(metronomically tuned)
During late evenings
in February,
when I walk to the stable
with buckets of water,
Venus has shifted – again –
higher in the vault,
behind the tall farm spruce’s ladder to heaven
She shines.
Steady as a star.
She freezes –
like a solitary bridesmaid.
She keeps the whole firmament.
The air is bitter
Anna is down in the run-in shed,
mucking out
I am old.
I did not know what that meant.
I do not know now
I am only a continuation
of a very young person
I have been young
for a very long time
The mind’s endowments itch.
I am wearing my soft body
in the daguerreotype
of a life grown vast,
while the forests stand
white-faced,
and the present moment
reaches its peak mark
Once
we laid a sheet of tarpaulin
in the bed –
between linen and mattress –
because I sweated us
soaking wet
in the labors of lovemaking,
and kicked down heavy volumes
of dictionaries
when the ejaculations detonated
like distraction grenades
inside Anna’s mighty docking organ
The 1,375-gram
Oxford Dictionary of English, Third Edition,
still stands without a spine
after one such wild-grown session –
when I lay crosswise
over the Great Dreamship’s double bolster,
like a loose crossbeam
in the lattice of fleshly love,
in the last phase
of the sea-soaked grand swing,
with Anna’s sturdy country woman breasts
in my mug,
kicking the bedside shelf
into the middle of literature
so the titles flew
like frisky sparrows –
through the airspace
above the rut-fevered
and their foaming enterprises
Now
hollow structural sounds
move through the night
Motions without weight.
Through a deafmute time-sense
A row of fasting days
A chain of multi-morbidities
In the agrarian annals
of health’s crownlands,
where the signs of wellness
unravel themselves
like wool sweaters at Porkala;
like plovers inscribing
their hieroglyphic messages
in Karelian shore sand
Bach-codes.
Alan Turing-codas.
At the waterline
Maltese-cross fears
in the terror-eyed devotions
of the people-seas
Anaphylactic superstitions
of the poor
Loose goods.
Impoundments.
Inheritance in barter-wanderings
Hirelings haggling
by the running metre
and Euclidean arithmetic
at Michaelmas
Leukemia registers yellowing
deep into the airy hospital ruins
of silence –
while the laborers’ wagons
jolt past
in old wheel-ruts
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-26 at 17:42
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The Sea-Soaked Grand Swing's Offertory (II)
During late evenings
in February,
when I walk to the stable
with buckets of water,
Venus has shifted – again –
higher in the vault,
behind the tall farm spruce’s ladder to heaven
She shines.
Steady as a star.
She freezes –
like a solitary bridesmaid.
She keeps the whole firmament.
The air is bitter
Anna is down in the run-in shed,
mucking out
I am old.
I did not know what that meant.
I do not know now
I am only a continuation
of a very young person
I have been young
for a very long time
The mind’s endowments itch.
I am wearing my soft body
in the daguerreotype
of a life grown vast,
while the forests stand
white-faced,
and the present moment
reaches its peak mark
Once
we laid a sheet of tarpaulin
in the bed –
between linen and mattress –
because I sweated us
soaking wet
in the labors of lovemaking,
and kicked down heavy volumes
of dictionaries
when the ejaculations detonated
like distraction grenades
inside Anna’s mighty docking organ
The 1,375-gram
Oxford Dictionary of English, Third Edition,
still stands without a spine
after one such wild-grown session –
when I lay crosswise
over the Great Dreamship’s double bolster,
like a loose crossbeam
in the lattice of fleshly love,
in the last phase
of the sea-soaked grand swing,
with Anna’s sturdy country woman breasts
in my mug,
kicking the bedside shelf
into the middle of literature
so the titles flew
like frisky sparrows –
through the airspace
above the rut-fevered
and their foaming enterprises
Now
hollow structural sounds
move through the night
Motions without weight.
Through a deafmute time-sense
A row of fasting days
A chain of multi-morbidities
In the agrarian annals
of health’s crownlands,
where the signs of wellness
unravel themselves
like wool sweaters at Porkala;
like plovers inscribing
their hieroglyphic messages
in Karelian shore sand
Bach-codes.
Alan Turing-codas.
At the waterline
Maltese-cross fears
in the terror-eyed devotions
of the people-seas
Anaphylactic superstitions
of the poor
Loose goods.
Impoundments.
Inheritance in barter-wanderings
Hirelings haggling
by the running metre
and Euclidean arithmetic
at Michaelmas
Leukemia registers yellowing
deep into the airy hospital ruins
of silence –
while the laborers’ wagons
jolt past
in old wheel-ruts
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-26 at 17:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
