I set off on an unexpected writing spree in September 2016, which I've continued, presently reaching poetry collection number 18. These poems are early ones from the first collection, OFAS (meaning "out of phase"). This last section is rather dominated by the sound art into which I've placed the poems, and which I composed simultaneously, in 2016 - 17. The texts in Volume III:
Ohetens ej längre, ännu ej / Leo Smolin's Time Reborn / Medvetandets vrakgodsbeströdda Ithaka / Elastiska processer / Satori's Sabertoothed Tiger / Senior Citizen / Letters & Numbers / Grand Purring

EARLY POETRY 2016-17 Vol. IV

EARLY POETRY 2016 - 17 Vol. IV

A poem inspired by a poetry suite by Swedish grand poet Gunnar Ekelöf, called En Mölna-elegi. Violin played by painter and musician Anne Friis. Photo: Sågdjupträsket, Fredrikafors & Niemisel, Norrbotten, Sweden.

TEXT:

I sjön ruggar vassen
Mölnaelegiskt

Kung Carl XVI Gustaf
vrider och vänder

”Det fysiska är en nödlösning,
  det andliga ett svepskäl,
  livet ett övergrepp”

Kungafamiljen samlas
vid Mölna brygga

Det fattas många år i evigheten

Statsmakterna täcker upp
med sakframställningar
och skyddsjakt,
men födelsebevisen väntar
på sakinnehåll,
dödsbevisen på det ärligt talade

Kronprinsessan leker med tankar,
på bryggan, med armarna runt knäna;
doppingarna skäggar,
sothönsen väsnas

Förgängelsen slår sina lovar
i 1700-talsutkylda sinnelag,
kungafamiljen sorlar,
svallet från adjutantens eka porlar
mellan Mölna bryggas pålar,
i skuggan under Mölna brygga,
där gäddan kan ses skygga;
visst är de kungliga snygga!

”Men vad gör vi i denna art?”
undrar kung Carl Gustaf snart

En existentiell tanke
kliver i strandlinjen, barfota;
håller upp kjolen
på 1800-talsvis;
den vida hatten klippt
ur ett monokromt fotografi
med rörelseoskärpa

Viktoria ler inåtvänt;
sjunker i Mölnas tankar,
så tysta och spindelvävda;
Carl Gustaf står med spöt,
Mölnamolnen driver;
osagt svävar iväg över viken,
det sagda plumsar i det grunda
med massor av snusförnuft
vilse i det outgrundliga

”Man får inte vara för beroende av sig”
viskar Carl Gustaf till sin Silvia
”Jahve kryper för minsta erkännande”,
replikerar drottningen strängt

I min värld är Gud som Stockhausen;
en viktigpetter med en treårings mognad
och mycken dissonans


...men på andra sidan
står gökgället självklart
vid Saimaa,
där gamle vise Väinömöinen njuter
gäddtandad kantele
med undersköna Aino
medan Ilmarinen smider planer
och barrsvarta fjärranöar
susande språkar om urstarke Urho

”Min gud är ateist,
  honom tror jag på”
säger Carl Philip,
medan kungafamiljen dröjer
i vemod
vid Mölna,
tills augustiregnets ridåer lutar
in över sjön
i skvalande brådrask,
och sällskapet flyr,
tar sin tillflykt,
och myggen molar i berså
och strandskog,
och förnuftet tar sig till fånga
vid den sommarvått tomma bryggan
vid Mölna

en Mölna-parodi

TEXT:

I come to think of it,
the cellar
under the kitchen;
that cold, damp space
into which you descend
along a steep, ladder-like stairway

My thoughts are sucked
into this almost unreal, dreamy amnesia
that stands silently introverted,
other-worldly
under the world
in another world,
below our common day, everyday feet,
stepping back and forth,
motioning our absentmindednesses
hither and thither
'tween stove and table, fridge and sink,
sunlight or moon ditto seeping in
through the windows,
the cat around our feet, tail raised,
begging for food,
the smell of fresh coffee
permeating our minds

While inhabitants have arrived
and departed up on the surface,
that periodically all but forgotten
quiet hollow
has remained the same
since it was dug out
in the 1930s,
mostly used as potato storage;
a cubic space about 8 ft x 8 x 8,
much like a tornado shelter
out in Oklahoma or Texas,
'cept hollowed out
under this farmhouse on a low moraine hill
in northernmost Sweden;
its entrance a hatch under the carpet
in the kitchen floor,
opening upwards and swung back
over the floor, allowing descent
into a dark chill
on a par with slipping into the hypnotic,
dreamy state of visions
between wakefulness and sleep

It passes unnoticed by visitors,
like murky family secrets

I've fantasized
'bout going into hibernation
down there,
hiding in its micro refuge
in a dark smell of soil and age,
silence and prehistory
and secrets,
but now I daydream
about squatting and crouching
in that cold darkness
with The Tibetan Book of the Dead,
a box of matches and a candle,
when the hot, white blast wave
of the Kremlin Spider's nuclear rage
flashes by
in the splintering annihilation
up above,
making everything even,

and the early Dylan song
Let Me Die In My Footsteps
starts circling my mind;
the poet's bitterly clearsighted comment
on the Kennedy – Khrushchev fallout shelter era
of the nuclear testing heydays,
when last there was a very real risk
of the world succumbing
in a storm of doomsday blasts

