Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Sylvia ~ Isabell Dahlberg


Sylvia sat still.
She sat where they left her.
They left her where she sat when they came
They came after having finished the 24 hole golf course
After that, they went out to have dinner.

Sylvia sat still.
She sat where they left her after having gone out to eat something.
She never ate.
That is, she ate, but she never went anywhere else to dine.
Dining elsewhere was for those who lived in their own houses.
She lived in a house, obviously, but she did not own the house.
Or the bed.
Or the chair she sat in.

Sylvia sat still.
That was what everyone said.
She is so still.

Sylvia sat still.
Maybe she is no longer capable of moving.
She is very old, I mean.
Not that old.
But still.

Sylvia sat still.
She sat in front of that window.
Gazing upon the world.
Sucking it in.
Sucking at least.
She makes ghastly sounds once in a a while.
I wanted to bring the kids but was afraid she might scare them to death.

Sylvia sat still when they rolled the others off to bed.
Not that she ever said anything.
She never uttered a sound.
But it was as though that sitting of hers, so still, was a cry to be left where she was.
At least that is the way I thought of it.
She is gone now.


After that first time, several more were to come.

I did not intend to
I did not want to
But you did
I know

The cries of the children in her breast.
Low, never hesitating but propelling her into that wheel
(of lost fortune)

The falling we cannot do without your falling you must fall or we will die
Is that what they told you
Who told you that
I don’t know. The children.
Who’s children
Not mine. They were never mine. They were just his

And she ran into the nights into the wass the fires and the frightened masses
She fell into the hearts of the masses and she remained there until …

She was in our hearts, she is
We carry her
But who could have carried her then

No one

Could I still have been here
You know you couldn’t. You were lost the day you were born


Sylvia, I see you
I see you there among the other women
That group of extrordinarily intelligent and blazingly beautiful women
Of all ages, young, old or halfway here or there

Sylvia, I see you there at that broad big table
It’s fine wine and dining
Fancy clothes and smoke rising towards the ceiling
Your'e the fanciest bunch of razorsharp ladies I have ever laid eyes on, Sylvia

I am just dwelling in your company, trying to suck some of your skills
In a room of my own

Isabell Dahlberg b. 1972. writing music, poetry, and more. lives and works in Malmö, Sweden, with two cats



Gordon Mason said...

Great poetic writing.

Old 333 said...

A room of one's own...

...thanks for the poem, Red and Isabel.

isabell dahlberg said...