Sweden 2003
In the Shade of Jenny Lind
still half home, half here, the first afternoon of our visit to your sister and her family in Sweden, with less than three hours sleep, sitting on the back side of an island -- on a bench with you, away from the museums, restaurants, amusement park, and other tourist attractions -- here on a point jutting out into the sea -- beneath a statue of the Swedish nightingale, the fine lines of her artist face, her tastefully but decidedly low cut blouse, her shoes of green mold with brass bows, her rippling marble petticoats and her coloratura soprano voice of "remarkable range and quality" drifting through the new millennium, through the "V" of two greying birch trunks mated for life -- her florid ornamental runs and trills wafting over the heads of the black man and white woman paddling in a canoe past buoy # 7 and over three young girls standing beside their bikes parked this side of swaying paintbrush grasses -- girls staring over and past the canoe and the sightseeing boat gliding in the channel between all this and the mainland -- her voice wafting with the cigarette smoke of the man who just sat next to us -- up, up into the pale blue, haze cloud sky . . . Jenny's unique and playful voice still moving, even as we rise and say goodby -- echoing, like Baltic waves -- rippling so clear in the inner ear.
From the Living Room I
of your sister's fifth floor apartment
in a building across from the palace
in Gamla Stan (old town) with all
those narrow cobblestone streets
laid out in such absurd patterns
to confuse pirates --
and 17th century
buildings with steeply slanted roofs
of mold green metal plates instead
of shingles --
looking over, through
and past paper clip antennae (like
the ones in the early 50's I used
to count on the way to the hospital
to visit my dying grandmother) --
so many ships sailing
in and out of the harbor.
From the Living Room II
3000 miles from homes and looking
directly across at a mold green
ornamental crown, bound with darkening
brass stripes and rising vertical
out of a roof top across the way --
an ancient crown our modern eye turns
into something for our emperor --
a cone holding thick strips of fudge
in a generous helping of pistachio
ice cream --
or into a dead lamp
of that same mold green rising from
the right arm of what was once
a statue of liberty.
Lines Written Standing on Our Bed
in the loft room -- the best view
in the house for us, since your sister
no longer climbs the narrow stairs --
looking straight across at the seagull --
white breast, black wings, head tilted
slightly back and to the right, the gull
standing proud on the tip of a tripod
atop what could be a crown, a cone,
a birthday cake decoration rising above
the steep inverted "V," the three
centuries old green metal roof --
a bit of a decoration himself, he just
stands there overlooking the harbor,
the sightseeing boats chugging through
the channels between Gamla Stan,
Kastellholmen and perhaps Djurgarden --
islands -- two or three of the 22,000
island archipelago --
he has the
"right" idea -- this sated gull, back
already from his fish lunch; he takes
the best partial view he can find
and keeps it all for himself . . .
Standing on the bed, I use the zoom lens
we all have within us, create a wide angle,
panoramic view in which the gull shrinks
to a dot, then disappears entirely --
a breathtaking view
of the whole archipelago,
and beyond . . .
then share it
with you -- my reader, my friend.
Kastellholmen
On the rocks between the castle
and the Baltic sea -- sitting
behind the wire fence, with you
and an expansive view, a wide
assortment of boats gliding out
and in like the tide from our right
and left to and from Stockholm -- and
the outer reaches of the archipelago --
to and from the smaller
and larger worlds --
listening to the screams of fear
and pleasure fused of Freefall
and roller coaster riders in the
amusement park across the channel --
faint enough, far enough away
to serve as background -- not to
disturb the essential peacefulness
of the scene . . .
I step back
and to the left to get you in profile
against the open sea, the ships,
including, of course, that Viking craft
with the grotesque sculpted wooden
dragon head --
snap the picture,
the one you are so happy with, the one
that has found its spot in the center
of all the other memorabilia
on our refrigerator door --
smiling grandchildren radiating out
from it in all directions.
