new one hesitates,
turning thin pages of promise,
each line softened
by doubt
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-12-28 at 13:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
 by Ingvar Loco Nordin Latest textsLazarus (V)Lazarus (IV) Lazarus (III) Lazarus (II) Per Septenos (IV) |
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