(Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Johannem)
I am a historical person now,
seen from an unknown place in spacetime
I see myself through ten thousand years to come,
ten thousand gone by –
from these perspectives,
lying in the East bedroom
right now,
surrounded by yesterday & tomorrow
on the singularity of the present,
which is a place that grows exponentially larger
the smaller it becomes,
while I read The Moderns;
an anthology of new (1963) writing in America,
edited and introduced by LeRoi Jones,
with texts by William Eastlake / Jack Kerouac /
Robert Creeley / Paul Metcalf / John Rechy /
William Burroughs / LeRoi Jones / Fielding Dawson /
Douglas Woolf / Hubert Selby, Jr. / Michael Rumaker /
Edward Dorn / Diane Di Prima / Russell Edson
In this situation, lying on my back in bed
at half past eleven at night
in the circle of light from the reading lamp,
mounted on the projecting headboard
behind me,
where I’ve propped up the pillows –
Anna already far into sleep
in the other bedroom,
and both cats out hunting in the night –
I see myself from these perspectives:
a calm contemplation, a calm contemplator,
contemplated by himself, contemplating himself;
as in a lingering vespers
in the last northern light
before autumn turns away –
or in a repeated motet –
or having come to rest
in Arvo Pärt’s
Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Johannem –
a backward glance at Tellus by Voyager 1 from 6 billion km away
on February 14, 1990,
as at the slightly modified road sign at Gunnarsdjupträsk:
HERE ENDS THE PUBLIC WORLD
– a still life in the weightlessness of all weight,
where I am a story I read to myself in the night
about a man reading a story about himself in the night;
all the great cities in the ninth month in their streaming lights
down in the world: high-rises & cross streets beneath the horizons
like dark forebodings; minimal disturbances in the vastness,
intermittent signs of life... afterglow...
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-08-12 at 11:40
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
The Moderns
I am a historical person now,
seen from an unknown place in spacetime
I see myself through ten thousand years to come,
ten thousand gone by –
from these perspectives,
lying in the East bedroom
right now,
surrounded by yesterday & tomorrow
on the singularity of the present,
which is a place that grows exponentially larger
the smaller it becomes,
while I read The Moderns;
an anthology of new (1963) writing in America,
edited and introduced by LeRoi Jones,
with texts by William Eastlake / Jack Kerouac /
Robert Creeley / Paul Metcalf / John Rechy /
William Burroughs / LeRoi Jones / Fielding Dawson /
Douglas Woolf / Hubert Selby, Jr. / Michael Rumaker /
Edward Dorn / Diane Di Prima / Russell Edson
In this situation, lying on my back in bed
at half past eleven at night
in the circle of light from the reading lamp,
mounted on the projecting headboard
behind me,
where I’ve propped up the pillows –
Anna already far into sleep
in the other bedroom,
and both cats out hunting in the night –
I see myself from these perspectives:
a calm contemplation, a calm contemplator,
contemplated by himself, contemplating himself;
as in a lingering vespers
in the last northern light
before autumn turns away –
or in a repeated motet –
or having come to rest
in Arvo Pärt’s
Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Johannem –
a backward glance at Tellus by Voyager 1 from 6 billion km away
on February 14, 1990,
as at the slightly modified road sign at Gunnarsdjupträsk:
HERE ENDS THE PUBLIC WORLD
– a still life in the weightlessness of all weight,
where I am a story I read to myself in the night
about a man reading a story about himself in the night;
all the great cities in the ninth month in their streaming lights
down in the world: high-rises & cross streets beneath the horizons
like dark forebodings; minimal disturbances in the vastness,
intermittent signs of life... afterglow...
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-08-12 at 11:40
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