Pink Flamingoes on Lake Nakuru
from the exhibit -- "The Earth from the Air" by Yann Arthus-Bertrand -- one of nearly one hundred photographs mounted behind glass on large kiosks in a plaza on Stockholm's shore -- lit up at night -- the colors, the incredible colors and shapes -- the fractals of our environment shine forth in all their glory -- the flamingoes, for example, so bright so pink on the black lake -- birds pressed so close together they appear as a mass of sardines on the left side -- on the right -- more black less pink, you can actually see individuals (sort of) -- but they're not going anywhere . . . it's only the bottom left corner where we can see open water -- clear black and a bird or two -- perhaps three poised to take off into the void.
In Millet's Gardens
underneath an oak tree, beside Spruce
branches moving slightly in the warm
August breeze, with small flowers and
green points of Swedish Ivy growing
between the cracks in the steps
leading to Olga's terrace --
a shady
respite from the record breaking heat --
looking up at Millet's sculpted figures
mounted on pedestals --
with a background,
not of the ugly cylindrical smoke spewing
buildings of Stockholm's manufacturing
district in plain view, across the bright
blue, sun-flecked sea,
but of
late summer clouds and sky -- such
intense white and blue behind:
the musician with angel wings --
the man standing on the thumb and
forefinger of the hand of God --
the woman holding her child aloft --
and another man leaping from a wing
of the flying Pegasus, his lithe
acrobatic body diving upward
into the heavens . . .
Ow! Ouch!
that hurt, that sharp pointed acorn
falling on my Chicken Little head
hurt -- like learning of Millet's
wife's (and his) support of Hitler
and the fascists in WWII -- or
worse -- like out of a clear sky
learning of the inoperable, malignant
tumor in your sister's brain.
Tall Salt Marsh Grasses
each stalk a being, standing on
its one beige leg, its blue-green blade
head with greying silver tresses
swaying -- these thousands, hundreds
of thousands of pilgrims -- a field
of fickle faithful stalks that bows
to receive the blessings of any old
boat that pushes its way through
the narrow canal --
a field
that swoons in our wake . . .
we pass on; they rise again
to their normal posture --
individuals --
imagine
the silky ocher feel the wind gets
as its fingers stroke each
and every one.
Strindberg Hill
on Sandhanm island -- the extreme
outer edge of the archipelago --
sitting on the large bald head
shaped rock with an open halo
of grayish mold around it --
sitting on this strange rock
atop a mound of earth -- outside
the small house where Strindberg
once lived --
watching: wild roses
grow before the corrugated red walls
and roof . . .
the attractive young blond
woman go to the small red shed named
"Blue Heaven" to get the yellow plastic
slide set for the naked black
three year old boy . . .
and the islands --
long thin green-brown islands, the end
of the archipelago stretch into the sea --
diving boards of earth and stone
from which we can leap so much further
into the blue than the eye can see . . .
thinking of Miss Julie and wondering
what drama would Strindberg's storming
dark spirit make of the colors
in this sunlit scene?
The Cave of the Sea Maiden
(whose white pearls -- a string of sand islands -- still brighten the wine dark Baltic sea) is not really a cave -- its more of an open air cauldron where her delicate soft body lay curled, awkward, aching, simmering, baking in the intense cold on the floor of a pot of freezing, frozen stone with sculpted wave sides narrowing to an open air skylight -- where (the story goes) the sea maiden (like the Leatherman in his "cave" in Connecticut) would lay and look up through stone at a few lonely stars . . . but why? Why on earth would she, why would anyone sleep here? -- when she could, instead, sleep on a sun-warmed beach of her own -- and watch a whole winking universe of strewn pearl stars.
Young Swans
with slender white
crook necks -- lovers
swimming so close together --
look up as two boats
in the narrow channel
emit loud metallic honks
of warning,
avoid contact,
turn their backs
to one another.
"Hmmmm"
think the swans, "what ugly
anti-mating calls these bulky
wooden creatures make."
