unclemaryspoetry -

My Poodle and I

Translation from the CD "VISITKORT"

My poodle and I

You´ll see us walking on by

as we talk about all

the values we share

and the small stuff

that we hold dear

My poodle and I

have an unusual tie

My poodle´s OK

She agrees with my way

That so much of it all

has no value at all

But the small stuff

is dear to us both

My poodle´s OK

she ´s thinking my way

And air and greenery

is stuff that we like

Wishes and hopes

we bring along on our hike

My poodle and I

We´re sharing the time

´tween we come and we go

Cause that´s all we know

Every year,

seven poodle-years flow

My poodle and I

Go on intertwined

And games and hugs

We like when we find

Loneliness has never

crossed our minds

My poodle and I

2011-10-14 @ 11:04:16 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

Unlucky Love

Translation from the CD "VISITKORT"

Unlucky in love

But luckily with you

Wanting must do

When all I ever wanted for was you

We shouldn´t be apart

Cause you´re so smart

and I am aimless

A miracle is all I need

to show my love is stainless

as a knife

and harder than life

Noone else will do for me

I´m not the one they´re choosing

Still you deserve all my desire

and this grip I´m never ever losing

Never ever losing

Unlucky love

But luckily for you

Words from above

Keep telling me my dream may well come true

I´m such a silly fool

but as a rule I´m being hopeful

We can´t let all this hope simply elope

it would be awful

and a shame

The Unlucky game

2011-10-14 @ 11:01:27 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

The Shawl

Translation from the CD "VISITKORT"

This is a true tale from a Stockholm bus:

My friend in usual Monday grayish mood

No not the best of days, to say the least

But then again you must endure and wrap

yourself in sparks and larks, her daughter´s Pa-

lestinian shawl, a black and pink one, like

all teenies wear, if you yourself feel gray

then borrow feathers from another bird!

But anyway, here comes this man with wife

behind, he passes by and turns around

and pukes out loud for all to hear, how vile!

That shawl must be the ugliest on earth!

In such a situation, what to do?

In half a second it will be too late

to give some mouth, but dignity, at least,

you must retain and he shall not escape

or get away with this along with wife

pretending nought to see and nought to hear

Now turn your heads around, the pair of you,

thought Anna, for that is her real name,

my friend who was exposed to such a pig.

She stares for minutes at him and his wife,

they´re seemingly of upper middle class,

well mannered, church of Sweden, with exams

from upper middle colleges, consul-

tants, tenants, two point eighteen kids,

they know exactly what is proper, what

is out of order between people, but

perhaps their day was also bad, their son

had got himself expelled, became a ter-

rorist, set fire to headmaster´s wig...

Well then you may just understand this man

to be uncomfortable seeing a shawl

of Palestinian fashion and the one

who wears it has to carry all the blame

be smeared in puke and xenophobia

There always is an explanation, now

she softly looks again, feeling like Je-

sus, almost, carrying this pair´s suffering

upon herself, (as if she didn´t have

enough of it) But now he cannot stand

the sight of Anna´s mild and querying eyes

trying to share a thought with these poor two.

His features crack, distort, his evil child

within appears, he shrinks, becomes the age of two

sticks out his tongue and sneers a Boo!

2011-10-14 @ 10:59:37 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

About Florrie

The poem "Florrie" may need some explaining. In October 2011 I was invited to stay in Dylan Thomas´birthplace, nr 5, Cwmdonkin Drive, Swansea. The evenings were spent with other poets, artists of many kinds and a little audience sat in the front room holding wine and cheese in their laps. This was a part of British National Poetry week, I was the international guest! The house itself has been open to the public for three years now thanks to the amazing couple Annie and Geoff Haden, who bought the house, decorated with the exact colours from the original home of the Thomas family who moved in after the (very modern) house was buily in 1914, shortly before little Dylan was born! Florence was his mother, they were very close, later she was the last one of the family to pass, but that was after the house was sold... (to people who hid the one window upstairs that overlooked Swansea bay so that it looked like the ships sailed on the rooftops!) All the furnishing is recent (found in auctions etc) in the exact style of the epoque!

2011-10-14 @ 10:40:08 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

Florrie

Florrie strokes the flowery setee,

firmly, smoothing out non-existent creases,

then gently, thinking: These people aren´t half well off,

cretonne like this sets you back hundreds!

