Sunday, 13 May 2012

Poem by the Norwegian poet
Bjørn Aamodt


Bearskin and gold. The story hangs on the word
like a rusty hulk turns on its anchor in the tide.
The small porthole of consciousness.
The compass needle quivers towards the magic word-pole.
Haul in the chain, 4 shackles out.
Steady the feet on the deck against the black wall
that towers up and surges in over the port bow.
Shift the weight over onto the right foot
while the lashing spray slams at the wheelhouse window.
Steady so! Anchorage, Antwerp, down under
and home. The word like a threadbare ritual
for getting one’s sea-legs, standing
almost still. There the next second comes, foam-whipped.

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