Iraqi Tank Graveyard
in the desert near Al-Jahrah, Kuwait, in yet another Arthus-Bertrand photo from above the remains of desert storm appear as what's left of a colony of grotesque metallic insects that died an ugly, painful death by poison gas -- see them -- see where they lay after their last throes -- popped turrets here, abandoned treads there -- some half buried in desert sand, some piled on top of each other -- no proper burial -- no respect for the dead.
Afternoon Stroll Through Djurgarden
The Gateway
walking through the well wrought metal with the royal insignia (crown and all) in gold in the center at the top -- with deer on the left and right, golden deer resting on columns -- one on each side of the archway decorated with curled hunting horns -- gold and wrought iron over us, as we enter what once was the King's private hunting grounds -- and on each of the ornate gates -- gold emblems of the king's sculpted face, the same face we see radiating lines of force on the coins of the realm -- the gateway -- open now -- anyone can enter -- tourists, professors, perhaps even a man far from home hunting for peace -- looking to take his mind off the world by immersing himself in it.
Off the Beaten Path
on a log -- no a large tree still
alive, with limbs and green leaves
growing, but fallen into a peaceful
hook of harbor --
watching
a fleet of white kayak prints
on the clean sheet of late August
blue Baltic sea . . .
Uh-oh, I feel
a slight nick, an itch in my arm --
then my leg . . .
Oh, look! --
no bigger than mosquitoes --
all those cute yellow
mini-bees!
Idyll
after Christian Eriksson (1858-1935)
a statue -- a naked man sits on a rock,
leans toward a woman on a lower rock
beside and behind him -- he grips
the rock as if to steady himself;
her left elbow rests on his left knee,
supports her left hand which holds up
her chin -- her right arm appears
mysteriously, as if from the man's rib;
her right hand is holding his left
and lies across a strategically draped
cloth -- her face, framed by braided
pigtail hair looks wistfully up into
the distance -- he is looking
thoughtfully down;
a tiny shred
of real organic leaf is fluttering
in a real cobweb woven over the left eye
of the man in this bronze statue
turning green --
streaks of running
mold green paint make the veins
in his leg stand out --
streaks also
running off the woman's shoulders,
down her side and over her bare
left breast -- the right one
still bronze -- so close to him --
protected from the elements . . .
contrasting sunlit background:
white puppy clouds -- trees aquiver
from the caress of a soft breeze --
pleasure crafts moored in the ripples
of liquid blue --
and pastel
Swedish houses with bright red roofs
across the harbor.
Off the Path: II
on a boulder just a tad taller than I am --
looking through some hanging green leaves
across a narrow part of the channel that
separates the Island from the mainland --
looking at:
the antenna of the TV tower
that receives all the foreign channels,
the politically incorrect programs
the good citizens of Stockholm
will never see . . .
the big 5 KNOTTS,
the bigger KABEL sign, and the green poles
rising out of the water warning boats
to slow down . . .
the children in the red
paddle boat heed the warnings, turn around
before they get to the carefully laid KABEL
and go back the way they came.
Beneath the TV Tower
with the antenna -- Look! -- that dead lightning struck tree -- small branches gone -- only the thickest dull ash grey brush strokes remain -- a grasping hand with extra fingers extending from the knuckles -- six maybe seven fingers stretching . . .
The Picnic
white sketch pads put aside -- five young female art students -- on a red blanket, eating, drinking in the midst of a bright green canvas field -- their bare white and black shoulders shining in the sun . . . daubs of white breasted, black necked brant strewn all around.
The Photographer
across from me, on the mainland,
just beyond a hot dog stand --
the photographer
forty years and 3,000 miles
across from me and you
on the greensward outside
the Greek church in Southbridge --
arranges the frame
of his picture -- the peaceful
blue canal so long at my side
in the background . . .
another
pleasant patch of green
beneath the trees, --
a similar effect -- contrast
of white and black, gown
and tux, flesh and shadow --
now and then --
he moves
the groom and bride --
adjusts the figurines
on dappled grass --
see how they shine
in a spot of sun.