She tugs at the curtains,

opening them and pulling them again.

-Mine were so heavy, not the fabric, mind,

but heavy to pull, had to ask the girl for help.

Who are they? Entertaining constantly,

reading, singing.

Wine and cheese!

Still I recognise... nearly recognise...

like a nightmare it is, at home, not at home,

wandering through familiar rooms

but closely looking so unfamiliar

and where´s the family, by the way -

No children?

Shan´t complain, though, used to be a lot worse,

will never forgive the miserable frozen lot,

wimps weary of the draught,

sacrificed their view, couldn´t be bothered

about ships sailing on rooftops

hid the finest window,

looked into a cheap reproduction instead.

Lovely thick carpet on the stairs,

piano in the study, quite so,

but what is this?

Florrie opens a cabinet door,

a typewriter? Half a typewriter,

cords and leads, a telephone of some sort?

This is a nightmare, must stay a little longer

until I can leave these people to whatever they´re up to.

I will tolerate only good spirits, you hear?

The best butter, fresh eggs,

long lasting intentions, no giving up,

I´m telling you - in my house

every single one survived!

2011-10-11 @ 13:53:38 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

For how long may you have your poems?

(A suite written at the nephew´s coming-of-age)

---

For how long may you have your poems?

The golden tornado runs through the summer house,

hovers for a few seconds,

puts the question, and whoosh - is out on the lawn,

up the slope, down the slope, into the water, 747 strokes,

is rubbed by mother, praised by father

falls asleep clutching the Action Man

wakes up to another day with new enigmas to create

So one summer passes, then another and over again

inbetween winters, with mittens lost, icicles falling on citizens,

school in school out body grows heavily

pimples shining, pounding, looks the other way,

escapes into lonely chamber headset on,

mouse click destroying monsters with surgical precision,

all the while we bang on door, call into inert backside

- Come out of that miserable dungeon!

And one bright day in spring the child lumbers out of his den,

finds himself new speed streaks, waxes his hair,

ready to meet the world with a steady look and a reliable hand shake,

meanwhile in the summer house the Question

keeps creeking in the timbers,

no ice winters or mould attacks can disinfect

the inability to provide a plausible answer:

For how long may you have your poems?

---

For how long may you have your poems?

Shut it, kiddo! If I´m not allowed my poems,

then who should be allowed theirs?

Someone with a larger room?

Higher ceiling? A more refined atmosphere?

A gigantic library with scrolls in glass showcases,

guards in tight suits and/or swelling biceps,

Mr Magoo-looking librarians in white gloves

shuffling about discreetly on leather soles against the marble floor

Every day at noon heavy doors open

and two as springy as they are shallow

Afghan dogs undulate into the hall

to announce the arrival of the poet

I enter rolling in a wheelchair,

no - on skateboard, you´d like that -

cap turned backwards, hollering mooore poetry

here´s lots more poetry!

The librarians do their soft-shoe shuffle,

I pull up a memory stick, hi uncles,

here´s forty MB ultra poems

along with background, moves, 3D,

reviews and signed contracts!

The stick is laid upon a blood red velvet cushion

and with a huff and a puff tucked into the safe

behind the masterly fool-the-eye fabricated

leather bound door with golden letters spelling:

A choice of the world´s best poetry

---

For how long may you have your poems?

Let´s see - with a bit of luck

I may keep them until Thursday,

that´s when the Poetry Collector

comes along with his great big fine meshed net.

As always I have tried scattering my poetry in the wind,

halfheartedly hoping that Destiny or Chance

shall determine wheather my poem be caught by

human hand or eyed by human mind

and thus enter one being´s emotional, glandular

or even parasympathetic system.

This would have caused connections.

Can´t say exactly how, it´s something you feel, though,

a snap, sort of, and there´s your connection.

It has to do with electricity.

In a positive way, a positively charged electricity

makes connections between systems,

organs aware of one another,

two bodies aware of one another,

eye meets eye, tooth meets tooth,

ouch! they cry with laughter:

There you are: A connection.

I would like to humour myself

of having caused this with my poetry.

But every Thursday the Poetry Collector

comes along with his great big fine meshed net,

through which no unnecessary words

may slip.

