Friday, 19 August 2011

Andreas Andersson

Poem from a hotel room on the way back from fishing at my brother's

Two nights ago the stars were violent dancers,
godlike, crushing whole worlds underfoot.
An insect with horn-rimmed glasses
I sat on the blunt edge of the sword
that cut the perfect pieces of cloth -
dark and unremembered as the void -
from which creation was pieced, a patchwork.
This morning I sit on a bed, minutes
after the day woke me up with its mist-
colored breath light on my face,
thinking of the fish I didn't catch
and the words that slipped through
the widening meshes of my mind.
I had to put my pen down, shut my notebook,
and go back outside. Midnight.
The stars were violent dancers.
Not a cloud in sight, blue skies.
Ten straight days of heat
and the endless turning
of the world that sits
on top of my shoulders.


Akeith Walters said...


Andreas said...

Thank you.

Anonymous said...

Det var en underbar dikt. Jag antar att du är svensk med tanke på nament. Jag slipper gärna använda min dåliga engelska. Jag skulle bara säga att jag tryckte det här tagg cloudet och jag tyckte du ar otrolit bra. En eloge.