Monday Morning Buoyancy
I sit out on the southern porchin the afternoon,
reading Rumi
A bird is pecking
somewhere
inside the heavy Romani velvet skirt
of the majestic garden spruce,
and the world attracts my hands,
which rise in the traditional Islamic
du'a gesture;
my green, long-sleeved shirt
from a military surplus store,
and my black shorts,
make a fitting package
or shell
for thoughts ready to fire
Some relatives are moored inside,
at the kitchen table,
munching body parts;
the smell horrendous
to a vegetarian:
their grinding jaws
reveal their primate descent
Death enters their bodies
with the body parts
A horse blows his nose
down in the pasture
The English language swirls
around me;
rises like a kite
and drives itself down into the ground
like an accident,
with the alphabet in order
The pines, at a distance,
helplessly stick out of the ground;
the sky rubbing its stomach
on them
Nakedness sits well dressed
in a place of power, holding back
The swallows are chattering,
and the sun moves imperceptibly
toward the horizon
A vase stands up straight out here,
on a small table with a glass top;
something dry and almost ornamental
sticking out of it;
something gray, blue and brown;
remains of flowers, still with their stems;
beauty changed
The train from Haparanda bangs by
in the curve down there,
invisible in the greenery along the embankment;
the sound becoming an unheard of creature,
rushing past
The sun finds its way
in behind my glasses,
blinding me sideways
like an imposterous insight
The body,
still in the garden chair on the porch,
sings old footsteps;
sings a winding path,
a lake
and a canoe;
sings buoyancy
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-07-27 at 20:57
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