---

When the Poetry Collector has dashed about

for a while with his great big fine meshed net

in which he catches all unnecessary words

put together in vanity and grandiose self-sufficiency,

he empties these in the Container,

a procedure much reminding of how

the municipal pickup truck picks up the

light blue bin bags containing the black bags

containing the unloved droppings of our beloved pets,

which, contrary to poems are a necessary evil,

droppings included in the purchase,

they are counted in the same cycle as love,

obedience, affection, belonging, identity, status,

our basic needs, not available for everybody,

therefore all the more desirable,

so worthy of struggle, if not for me, then for my children,

to write this takes time,

to read this takes less time,

then should it be such a big deal to keep it?

How long may I have my poems?

---

For the time that I am allowed to have a poem,

I am certainly grateful.

Particularly at first, with the embryo -

or even before, as the twinkle in my eye,

this tiny thing protects me,

if the process had been filmed it would show

how the thick cuticle closed, shutting out

all that crowded on from the outside,

Smiling inwardly I want to command

youngsters on the bus:

Leave your seat, I´m with poem!

That is to say, if I make it as far as to a bus

before the poem is removed,

a violent nausea then it is gone,

might as well forget.

But some are allowed to grow for a while,

line by line, much too easily, really,

a little poetry in the poems wouldn´t do any damage,

a slow ripening makes sweeter melons,

strong, impeccable,

the embryo is teasing me,

I don´t mind, I have been seen, understood,

seen through - and thoroughly all of me

now scattered in the wind.

---

Of course, there is no way you´re not losing your poem one day

Whether it gets caught in the Poetry Collector´s net or not,

it is bound for oblivion, without oblivion

soon an unmanageable chaos

would spark and spin

as on an old grammophone,

the kind music used to come from,

music happens to be the daycare of poetry,

looking after the small and cute ones,

so that they won´t get stuck in the mud,

lose their wellies, music keeps the poems

in little cabinets with name tags

and see to that the right piece gets to go with

the right author, on the bus back home

you can sing its lines over and over again

and they will stick, hook on, be tied to

the everyday life of ordinary people

everyday emotions even,

you experience recognition, again causing connections,

so dare one believe, may we please, please may we

keep this moment for yet another moment?

---

The outlook on having poems is obviously

limited, shielded with blinkers.

With growing up comes the ability to accept,

fall away, deflect, seek new paths,

for a brief moment see yourself as

a frisky spring brook, look - a furrow,

I shall lead myself out of the middle -

and be allowed other people´s poems.

Other people´s poems leave a wholehearted impression.

A solid, wholehearted thought, carved with goose blood,

spiced with salt from Brittany in low tide June,

dried with moss from the Hebrides,

we are talking classics here, but the most important is your heart,

your heart must be whole, the broken one has lost

its ability to connect, you want to connect,

you need a full time heart, with a flow.

Cluts, splinters itchy navels, ear wax and static from the old grammophone -

there comes the Collector and pulls the plug

to your computor. So so easily

it may be used for writing poetry.

---

And yet, should I dare have a poem tucked away,

what then?

There´s the nail beat on its head, my friend,

little people need firm boundaries,

how could you respect an auntie who stretches rules,

it´s bad enough that I smell of profanity,

snuff and snoring and late mornings,

it is of utmost importance that children

be prevented from experiencing

grown up´s double agendas,

what if you were sat under a cork oak,

useless, mumbling unintelligibly,

increasingly incapable, thinking it was all good.

But, fine, try to steal away with a couple of nifty phrases,

into the secret house and shut its door,

let it stay inside for a few years,

then see how it has undergone the fermentation,

with a nice crust and precious shine,

or will you be punished with red hot ears and remorse,

donkey´s tail and a silly cone on your head.

Few people HAVE poems,

nota bene, have a FEW,

for LONG, not FOR long,

what are YOU having?

Have you HAD enough?

There you HAVE it!

You MAY do this!

Happy the bride

that the sun shines on to-day!

MAYDAY!

---

The right to have, to own,

is of no importance

as long as there is room enough,

but if you´re running short of oxygen

there is no way around it,

not even for an old hippie/slacker

as your auntie.

Do you really want to have your poem -

then eat it.

That is self-evident,

have it and eat it,

swallow and digest

bother and smother,

inspire and expire.

