The art room Poem by Lars Erik Einar Gustavsson

The room itself smelled of chalk
and heavy, dried wood.
Generations had carved in the tables
so that the systems of letters
intersected each other
as in some ancient Sumerian
or why not Babylonian
archaeology.
Forgotten gods with dog's ears
and stern wooden faces
came of their own accord out of the graining.
On the paper, though, only the strict
figures and angles of the linear drawing that were
so sharp that you could cut yourself on them.

And this was meant to be the place where art dwelt.

Translated by John Irons