Heart drives me,
thoughts and all,
over the surface of a skinny terrain,
some moments blasting
like steelworks steel
falling 
off overhead cranes;
others barely reaching the outer perimeters
of bleak borderline hunches

I rest in gamelan gear shifts
and old age finalities,
interpret facial expressions
with sensitive expertise
and swing through Allen Ginsberg's Planet News;
his energy energizing these tumbleweed words
out of the grave,
bopping 'cross a winding road
in the West Texas wind
that blows in my skull,
howling
with the ferocity of a thousand burning warhead spirits
rising out of a confused leader's might and fear,
while tucked away lakes
in the coniferous belts of Alaska, Canada, Lapland and Siberia
sit silent in Zazen,
their surfaces mirroring the undisturbed Rigpa;
the smell of boiling yellow peas rising
out of giant indigenous pots,
each cruise missile blast as flash
of Satori,
Tellus shrugging its mountains, avalanches roaring,
coffee breaks holy down the trenches
and deep inside the rocket silos
across the mono cultures of Nebraska;
time rushing back into its singularity,
evolution imploding in the existential backwash,
all phonemes sucked back
into a final choking gasp,
not unlike the final stanzas
of Michel Chion's Requiem;

the thimble with humanity's gene pool lost
somewhere
in the artillery shelling of Kiev
while Everything rushes toward Nothing

It's zero o'clock sharp,
and all is well

Zero O'Clock Sharp!

This is a collection of recordings with the poem "Not I not I but the Wind" by D.H. Lawrence. This is part of my digital exhibition about "Wind". Find more at: https://wind-voice.blogspot.com/
version 05/23

Not I Not I 27

I've been working on a so-called stream-of-consciousness text for a while (well, since fall 2016). I've recorded 30 CDs worth of it by now (October 2023, recording in spare time) and decided to publish parts of the set here on Soundcloud. This is CD 30. I've been working this text as I would a poem - and approached in another way, this could well be a very long poem, or a series of poems. The splitting into CD-length parts is just a practical measure. There are no divisions. This is the thirtieth in the CD series of this text. Most of it comes in Swedish, but there are sections here and there in English.

Texter ur tid & rum 30

TEXT:

I'm outright zoomed,
pretty well doomed;
soon to be tombed

I raise my gun,
I've had my fun,
am pretty much done

I'm known to goof,
to soar on high, aloof,
but sure ain't bulletproof

So I'll see you at that black hole,
the final destination for a mole
who's played out his role

Yes, I'm outright zoomed,
pretty well doomed;
soon to be tombed

The living is a peculiar bunch,
ain't got the tiniest hunch
from breakfast up to lunch

that there is absolutely no way
that they can enjoy themselves and stay
forever rich, alive and gay

They ain't got the tools they'd need;
that is a fact to heed,
the only substitute: to breed

'cause they're all zoomed
by Death, yes, doomed,
sooner than later to be tombed

You can wake up and rise,
toil and exercise,
but men are basically mice,
Ecclesiastes and Bob Dylan are wise;
most truths are really lies;
most words equal the buzzing of flies,
so try being a little nice,
yeah, try that for size,
before your certain destiny: demise

because we're all so zoomed
by Charon, yes, goddam doomed,
and you know what; soon tombed

TOMBED

"Fie, Fie!" recited by Amy Rose Blevins / Amy Rose, Main Main Character
no crit or "concrit". paid requests only, please keep it appropriate.
my venmo is: @AmyRoseMainCharacter

"Fie, Fie!" recited by Amy Rose Blevins / Amy Rose, Main Character

My grocery delivery was late so I recorded this waiting for it

Quotes from Letters to Melina

أجمل ما قرأ الشيخ عبدالباسط عبدالصمد - سورة الرحمن وقصار السور

https://islamtheultimatepeace.com/the-virtues-of-reciting-the-last-two-verses-of-surah-al-bakarah/

Beautiful Last Two Verses of Surah Al Baqarah

A short song played with ukulele and making it though a trouble i had in life.

Read Aloud | Derelict Jottings | Amongst Whispers

Biker, hiker, poet, skier, sound artist, photographer, FORMER horse rider, retired crime investigator

I am an artist based in Cologne/Germany. I work in different fields, here on soundcloud you will find examples of my activities with extended voice and performance art. In my vocal art I always look for a way to relate to these three spheres: the more than human world, the social world and my inner world. My research in this field can be found at my vocal ecotism blog. Link below!

 My work with text/language is mainly in German. You will find some recordings of this realm of my artistic work, too.

Solo Artist of the Folk Variety
https://linktr.ee/shog_link

Andrew's Wifey, content creator / producer, cosplayer, model, photographer, voice actress, writer, etc.

Let's spread peace and harmony across the world.

New tracks tagged #Reciting