Kategori: Dikter

Pacifica, or a Year by the Ocean

XII (12)

The morning had just been born
and the sun was not yet
over the peaks of San Bruno's
when the cat and I sneaked out
of the still warmth of the house

Tinker Bell soon
and I found him
only later
in the cross above the garden door
There he was impregnable,
his own master.

My own steps
carried me to an angle
I never again
would find
There the light was refracted in my eyes
and I saw
the wedge-shaped sea
as an extension
of my own out-reaching
universal hand

XX (20)

Waiting for the whales was a true pleasure
and these spouting giants
always afforded a great spectacle

They danced, pirouetted, it was said
and emitted clouds
of steam and water

Occasionally they came in
close, close
to scrape clean the belly
from mussels that
lived as parasites on them
Then they were larger
than my dilated eyes,
so big it took
two people to see them


At dusk
my silhouette was often seen
in bold contrast
to the naked sun

From an entirely level roof
the horizon to me seemed
clearly convex
as if the sea
deliberately raised itself
to receive
the shining disc

Such evenings
the performance appeared endless
and, even though the outcome was known,
a fascinating one

The sun strove upwards
and did not want to dip its toes
into the chilly ocean
but in the end it had to give in
and immerse itself, yet again
into implacable, billowing waves

LXV (65)

The days
in the rosary of days
trundled by
in a young man's
reckless hands.

Some were fondled
and caressed for a long time
and their round shape
left imprints
and impressions
in a hardening hide

Others were beautiful
glistening coolly
but without life
and never admitted
into the abyss of memory

A few
came as soundless clouds
and their precipitation fell
like tacit tears

LXX (70)

Mornings with Mount Tam
I felt such happiness
I inhaled the air so clear
that my chest came close to bursting

My hungry eyes swallowed
miles and miles on end
of the purest crystal
till the entire field of vision
was ensconced within me
and its delicate tones
could be heard
as a sough through early birches
whenever it pleased me to move
Then solitude was a godsend
and out on the cliff
I danced as if inebriated
to repay the world
this boundless debt of joy
in a maelstrom
of turbulent thankfulness

LXXXI (81)

I awoke
and saw myself
in the bed which was mine
out on the open sea

It was a quiet day
and we were gently rocked
the bed and I
without even
wetting the mattress
or the springboard

The sea was peaceful
but joyless
and dead-silent
lay its leaden plaits
around my bobbing bed

Water, water, water
but water without wetness
and echo-choir without lead-singers
and a sleep
that was like life.


The ground lay virginal and white
when we blinked open the west eye of the house
as snow had fallen in the night

How strangely lonesome
did not
the cacti
and the cypresses
with a New Year's cap bolting white!


When the weather was quite inhumane
really mad dogs' conditions
I would don my Navy jacket
and troop out
all folded up against the wind
to the sharp edge of the cliff

There I would meet the monsoon monarch of the sea
and the struggle would be brief and hard

There was never any doubt
as to who the winner was
nor was ever my challenge taken seriously
but in the struggle nestled something
which grew large and beautiful
even in the certitude of the defeat.


The house and I had a secret
and while we shared
my bluish toes
in the cold beach foam
I was sea with the sea
and air with the air
and the red gates of the Orient
stood wide open
at my left side
at the distance of
but a fugitive thought

IC (99)

Then the chill returned
and lethargy crawled
over me on sticky spider's legs

The void
inside felt insignificant
and its profile vague
Before I caught flight
by the hand and mute
followed him till anxiety and melancholy
had exchanged palettes
and the folds lay grey and abandoned
It wasn't often
that I sat still

Then I would travel light
under a fragmentary
blue sky

Now the world had crawled closer
and distances had been flattened
Exotic pen-friends
did no longer hide
behind cheerful stamps
and bow-legged postmen: they stood before
my very door

My world was not closed
and my freedom was eternal
but through all windows
and open doors
the backyard
I already inhabited

CXV (115)

I journeyed to Pacifica
with my eyes open
to the unknown
to that wrapped in darkness

I left Pacifica
with my eyes full
of sea and sky
sun and wind
bright red midnight pyres
and a voyage
on the rolling barque of experience

I shut my eyes
and my hand are warm
around the diamonds of love
that I pressed
from jet dark blocks of coal
disinterred in the mine
beneath my Pacific pastures

Traveller, poet, philosopher. Human.
PA B är medlem sedan 2016 PA B har 3 publicerade verk


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Anders Berggren

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Anders Berggren

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