At the End of the Passage
between Djurgarden and the mainland,
after walking literally for miles on
the path through the royal hunting grounds
then a long ways beside the canal, past
the photographer and the hot dog stand,
and finally past the parked bicycles, and
the sunbathers who have taken all
the choice spots on the rocks --
ta-da!!!
we arrive at the open sea -- the entrance
of Stockholm harbor -- across from Millet's
statue (the one accepted, then rejected
by the United Nations) Millet's statue
of a man standing on an arc of rainbow
fountain, sowing seeds of stars
into the firmament . . .
I say hello
to each and every one of them and greet
the super-novas they may grow into.
Half Hidden
behind waving green marsh stalks
with long thin blade leaves, I sit
uncomfortable on sharp angled stone,
and look over the protected inlet --
peaceful, here, with no one but
families of ducks and swans
bobbing for food and finding it --
all chewing contentedly --
those dark
ducklings, so close, there at my feet --
and look -- less than 10 feet away --
two great white swans . . .
birds as
startled as I by the suddenly larger waves
started by a steamship (perhaps "The Princess"
my niece waits for every afternoon)
a great steamship, heaving into view . . .
the ducks move out beyond the broken,
breaking waves -- the swans spread
their great white wings --
avoid suffering by flight.
The Brant
that's the official name for them --
the black, white and grey burnt geese
that breed in arctic regions -- ivory
faces with ebony question mark necks
and matching beaks above their dirty
white business suit breasts -- a gaggle
of them, all around, in the canal,
on the path and in the sanctuary
behind us -- cute here, like the ducks,
harmless . . .
Could they be related
to the whiter, more aggressive geese
that infest, infect the state and
White House lawns,
the golf courses,
the public parks, and the cemeteries
back home?
Getting Close to the End
of my island walk, slight blisters
on my feet,
resting, looking
across the darkening water, at
the shadows of the gothic spires
of the Museum of Nordic History
(beautiful building, boring museum
my niece says)--
dark lines drawn
across the bows of boats -- lines
rippling ever so slightly . . .
and in the sky above -- the spires
themselves --
the tallest one impales
a cherub cloud -- sunset tinted red
spreads around the wound.
Looking Over and Through
golden rod (the same golden rod
that we have seen cover so much
of Monument Island in Maine
each summer),
familiar marsh grasses
(like the grasses that greeted us
ten years ago on that 60 degree
November day at the Cape),
and a young maple tree (so similar
to the one we found in our back yard
with a pulley and clothesline hitched --
twenty, no twenty-five years ago
when we moved in) --
young maple --
now old . . .
deja vu . . .
it all comes back
to me and you --
looking over and through
the one world we have.
The Tree
again "The Earth from the Air," another photograph from Arthus-Bertrand -- a blob of green and black (a tree and its shadow) in the center of an orange sun exploding -- rays of orange spider web threads -- against the background grey and green -- a network of orange trails radiating outward like the streets from the square in the center of Old Town -- radiating outward from one spot of refuge in the vast expanse of arid terrain that is Tsavo National Park in Kenya -- one tree in the center of this orange fractal formed by wild animals that come to take advantage of the limbs and shade -- less now, since 80 % of the 36,000 elephants in the park have been killed by poachers -- but the orange trails, with the tree in the center, are there -- glowing trails of endangered species -- still there, etched deeply into grey-green folds.
Above the Harbor, Again
the now familiar tangled contraries -- land and sea, trees and houses, boats and cars, sun and shadow, spires and block buildings, old and new, gulls and people, flesh and stone, men and women walking to and fro across the bridges from the mainland to Gamla Stan and Sheppsholmen and back again to the washed out once red faced line of expensive buildings where Bjorn Borg lives with his young wife -- look, that one gull still sits -- perched at the apex of a near arctic world -- he feels the polar attraction -- looks south, toward warmer climes, but he does not move.
