Poems thread

A Men's Choir

The voice one has when
talking to small children
and large dogs
is not the same
as that at the barber's
or from the lectern.
It comes from another life
from far, far away
one that maybe never existed

whereas the voice
one has
when caressing a woman's breast
or belly
is a third voice
that comes from a third world
(green warm moist shadow under
huge ferns, marshland, and
huge birds that fly up).
And there are many, many more.

Not my own voice—
and not exactly that of anyone else.
Is there such a thing as
the voices in between?
I recall your foot
still warm with morning.
I imagine
they must be like that.
And if one could hear
all the voices at the same time
one would get the impression
of a men's choir
defiantly executing
a breakneck series of dissonances.

by Lars Gustafsson
(translated from Swedish)

Two Poems

Spring

My feelings just took a turn for the better
While thinking of white flowers turning into strawberries,
Of clover turning into bees, of crowds of wisteria
Swelling and swelling.

People often think I have a friendly dog, but it is just me:
My wide arm-span for folding tablecloths, my feet that seem worn
Not just by me, but many.

I had this feeling once before, when I was walking through rain
And wet leaves in shoes that were red and navy.
Much of me hadn't been tried out, and I liked that.

Annulment

I've ruined my marriage, but still I enjoy the hum of nature,
And the pleasure of greeting a kindly pedestrian
When I have the chance.

Make no mistake, I'm fond of my bungalow.
Returning home at night, I can't resist waltzing a bit
With my valise. I let my right foot go first,
Since it's my favorite.

I live a quiet life, thinking of what to say,
Heeding the call of the wild, removing my sunglasses in tunnels.
I never refreeze, though I may try it one day.

By Angela Ball