andreas-andersson
Swedish
At age twelve, after reading a poem by Mexican Nobel laureate Octavio Paz, Andersson was struck by the magic of words: how tiny black figures on a white page can be used to conjure up images as vivid as life itself. The experience was life altering. For the first time he realized poetry to be a viable calling for a boy, young man, old man in the 21st century, and not only dead men of the past. All poets are alive. / / [If so inclined please visit http://loveaspoetry.blogspot.com and htpp://foolszazen.blogspot.com]
I once wrote the words to a song.
It's about a man climbing the bell tower
of an old country church
to be with his beloved - the stairs are missing.
I find them in an old notebook.
I can no longer recall the melody -
yet another poem, with the rest.
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 3:19 PM UTC
boarding a freighter in san francisco harbor
destination kobe
best described in a longer poem
where the city itself longs for the sea
with childlike longing
the journey best in stripped down journal entries
about rest of crew and assignments aboard
but also and more interestingly about the historical development of buddhism
in china and japan. chan/zen.
myths of the mountains. animism. grace and gratitude at a dying animal.
a she-fox sneaking in at night in the guise of a beautiful woman.
man sleeping. man and woman an altar.
poems to robin in a temple garden. pleiades chanting
my words above.
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
my eyes follow line upon line
strips of white in between
strange voices, stretches of silence
I hear them too
they lead me away from my peers -
in among the trees
birches breeding close to me.
knowing all along i can always return
although it won't be the same
*
still we go willingly where silence takes us
as cracks open - briefly -
in all the talking we do
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
She's on her way
out tonight,
all dressed up;
heart dangling
round her neck -
bare, stripped
of all but childhood
moments, held up glistening
to the light;
a weight moving about
as she hurries down the street
to the bus stop,
making her aware
of what she has
to carry, what there is
to hold on to
when so much is lost
with the rain
down the grates.
She can see children playing
twilight games,
but she's not a child:
her feet are not naked and sore,
no scrapes on her knees
anymore. She carries her pain
in out of sight places.
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
As we're born
we all lose something
of the ones we were.
Somewhere there's a picture of me
before I was born. My face
in shadows and yet
it seems to beam back
at you. Hands resting
on my belly. I can see you
thinking: "SO BIG!!
Must be a boy in there".
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 1:29 AM UTC
It's a strange story,
it has a beginning
but no end;
it opens to a city street
but there are no people:
empty canvas of a street painter,
hot-dog cart untended.
What kind of story is this
where nothing ever happens,
what sort of tales, these,
that won't walk you
to your mother's house.
It will capture your imagination,
just you wait and see.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
They're playing in the snow:
two little girls - sisters -
and a father.
I'm drawn to the window
by their laughter.
I'm left standing,
motionless, in a room.
The finishing touches
to a snow man.
The finishing touch.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 7:30 AM UTC
As she traced a path
in the palm of her hand
she felt sad for forgotten
things
lost hearts, lockets
and misplaced gloves
left like dying moths
in light too rare to remember.
She picked up
where she left off
and went - with blessing -
into white winter streets
step upon step
soon forgotten.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 7:32 AM UTC
There are many different kinds of door.
Some open, some close;
some leave you standing
outside in the cold.
There are days in life
that move so slow
and days you wish
would never go.
There are moments,
truth be told,
when your heart opens
as she closes the door.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 5:34 AM UTC
I've decided to end my life
he wrote in a note
and pinned it to
his laid off clothes.
It isn't as bad as it sounds.
He turned up three weeks later
in Singapore,
alive and well
if somewhat confused
and dehydrated.
As for where he had been
he wouldn't say
but to those who knew him
his smile
meant that something had changed.
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 1:06 PM UTC