Stockholm Sunrise
up early -- a chill in the air --
still -- looking out the side window
of the apartment in Old Town, looking
past the vane gull on the highest point
of the highest 17th century building --
past him to the mainland -- the Stockholm
skyline of gothic spires and Lego blocks --
enjoying the unusually intense usual
sunrise colors in the harbor below and
in the sky above the dark line of bridge . . .
the distant TV tower blinking red
every two or three seconds, like
an excited lighthouse . . .
the sudden
warmth of your arm around my shoulder . . .
warmer as you pull me close . . .
The Skylight
above our soft Swedish bed in the loft room, reveals a rectangular pool of bright blue sky sea with two playful white animal clouds floating in it -- puffy fleece islands caressed by the pastel rays of the setting sun -- look -- the cheeks of shoreline -- blushing, pink.
Stepping out of the Vasa Museum
out of the darkness, necessary
to protect the early 17th century
wood -- out of the depiction of life
in Sweden in 1628 -- and the display
of the boat just recently dredged up --
really interesting -- such a large boat,
never got out of the harbor, the royal
engineers, it appears, miscalculated
the ballast needed for so tall a ship --
nearly four hundred years ago . . .
imagine
the fanfare, the whole boat, the whole scene --
alive with bustle and color -- the pride
of the Swedish navy, of King Gustav, himself,
sailing off to war with Catholic Russia --
now,
still nearly intact, all those old oak
planks and carved figures -- mostly drear
brown turning black to match our age --
just samples of color here and there
painted on -- part of the restoration,
bright red background, golden haired,
rosy cheeked figurines -- look there --
a scrawny bare chested Catholic priest
with a Santa Claus hat and a bottom
that turns into a fish -- a priest
next to the bare chested mermaid . . .
imagine the Vasa -- so much brighter than
the camouflaged tanks, planes and carriers,
our imperial engineers send slinking off
to Iraq in mere 21st century sunlight . . .
imagine the sides of our tanks and planes
emblazoned with images of a scrawny Sadaam
or Osama turning into a fish! --
imagine
400 years from now -- in a museum --
the remains of the space shuttle Columbia
put together again.
The Boat Run Aground
on one of the small fine sand beaches
on the Ionian isle of Zakinthos where
the giant sea turtles lay eggs in ever
decreasing numbers is such a small part
of Anthus-Bertrand's photograph -- put
there mostly for perspective -- so we
can see the remains of this puny, flimsy
wooden contrivance of man beneath the living
beige cliffs lined with white gypsum --
chalk cliffs that appear as an imposing
creature with a black teardrop eye
in the center of a large beige head
jutting out into the sea -- dividing
the turquoise from the navy blue --
the whole forest green to black land mass
behind it -- a shell marked with scratches
of trail leading us from the head
into the world of the full tortoise
beyond the frame -- see
the giant sea tortoise
laying its eggs --
please
let them hatch.
The Red Peugeot
in the cobblestone square -- the modern
red Peugeot with no people -- just sound
equipment stored inside, so out of place,
parked on the cobblestones in the center
of Old Town -- where people sit, backs
to their cafes, facing it,
and the yellow
and blue Swedish flag poking diagonally
up and out from the shop on the corner --
I, myself, am sitting uncomfortably on
a small chair at a small round metal table
in front of a two telephone booth sized
ice-cream stand, licking my two scooped
(chocolate and vanilla) cone, looking
into the vacant glass eyes
of the red
Peugeot, there, in the square, by the green
wrought iron benches with assorted tourists
sitting, chatting, smoking on them --
casually glancing every once in a while at
the medieval fountain with water trickling
out of each of six phallic pipes . . .
a tour approaches, the group stands,
clustered close by -- so close I can hear
the guide explaining why the streets radiating
from this hub wander vaguely in all directions
toward the sea . . .
suddenly -- as if
it had heard enough, the empty car blinks
its red lights . . .
a man (with remote control)
approaches, climbs in the now unlocked door --
the engine purrs --
the red Peugeot
curls round the tourists, drives slowly
on the bumpy stones -- and disappears
down the first, the oldest street
in Stockholm.
