Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Poem by the Swedish writer
Lars Forssell (1928-2007)

You tell me that poetry’s dead

You tell me that poetry’s dead
or at the very least dying
You seem to forget, well-fed friend,
that it lives just like you
next door to death
half a flight down
half a creaking flight down
there in the dark

The bricklayer sings
The carpenter sings
The woman cashier at the self-service sings
Ministers and opposition
and you and I and the grave-digger
All of us sing for our lives
All of us open-mouthed sing for our lives
till him there half a flight down
knocks with his stick on the ceiling!

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