Per Wästberg ALL SAINTS /In sad remembrance of Regina Derieva, a true poetical witness to our fragile existence/ Novembers dead leaves. Twigs broken by the wind. But in the earthworm soil roots form. There is an underground kingdom. Like syllables in a word no one can rightly decipher like a word in an unclear meandering sentence the writing that just was our life lingers. Friends disappear like planes from the radar network. In the air around us their contours are glimpsed. The dead store the history of the living. The windshield wiper is slower than before. I lean closer to the glass to see. If you could choose your death like you choose a lane. An evening with an unexpected blackout. An important page I cant read is scanned by a domesticated insect. The stars, the Shona say, are the eyes of the dead. Not until the partys over we learn the names of the guests. Not until the doors are closed we see the rooms expand. When all sounds are turned down we hear the cobwebs sing. Per Wästberg (Tr. Lars Palm in POEM Magazine, vol 2, no.2. 2014)
Posted on: Fri, 31 Oct 2014 13:46:33 +0000
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