Saint George and the Dragon: The True Story,
as seen from the cafe at the corner of Kopmangatan and Baggersgatan and told by the statue in the small square in Gamla Stan, in Stockholm, Sweden -- Saint George has a photo-op, see him, posing for posterity, head silhouetted against the clouds -- see the handsome man atop his horse -- waving his sword at the sky . . . while his horse does the dirty work -- its sharp hooves planted firmly in the dragon's throat . . . a few awkward thrashing moments and the dragon will be still -- Saint George Falstaff can dismount -- and stick his sword in the dead dragon's heart.
The Game
Old Town -- wandering, lost in the maze of spider web streets, finding a schoolyard, a nearly vacant playground -- and a 2 year old boy, with streaming blond hair, running away from his father into a soccer goal -- he appears trapped, but lifts the broken netting in the back, crawls out as if to escape -- finds his father hovering over him . . . he breaks out laughing -- such sheer joy -- what a great game.
On the Pier at Slussen,
while you and your sister (who, thanks to
the chemo and whatever powers that be,
has been reading again and walking around
the kitchen table) are together, reminiscing --
I am here on the pier, where every 15
minutes or so the ferries sail for Djurgarden
and Fjaderholmarna -- there's one leaving now,
and one white and red coming in -- so small
beside the giant steamship . . .
I look down
past my feet and see the dark line in the water
that marks the shadow of the pier's edge --
a squiggling line with my shadow sitting
on it --
and stare at the submerged shades --
moving in hypnotic rhythm --
my self merges
with my dark fish shadow swimming two
or three feet below the surface --
the once stolid pier becomes a ferry
carrying me either forward or back
through blue-black water . . .
I sense movement
behind me -- a threat -- as if some dark force
were about to push me in . . .
I look up,
break the spell --
inhale the fresh
sunlit colors of this world -- see one
red and white ferry docked -- the other
disappearing around a green bend.
In the Shade of Sjuguden
Millet's statue of the Snow Queen on the pier where ferries leave for the chosen islands -- quiet and peaceful beneath the mermaid -- her bare bronze breast resting on her enchanted man's shoulder -- still entwined scaly feathered bodies . . . pigeons walk by, peck at an empty ice cream cup -- gulls squawk, curl in unpredictable short arcs above a pair of swimming ducks -- couples sit together here, all along the edge -- life still goes on in and around the stone coupling -- still life around the man's fat marble body trailing off into a fish tail curling beneath his ugly, his incredibly ugly carved totem head, vacant, smiling -- he doesn't see the eyes popping out of the head of a dead fish squeezed tightly in his left fist.
Ernie, the Toilet Elf
sometimes when you use the toilet he gurgles "thank you" -- so soft and polite -- he's a great guy, always cheerful, gurgling noises -- a cross of robin and frog -- his song is excellent, my niece tells me her father tried to kill him, and he was quiet for a while, but awoke about 2 weeks later and sang for ten minutes straight -- she believes he goes away with other elves for weekends and drinks dolce vita -- strong as vodka, but all different flavors, like his song -- like Jenny Lind's playful arias -- listen, hear children running up and down the scale.
Balloons Over Stockholm
After the gourmet dinner, her husband pours
the wine -- we sit back, relax -- "Look,
look, there's the first one," your sister
says, and a yellow Nokia balloon rises
between the spires of distant skyline
and then another, close behind, a blue one --
Mercedes Benz, perhaps and others so many others,
so many colors, so many more -- the dark blue,
dark green, purple -- some with no lettering
we can see -- and coming from so many
different directions . . .
all of them
filled with breath and drifting over
different parts of the city . . .
across the harbor -- the windows
reflecting the light of the setting sun --
glowing -- as if lit from within --
background sky and matching harbor turning
pink -- no predicting -- no one could ever
know the red and orange "soray" would appear
so suddenly in our peripheral vision --
then drift close, and linger --
just above the dark trail of smoke
winding upward from the fish grilling
on the rooftop patio -- the neighbors,
"They must have dropped something
into the fire," your sister says . . .
