My Virtual Reading Room

Let prose be hard, let it provoke unease.
But the poem is an echo that is heard when life is mute:

shadows gliding on mountains; the image of wind and cloud,
the passage of smoke or life: bright, dusky, bright,

a river flowing silent, deep cloudy forests,
houses mouldering slowly, lanes radiating heat,

a worn-down threshold, the stillness of shadow,
a child’s timorous step into the darkness of the room,

a letter that comes from afar and is pushed under the door,
so big and white that it fills the house,

or a day so stiff and bright that you can hear
how the sun nails shut the abandoned blue door.

Originally posted by bleodswean at Theorem ~ Eeva-Liisa Manner