Tuesday, February 02, 2016

from snow to hydroelectric


I went once in the snow. From the moment
                                you breathed it you breathed
the prolonged continuity of that subzero.
It was the beginning of April, the birch-forests
    all black sweeps, the zigzag frozen
river.  And the pylons looked like wheelchairs
                                      outside a hospital.


    Something like the forest sea
The beautiful simplicity of their
whose rounded, knobbly thoughts
    are entirely of them, of the life
that excludes me. The shape of a head
    is a history, so plastic as an infant is
to the simple (unanalyzable) subcutaneous
patterns of the nation, the thing that
    affects us into stereotype. The child
      sleeping on the train, gawky-limbed,
is already with the national expression,
    though Mum is Chinese. Is it the
Swedish words that shape the face?
    Perhaps – not how you pronounce them
but what you have to say, who you
             have to be,
the way anyone can live here, and
            the skiing, they,
wild strawberries and
    the factories by the lake, totalities,
                                       toilet paper...


[   W O O D
M A G I C  ]

The whole wailing body of the nyckelharpa
is spruce that is still being sawn at.
Sun glitters on the river of Joel Böhlén
in the music, but the shade of the woods
drips in the chilly summer evening,
but the music spools without comment
in the sawing hands of the old men,
but the mushrooms bloom on the needle earth.


Shell    Gazprom    Murmansk   Putin   Sarin


Attachment loyalty sentiment frozen
nostalgia return no return emptiness
guilt and postured guilt, regret and
Emptiness of a teeming forest, deeper
                                             in –
if I was writing this in the forest!
Fake, flounder, blankness, indifference,
dead grass, bond and bonding
    with the last empty never-satisfied
wave of the evening close in
    a wood where you’ve never been,
though you’re still there, terrified of
it, night closes, a chocolatey
      night from the wrong climate
and you fidget on the happy fringe of
      a real life, histrionic performance
hide everything from the moss,
    the fringeing pines and dark
strawy waving of defiance flags.


Daylight sees in all the gaps.
    The walls and the door are all
                 thin deal, a box of light;
I could pilot it up into the midnight
       I feel I could hover
high over the woods, high over the houses,
    the whole hydroelectric valley



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