Mission: to be where I am.
Even in that ridiculous, deadly serious
role--I am the place
where creation is working itself out.
Daybreak, the sparse tree-trunks
are colored now, the frost-bitten
forest flowers form a silent search party
for someone who has vanished in the dark.
But to be where I am. And to wait.
I am anxious, stubborn, confused.
Coming events, they're there already!
I know it. They're outside:
a murmuring crowd outside the gate.
They can pass only one by one.
They want in. Why? They're coming
one by one--I am the turnstile.
Tomas Tronstromer
from "The Outpost"
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2 comments:
oye, is that ever an appropriate poem! (btw-i always spell"oye" "oui" which is obviously wrong).
the turnstiles that you go through to exit the CTA stations come to mind . . . sort of claustrophobic with people rushing behind you as you push through the giant moving cage. there is really no turning back.
oy, oi, et mais oui~ tis all very overwhelming and glorious and yiddish!
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