Suites for Solo Cello (II)
Propped with pillows against the wall
in the dawn bed,
with my knees drawn up
and my eyelids closed, heavy
like a city gate in the Iliad,
I let the house’s murmuring drone resound
like Pablo Casals’ cello,
alone in the best of worlds;
my cranium a concert hall
with unpeopled seats,
and the solitary cello speaking stringent
out of the abyss of its resonant body,
where all great thoughts are held
in the Suites for solo cello,
driving the thunderheads of cumulonimbus
in from the sea in August,
and setting the curtains flickering
across midwinter’s auroral skies,
in the cardiovascular surge of blood
through Easter uprisings and defense appropriations
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-03-18 at 11:57
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