Bengt O Björklund Poems

Dire deeds wring sweaty hands
where another man just would say:
It costs to harbour volatile spirits
under capricious skin!
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When winter breaks its chilly seat
to light a whole different fire
it is the to mental touch, soft and discrete,
all warm intensions aspire.
...

Drab sarcophaguses at night’s edge
slide silently into wintry, flake white openings;
a dark eye of a still snowy heart beats,
lost at the centre of fast breeding diatribes
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I have house wolf tendencies;
I am happy when creative.
I fear obliteration,
but care for all little things.
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Memories of old Istanbul
surface at the closure of winter’s light,
smelling of forgotten alleys,
of water salesmen with horses and carts
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Swirl you origin of unending watery curves,
you cause of bright flickering reflections
rolling over breaking bastions of faith
with their ragged coastline struggle,
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Folding slow back burning trains
of rail sounding Indian music
I bet my worn casket tale carriage
the night will only be just that:
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Blistering threads of comprehension
pull at everyday’s withering everyday,
the silent agreement with what will be
and the carefree flickering of the fingers.
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Scrawny like unfed geese in the spring;
these teenage mid-child girls
that floats through solid harbour attention
on their way to blue ocean’s mass
...