"soray" drifting so close, we can see
the faces of the tourists that paid
$ 200 apiece for the ride -- for the
incredible views, but also (we understand)
for swarms of mosquitoes in the fields
in the outskirts where they land --
the red and orange checkered balloon
settles, descends too close to the Old
Town spires -- we hear the sudden roar,
the ignition of the fires and see
the lit torches that warm the breath
within the thin skin --
torches that
lift it again -- so it can drift off --
peaceful and content toward the horizon,
into the descending darkness.
Strindberg's Town
at the National Museum -- a negative -- light and dark reversal of the sun drenched Sandhamn view -- storm cloud background -- grey-black mass behind the ship tossed and tossing in the night sea, and above the town's skyline -- a wine jug church towers over other buildings -- dark cloud and church shadows lie on the dark channel between the town and the rocks on the island where the perspective tells us the artist must be -- see the rocks sharply angled, like Monet's churches and houses of parliament -- see all those hollow holy faces trapped within.
Gannet Colony
Island of Eldey, -- 9 miles south
of the Icelandic coast -- where
in 1884 the last two specimens
of the great penguin were exterminated
is a rocky peak 224 ft high --
now declared a natural preserve . . .
in Arthus-Bertrand's bleak shot
from above it looks like a skull tug
chugging through the north Atlantic --
vacant black eyes -- pursed chalk lips
of the grey-beige skull exhaling, or
inhaling perhaps, ice breath waves
through a guano beard . . .
the whole top
of this flat rock covered with gannets --
nesting, more than 40,000 bird-bumps
on this shaved Nazi head
and all around -- flecks of white
dandruff -- flakes of bird
drifting in the black wind.
There go the Fireworks
that your sister told us about, that they
have been seeing from their living room
once or twice a week -- fireworks,
celebrating Stockholm's birthday --
750 years ago . . .
and so we leave "the Earth
from Above" and find a place to sit on the steps
at the edge of the harbour -- and look up --
not too bad a view of the little big bangs --
expansions and contractions -- ephemeral
umbrellas of bright color -- glowing embers
appearing and disappearing in the darkening sky . . .
now -- look -- the sky full of pink flecks,
like in the photograph -- remember the pink
dots of flamingo on a black lake Nakuru --
remember the pink specks that may,
the next day, spread their wings
in flight.
Another Ol' Boy Statue,
carved in 1790 by Johan Tobias Sergel
in the image of King Gustav III of Sweden
(1746-1771) -- expensive marble, still around --
standing in front of his palace -- at the mouth
of the harbor for centuries watching citizens,
soldiers, tourists and terrorists crossing
and recrossing the bridge to the mainland --
standing for all those years -- meditating --
what remains:
a parade ceremony --
every hour, the changing of the guard . . .
tourists playing bowls in the back yard . . .
a page or two in the history books --
some scholar's interest here and there . . .
and you, of course, you, you posing hunk,
you somber chunk of too easily, too quickly
sculpted pink marble with broken green
beer bottle glass glinting at your feet --
and chips of you, your precious marble
taken here and there from your pedestal . . .
someone's souvenirs -- but not mine . . . no,
statue, ol' boy, I don't need, nor want
pieces of you -- I'm Not a Statue,
and I don't ask to be one, so whatever,
whoever it is I have, I am -- I put back
into the flux of the world from whence
I came --
let others do, go with the flow,
say hello to what molecules they can --
let them meet, greet what syllables
they will.
