Four
Poems by Rolf Aggestam in English
SONG OF THE SHAMAN IN OUR
TIME
there are supposed to have been old Laplanders
who could leave their bodies asleep
and take off on long journeys. when I tried
I got lost.--as usual
but in La Tour's paintings
there is always
a completely ordinary light in the center, somebody
shields it with a hand, so that it will not
be blinding. that is the whole secret
just because the cup is
finally full of tea doesn't mean you stop pouring.
some people fly into a rage when you spill like that on the tablecloth.
they don't understand that such a small cup isn't enough.
not by a long shot--
secrets don't exist
they over-
flow
* *
*
*
*
OLD BASHO
muttering. cold
hands split fresh kindling
damn
what a life. you are far away.
in the darkness we used to call
each other forth
with fingers and a few small words.
we created a little border
between darkness and darkness.
I blow
in the cinders
until the sparks begin to glow
in the firelight
my shadow dances
and gathers human life
* *
*
*
*
TOWARDS THE POLE
all 3 of us shiver
below the red kitchen lamp
in a fistful of light before the sun comes back.
don't cry Anneli
Nansen, you also travelled
frozen into the ice fields
on your way through darkness
towards the pole
where the compass needles dance
where cardinal points cease. but snow just whirls on
outside the windows and I pace back and forth
here in the kitchen
with my hands in my pockets
and look at the thermometer often.
inert
we heave ourselves forth in solid seas, upthrusted
ice floes while the lantern in the mainmast casts light
over us. the walls tick
and at night we wake up, sit up
in our beds and listen. the pack ice
cracks outside
we have to leave everything
behind us
drift with the currents deep below. sit here
leaning over our luminous cups of coffee
and return to our faces
FROM THE OTHER SIDE. lean out
through our eyes and peer at each other.
and every day we must measure
the barely perceptible movements in our household budget
go out with the kids
run between the cars on our way to Vanadislunden
while visions slowly move us
through Great Time
* *
*
*
*
THE BOAT TO FINLAND
In the middle of the sea
new voices are heard over the loudspeakers.
They speak to us in a foreign tongue
inside our windowless cabins.
Long white bodies
wrapped in dry-cleaned, glossy sheets
and with wide open eyes
have passed invisible
territorial boundaries.
The watermarked bills in our wallets are
transformed into paper. Our watches
no longer show the right time.
The whirling snow is sucked
up by vibrations
from the diesel engines. The stabilizers
squeak
and our shadows stand in long thin lines
with transparent plastic bags in their hands.
They are smuggling dream stuff.
Behind us days
disappear in the wake
unaffected like a mirror
from the Bronze Age.
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