(foto David Dickson)

söndag 17 november 2013


The city. 
Where I move blindly every day.
The city.
Where I go to see.
The city.
Where I move blindly.
In my thoughts.
The everyday, 
the common
the expected
that I know already,
closes my mind.
And still
the eye.

The eye.
The city.
Where I go to see.
The monument.
I study
and I learn to see
(I learn to see)
The minute detail.
Intricate pattern.
And  even, perhaps,
the mind, 
the thought
that shaped the form.

So, what about the eye?
And what I see?

The eye receives, I thought,
and, thought I,
what it receives, 
I see.

I walked here oftentimes
and saw a wall.
As if my eyes 
expected what to see.
And one day --
I'd heard a church-bell toll,
and then my hand
was haphazardly touched
by someone passing by --
and then 
I saw

The eye.
The wall.
The eye, 
it must have seen it all.
But I, 
my mind,
was closed,
as if there'd been this wall
And then the soft and silent dynamite
of touch and sound
opened me 
to the sense of sight.
To see.

To see.
I know now
that my mind is closed, 
and knowing,
my not seeing,
or, should I say,
my seeing what I expect to see,
is like a repose.
Like resting in the knowledge
that there is more to gather
and that I know 
to see.

Föreningsgatan, Göteborg


New Haven


Gower Mews, London



 © David Dickson


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