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Bengt O Björklund

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Dylan Thomas was here
by Bengt O Björklund

Saturday, November 01, 2008
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Recent poems by Bengt O Björklund
•  Before sleep
•  Never before
•  The old man and the sea
           >> View all 4

Part one

 

There will never be a moment

like this summer’s day I am.

Chased, as I am, by blue skies,

I continue to be awake

in my own lethargic dreams.

 

This promise of echoes

that reverberates

with every blithe or otherly glance

here where I am

is naught but a recreation.

 

 

 

 

Part two

 

Old Manhattan sleet

and the first time meetings

in bars on 3:d Avenue

whispers back to me

on a hot July curved to silence.

 

There are so many eyes that testify

to the inevitable expiration

of inner beauty and love,

fuelled and ready

for the silent nova all time goodbye,

imploding in sad brilliance.

 

 

 

 

 

Part three

 

This is my summer,

still and – breeze all dark – wrong

and like scolded scales

the old brain still entertains

in times of don’t care…

 

I follow her to the estuary,

pure with salt and longing

for the unbound virgin

that leaves the land far behind.

 

Why can I not talk to you?

 

I keep falling into old days:

I too am dying, flying

as my flesh cries out for more

and the wrongs that lift my very soul

cannot find unconditional absolution

beneath hanging flower-pots,

yet damp with recent joy,

scorched by the early die not.

 

 

 

 

Part four

 

Where did I go wrong?

Every night I meet oblivion.

It is as if I, chasing my own fear,

has hit my head in silence

against the soft tissue of no dreams.

 

Old age claims my name

in the monotonous surf

repeatedly beating on the sand.

 

 

 

 

 

Part five

 

Ceremonious serfs of the tedious

call for a spectacular end,

I, on the other hand,

still wait for the miracle

to set the circling hedges on fire,

to ring the proud heron’s bell

in a salty Gaelic wind.

 

I am the voice that dared the water

to stay in between,

I am a voice in the grip of decay,

I am still going with the grey,

but I do not pray

for interludes of false Edens.

 

I will not weigh the wishful

on fatal scales, nor cry out for love

when night breaks a bleary coast.

Fatal is more serious than condition.

 

I am the seaweed washed ashore.

I am the dead jellyfish,

rotting on the beach.

 

 

 

 

Part six

 

The silent summer, stained by serendipity,

sprawling beneath dry hedges

where dirt is unforgiving,

drinks ubiquity and absolute longing

to the echo of seabirds.

He vomits between two cars

on cold February snow.

 

Loneliness is a form of madness,

demanding haste in the land of:

All things must come to pass

as soon as possible.

The winding wills of spirit

fill the air with purpose and seaweed.

Silent herons fade in frosty windows,

bending beady pointed beaks  

to the wispy illusion of water.

 

His voice is not mine

and yet he moves when I do.

Four winter days in New York

turns into late July.

I grope for answers

but it is to hot for wings

to beat against my forehead.

Darkness dares me, but I pass.

 

 

 

 

 

Part seven

 

Darkness rolls across the summer grass

like threats of thunder.

Everyday perpetuates the illusion

of no beginning, no end,

every day fools continue

towards the home above the mist.

 

The dark shadow drool dominion,

claiming all of your days

in just one cloaked breath.

Crows and magisterial magpies

stare at the sunlit garden

where all is forever quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part eight

 

Silently sinking into grovelling depths,

where oil is a cry for more,

I see him as I see me, moving towards

all that ends and finally so.

Appreciation is a double edged sword

when it is what it is

and not a replica of what is not:

The balance is fine…

 

The prolonged death by flames in water

goes by so many names

that even he, himself nobly ignited,

accepted the vicious terms,

thus mortally meeting the end

at the broken crossroads of:

will all spirits meet in marvel

the day of their conclusion?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part nine

 

Snake eye days blink and stay

while I, as it were, open the window

and call out for more.

The New York winter still echoes

in this relentless heat.

The diamond finds itself in veils,

the luring light insists,

it is so much more than an urge.

 

The day’s dying dance is tempting,

but no harness nor maidens in fords

of cold crystal water

can put him back together again.

See me! See me not…

A puppet, run by mortal needs

and dreams of total magnificence.

No one spoke out.

 

 

 

 

 

Part ten

 

Slowly succumbing to a shift of mind

the next hot, windless day, still July,

I watch decay and island seclusion

wash over the parched, desolate grass,

reflecting absolute void to blue merciless sky.

 

It is more than half a century ago

the little big man ricocheted like a pinball

all across America in anguish

with spells of profound, untainted spirit

unlocking the hear, hear.

 

Although a beacon in every dim gin joint,

he was often but disaster in “refined” company,

and still he never lost his itinerary.

 

Blossoming young women, undergraduates,

flocked at first, before the game of longing

rode on seven wild horses

to yet another magnificent future, albeit crude

in its superficial wrapping.

 

Clean and yearning, open and new,

they were all that he needed to feed

the bleeding wound of yearning.

 

So I die to the pace of turning pages

that I know will never give me

what I and this wretched world really need,

but it is always a beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

Part eleven

 

I saw the heron saluting the tide,

shoals of small fish seeking shelter

as dark clouds drew near

and the water lost its cheerful smile.

 

I heard all the village voices

as night moulded chores into chime,

I heard the small and the lost,

the severed and the folded

preparing for the leap.

 

I could feel the fire of craving

as darkness voiced its anxious song,

as seaweed gasped on sodden sand,

burning water trees fed the beast.

 

As summer rolls on with rain

and mad thunder in the garden

I open my nights into this,

a wound that will never heal,

a condition without a summit.

 

 

 

 

 

Part twelve

 

I died a thousand deaths that night

with no further ado.

As darkness flew with disregard

I too slowed down,

sinking into summery shadows

where all names expire.

 

I am the brilliance of froth

shimmering with the moon.

I am the voice of all calls

that fall with the surf

breaking all conceptions

into insignificant grains of sand.

 

I am no more.

 

 

 

 

Part thirteen

 

A slow mourning decays with night,

the fall of fervid wishes

is all in the way the sand crumbles

and terminal aspiration

can reach in one imploding heartbeat.

 

Your garland smile like the moon

finds me skipping in the dark

with damp death going down

for yet another lost light,

dim at the touch of summer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part fourteen

 

It is to the seamless child he turns,

though caring no less for dark water

burning where a breath of salty air is all

a new beginning can ask for.

 

But it will not be.

Bramble thorn bruises is on call

and all is asked for, again and again,

in that dreadful running down.

 

Just before the evening, heavy with sea,

scatters sea birds cart wheeling

‘fore the gates of hell,

he tumbles one more mad day.

 

St. Vincent saw your haste into the fear,

saw the let go of a child on fire,

the wake in rooms of no hope.

There was no gentle goodbye.

 

 

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