Last Night A Poet Saved My Life

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Last Night A Poet Saved My Life

Stories from the Shoormal
The Last Waltz
The Weight
Blood Season (4)
The True Bear Tale (Stockholm, 2001)
Last Night A Poet Saved My Life
Smoke Wings
In Between Days

Here. Hear the ice crack.
Be still. We are constantly
on the move. This road
goes nowhere, this road
goes everywhere. The only
thing that truly flows is the sea.

The sea lonely, the sea,
the sea seduces, the sea,
the sea screams, the sea,
the sea senses, the sea,
the sea, the sea. In my dreams

there is a road that continues on
long, long – forever. Unlit,
un-shadowed, I cannot see
myself but I am there. Un-alone,
awash of me, awash of midnight
blue. The skies wash over me.

The ice cracks, the Artic tundra
shivers, readjusts its spines,
sends secret messages in dialect
to its nerve-endings in Shetland.
There are ley lines here
vibrating, cracking – electric.

{*Shoormal (Shetland dialect) – The place where the sea meets the shore}

AuthorRaman Mundair
2018-08-21T17:22:55+00:00 February 14th, 2010|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 70|0 Comments