The Sun's Hard Cold-Roll
At Biltema
I am a sifting consciousness
in the café section’s vast castle hall,
among sparsenesses:
the motorway out there,
white cloud tufts drifting unconcerned;
a lightly decomposing future;
Nyköping’s solitude,
with that particular dialect;
a lateral solitude, presumptuous:
a solitude convinced
of its own excellence,
all the way into hospital wards & funeral parlours,
into solar parks and spruce plantations
Sune turns 80 in December
To endure is a circus art
The faint tint of the enormous panes
gives the world a dreamlike, numbed,
extraterrestrial cast
The stream of cars on the motorway
glides past, soundless,
beyond the soundproofing,
like a silent film
The cheese sandwich in here
justifies its place in the universe
Someone on the staff unexpectedly lowers,
then raises,
the enormous full-length blinds,
which could just as well serve
as blackout curtains
Biltema in Nyköping
is more a sanctuary than
Nicolaikyrkan
or Allhelgonakyrkan
Here there is peace, space, undisturbedness,
cheap provisions,
and room for thought and thoughtlessness
A kind of kindness, a goodwill,
rests in the gigantic space
To step into Biltema
is like stepping out into Norrbotten;
the same sense of open expanses
and air
A refill for five kronor
sets the afternoon in motion,
as I sit at the edge of Biltema
and idly keep company with one of myself
The language sounds in here are squandered,
not retained
for anything but the conveying / receiving
of intentions / emotions,
and perhaps the occasional sparse fact
The atmosphere is restfully homeopathic,
like at a lay-by
along Route 45 in Mid-Norrland,
the thermos brought out
Such environments I usually enjoy
with Anna
It always makes the obvious obvious
I see a young man
who has just stepped out into the chilly sun
and is smoking a cigarette,
in jeans, trainers and a sweater,
out of sync with time,
probably with the language,
presumably with the labour market:
perhaps living
in the almost “exposed” neighbourhood
across the road;
just about able
to sit at Biltema
and sip coffee,
and drift into the crowd;
be one among many;
draw from an anonymous community
What does he dream?
What does he despair?
In all this inversion,
among all these silverfish souls;
these daily plantain characters:
doctorate or attack?
Or janitorship;
bus driving?
The sun flays us today with its hard glare;
the daylight clatters cold
like cold-rolled ship plate
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-05-05 at 15:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