Fjaderholmarna
The Picture
"Take a picture of me if you want to,"
you say, "We'll have some ice cream
when I wake up." then like the sea maiden,
you lie there, curled on stone, surprisingly
comfortable, lids closed, resting --
your Monet print bag by your side,
your forest green New Hampshire sweatshirt
for a pillow -- what do you know
of the seagull (grey with black beak)
who dipped his wing in salute . . .
the ferry, that had just dropped us off,
heading back to the mainland . . .
the Police boat with Swedish flags passing
real close, spying, perhaps on us . . .
or the two ducks -- both with dark heads,
green-brown feathers, orange webbed feet --
the male with yellow beak who scratches
all the hind parts he can reach, then
stands quiet, on the pebbly beach --
watches his resting mate . . .
look,
as you lie there with your eyes closed,
look close at the picture -- see all
of the above, see me see you
in the center.
Small Bird
white cheeks and
breast --
grey top
of head --less than
a hand span,
including
a long pointed black tail --
skittering,
always moving,
hop-hop-hopping on
and off, everything,
pecking everything
in your path,
pecking
at the moss, the rock,
the hard rubber
insulation
on the
electric cable --
hop hop round the bend,
out of our ken . . .
you leave behind
two contented ducks and
a stubborn scotch pine
growing sideways
out of rock.
After the Ice Cream
sharing the same spare rock -- our four bare feet on the same wet stones -- you and me just sitting quiet, watching the TV Tower rising over the masts of yachts in the distance -- 3,000 miles from home, but connected -- feeling young, like children again -- you and me feeling the same waves of the same Baltic sea -- waves further north, but warmer than the ones we waded through to get to Monument Island in Maine -- here, and now, we don't care if the waves rippling over the green velvet rocks wet our socks or pant legs halfway to our knees -- though we do move our scruffy, scuffed up sneakers out of the way, place them there on a rock, beside an insulated electric cable which connects one island with another.
The Cable
the sinuous black rubber coated creature, an eely thing from the mainland slithers up, out of the dark sea, suns itself on the rock, beside us.
After the Five Star Dinner,
after the salmon with ravioli
and ginger sauce, sipping our wine,
and watching large steamships (The Princess,
The Viking King and assorted smaller craft
chug in and out of Stockholm harbor . . .
each of those vessels gliding past
Millet's man on the rainbow
strewing stars . . .
background
laughter of people at the next table . . .
while directly beneath us, in the water,
a private boat, with four people,
dressed in formal attire, stepping
gingerly to the restaurant deck . . .
beyond them -- lies the bare rock,
that less than two hours ago
was covered with sunbathers --
when -- after our ice cream --
we walked past . . .
well, here we are,
you and me, basking in now, in today
on an island in Sweden -- thinking wow --
it's been six years since the angio
and stents in two major arteries (when
my life was hanging, literally hanging
by a thread) -- thinking if I were
my father . . .
thinking thanks
for today, for this poem, for you,
genuine thanks for every day, for each
additional poem, and for each and every
one of the extra 2323 days --
and counting . . .
I got to spend with you --
my lover, my wife, my friend.
Ferry Home
at the rail -- on the prow looking over the dark silhouettes, the rising spires of Old Town into the sunset streaked sky -- nothing wrong with night coming on -- just the way a perfect day should end.
Epilogue
Your father died (not that much
of a surprise) the day after we
got back from Sweden and three days
later at his wake we get the news --
your sister we spent such good time
with in her apartment in Gamla Stan
died of a heart attack in the ambulance
after her second seizure -- my brother
with his own brain tumor to worry about
in the room -- free-flow of tears . . .
later -- in mourning in Woodstock
in the house that was her home
for so many years -- typical
slow recovery -- life going on --
the remaining sisters, chatting,
laughing those forced half laughs --
when suddenly -- "Look, look!"
the youngest sister shouts
and we do --
even the men
watching the football game get up
and out of the house -- stare up,
past the bird feeder, at the balloon,
the hot air balloon right above us,
right above her house -- so close,
so colorful, like the "Soray"
in Sweden -- so clear a sign . . .
the people in it wave to us --
we wave back, grab our cameras,
follow it to a nearby field
where, with its fires out,
the balloon settles naturally,
peacefully to the ground . . .
when we return to the house,
we find a weight has lifted
from all of us.
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