Song, turn
There is a season we sang
to
everything
turn,
turn, turn
there
is a season
how true it was
we danced
like an ark rocks, a large bird of the
puffin species
flapping, falling
heaving itself upward, onward, once more
heavy and glad
it was
The Byrds
that was then, and we didn’t realise it was Ecclesiastes’
words
recurring
of how to
everything there is a season, now we know
and have almost forgotten those unbridled
steps but
some of it still takes your heart
like the words and the notes Turn!
Turn! Turn!
in this time of sown despair
time disappearing
life running out
falls in the dance
yes
say turn
thought takes place – that which happens
and then it was Dylan’s diction
which went through everything
which is half of it, or almost all
intonation
a voice’s reefs and rocks
how it sliced through
from some other place, and here
dug out tunnels and rooms, deep down and
high
up among the clouds
blowing
in the wind
at the world’s end
so drill voice, you can pass
through rock
you are a wave just like that
the song is a ghost
a double track from Solbacken, high above lake
Helgasjön
spread
out thy mighty wings lord*
while I was writing a flock of birds came
and took everything on the slope
every single pallid unripe fruit, in a lightning
invasion, and was gone
no matter, it will all
grow again
in due season, as the song always does
Starling with blue berry in beak
Katarina Frostenson
(* 'Bred dina vida vingar' - hymn written in 1860 by Linda Sandell)
No comments:
Post a Comment