Saturday, 22 April 2017

Another Frostenson poem: 'Mani / Linjer'


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
is a gain, to be wholly unequalled

think in slightly holier and happier terms
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
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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