MY OWN SELLANRA (After Hamsun & O’Hara)

Des salutations et des adieux
Lunch Poems in my pocket
Dare I sneak Meditations in my laptop bag on the way to work?
Can I dial a 911 to rescue a self cut in two by preoccupations on the side of some minute form of sanity?

Whistling in the wind like Isak’s scythe
Cutting through some form of literary truth-seeking lyricism offering hope
Just another mardi matin or a something-else?

A little meditation in an emergency
An every day chameleon
A false yellow label folded into the pavement
Mashed by not-so-lonesome boots in a painting by Van Gogh

Like the fresh cut grasses on Isak’s land
My own Sellanra
Waiting to be raked
The promise of a machine in the days to come
Hiding secrets like Inger
Inside my little faux leather bag
Is it really so il faut savoir?

No heart on the sleeve on the way to another day of grinding
Fresh cut timbre
In the water-powered sawmill of Sellanra
For these new dialogues je sais par coeur
They’re buried so much deeper than that still-born
In that shallow grave by the river-stream

Running down through the property I may never fully own.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, February 2018

 

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