Friday 28 April 2017
Thursday 27 April 2017
'In this town' - poem from 'The Refrain of Other People's Lives' by Arnold Jansen op de Haar
in this town
my
books have
remained
in exile
a
cardboard sarcophagus of data
signed
on the inside cover
full
of smoke and in storage
the
colours faded as those of
badly
clad fellow countrymen overseas
like pastry
from the right shops
like
sunday lunch mother wine
like
meeting her in
the
middle of town
in
unexpected places
like
a homeless person who waits for her
on
sundays after church
like
the mist above the river
or
fireworks clouds
yes
evening light
like
phoning that you’re safely home
the
silence of the city at night
like
guts gurgling with bacillophobia
after
visits to restaurants
like
an aunt laden
with
cheap jewellery
put her on four wheels
and simply drive off
like
wild leftish nieces
turned
bourgeois
who
you were secretly in love with
and
their absconded husbands
like
talking about who
were
there before you
like
the visiting of the dead
on
the anniversaries of their death and
at
easter yellow ribbons
on
their graves
like
the first meeting
with
the blond and grey lady
like
the searching for a
dog
gone astray
like
smoking together
in
the water meadows
or
drawing animals on a
bare
back with your salty fingers
or
still knowing everything
about
all the photos
and
continuing to pass it on
to yourself
till
you’re just the only one
till
someone opens the boxes
Monday 24 April 2017
Key poem in Frostenson's latest collection
The word’s
formulae
I collect rows, I collect sticks, I collect
leaves and words
I separate chaff, and sow
In the word language are lag and lug
This is cognisable. E n c o u n t e r would be the word
Somewhat monotonous and contrary
To derive
etymology is no philosophy, but diverts,
diversifies – is amusing
The paths of ants resemble the urge
To write is not to play but pretty close, a
playful thought –
writing. Ergo
dance.
To turn on the spot, to swing around, stand
on one’s head
one’s forehead earthwards
Stand in the word-lair. Teem on the earth
Root and sniff among words
Drive game out into the light!
Pull up and suckle the consonant root
Poem, as if the word is wrenched half-way.
Broken mid-line
That’s not how it should sound. Take
forward and
Take to you
Line, the longing to run alongside. Just be
carried along
Resistance likewise. Articulate, unruly
language
Latin –
Oh how I wish I knew Latin. The most
physical of languages
The most tangible. Rods, bars, workings. A
box of
tools
Teach me to employ fewer words. Teach me to
use the plough
teach me to deploy
the harrow I speak about
– It is a spike harrow, to be precise.
– Fine, we like to be precise. (words from
an unknown film)
Sunday 23 April 2017
Frostenson cites Gullberg
Voice grass
Voice grass
The night-given
voice
raised you from
your bed
the memory maybe
of a Gullberg line
for feet astray the grass is singing
a host out
there, the weave of dead ones’ voices
as soundless as
the growth of grass
I’ll carpet you where’er you go
För vilsna fötter sjunger gräset - poem by Hjalmar Gullberg
För vilsna fötter sjunger gräset
För vilsna
fötter sjunger gräset
Jag är din
matta var du går
Räds ej att
natten förestår!
För vilsna
fötter sjunger gräset
Under mitt
täcke sänks din bår
Räds ej att
natten förestår!
För vilsna
fötter sjunger gräset
Du går mot
hemmet var du går.
For feet astray
the grass is singing
For feet astray the grass is singing
I’ll carpet you where’er you go
Fear not the night as if your foe!
For feet astray the grass is singing
Your lowered bier shall rest below.
Fear not the night as if your foe!
For feet astray the grass is singing
You’re homeward bound where’er you go.
Saturday 22 April 2017
Another Frostenson poem: 'Mani / Linjer'
Mania/Lines
Line, the word exerts a pull
the thought of being drawn out to an end
the string wants to be tautened
nerves must be strung, they seek their ache
whirring
is the nerves’ song
we
are on our way to ending, but – towards
the red strokes of the nerve atlas are so
beautiful
many miles of you are within me
if you are unravelled
become
a bird formation
we want to burn up in air
we want to be lines
our urge is to be c o n s u m e d
symmetry
would have soul’s breath
symmetry
will be my death
Despairing anguish, here you do not belong
in the long
grey,
languishing thread
how does all become constraint
this mournful control I
have begun to exercise over my being
must be exorcised at all cost
be forced off the stage
disappear
is a gain, to be wholly unequalled
think in slightly holier and happier terms
instead
to go to the utmost is a wonderful duty
to be delighted purely and simply by light
a rare commodity
no
the opposite
What is it that sounds of fingers
performing Bach
an infinity
so does it sound, and therefore so harrowing
how it just ends
fades away
freezes in the line of Contrapunctus 14
that’s how it was, everything stopped
in mid-breath grasp
the bed-frame
the room’s turned upside-down
in
the seconds when you
died
with my hands I grasp an arm
my tears flow and take grief with you
hear that which continues sound
within the body beyond all speech
notes are the bones that sing
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