A poem is never as brilliant,

multifaceted, loud,

hopeful, capable and -good,

as when it is newly written,

after a mere ten minutes

it begins to fray, then tear

into clotted wounds,

you erase frantically,

the computor is eternally patient,

should you against all odds still be somewhat pleased

and let go of your poem into the wind,

then be sure to note that now

it has very little in common with its origin,

what it had at first.

---

10.

Undeniably, a copious amount of poetry

has survived its authors,

there is reason to suspect

this to be the very purpose or at least

the hopeful ambition behind their making.

However, a dead poet is no less dead

than a dead copper

who, according to the villain,

not until now is a good copper,

but is he a poet?

Perhaps he is, but he cannot have his poems,

A, he´s dead,

B, it is the poems who are having him,

there is no proving he ever existed,

but now he exists in a poem a

nd long after his fictious death

he is still causing connections and

mysteries of all kind.

So, finally, only one bit of all this

is left to dissect: You.

How long may You have Your poems?

They may have kept a low profile

for some time, waited for you to come of age,

but for the love of god, don´t use

your coming of age when you write,

use your goldenness,

where the breathtaking combinations are,

the feints, the tackles and the rattle in the net,

just as back then:

How long may you have your poems?

2011-08-26 @ 12:25:58 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

Due to a window-cleaning agenda

Due to a window-cleaning agenda,

the turntable was laid with music,

at which great sadness welled forth and

tear fluid stood in the corner, but

never before had windows been

cleaned in silence so perseverance

was decided upon and perhaps

this was a needed sadness, a

lump in the throat spoke purely

from the soul: a new outlook must

see cleanliness may be heard,

listen clarity will succeed, and

now the picture split up in two:

women by their windows

a shared sadness multiplied

again and again like the grain of

rice on square one doubles up to

an uncountable pile on the chess board

a mirror hall of unhappy women

with aprons and window scrapers,

a high-pitched mosaic of despair,

a clustre narrowing into a single note,

loud and clear, in shattering glass -

We all want other lives to live!

I want to get myself a herbarium

I want to leave this council house

I want to become a sculptress

I want to save the Baltic sea

I want a spot in the middle,

to find a centre, to know if there is

such a place and what one would

do once you are there, I want

to surprise with my knowledge, yes

even in a biblical sense, who

would have expected that out of

this virginal window-cleaning sonority

I want a last to stick with

I want a child to be with

I want a husband and flowers

to press into my poetry book

All these wills will be heard out

in the name of Righteousness

and to deviate from the Narrow Path

will do good for Mankind, soon

there was clarity and silence

finally supplanted the eye-fluid

a heart beat under the apron and

surprised a needy sadness from inside

2011-01-18 @ 14:55:05 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (4) Trackbacks ()

The Spilling of Time

The spilling of time.

The overflow of waiting.

The eye of history

blinded as we bleed.

The fluid, a universal constant.

The pounding of expectation,

The increase of pressure.

The longing for sigh of relief

for turning point

to make time spill some more.

But slowly as with asthma

seeps a disappointed beam -

causing us to wonder:

What was the big occasion?

Rain from the moon?

Someone is picking up

fireworks past their best before,

lost love, cast iron beds, B 52s,

The banging and the bombing,

those were times!

When time was kept in delicate jars

and ran in finest beams

Now we run for our lives

carrying goblets, jugs

collecting time, winning time,

emaciated by lack of time.

Come spill a moment

Bring a jug or two

Between us there is overflow

Same as in old times.

2011-01-18 @ 14:52:04 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

The Shawl

This is a true tale from a Stockholm bus:

My friend in usual Monday grayish mood

No not the best of days, to say the least

But then again you must endure and wrap

yourself in sparks and larks, her daughter´s Pa-

lestinian shawl, a black and pink one, like

all teenies wear, if you yourself feel gray

then borrow feathers from another bird!

But anyway, here comes this man with wife

behind, he passes by and turns around

and pukes out loud for all to hear, how vile!

That shawl must be the ugliest on earth!

In such a situation, what to do?

In half a second it will be too late

to give some mouth, but dignity, at least,

you must retain and he shall not escape

or get away with this along with wife

pretending nought to see and nought to hear

Now turn your heads around, the pair of you,

thought Anna, for that is her real name,

my friend who was exposed to such a pig.

She stares for minutes at him and his wife,

they´re seemingly of upper middle class,

well mannered, church of Sweden, with exams

from upper middle colleges, consul-

tants, tenants, two point eighteen kids,

they know exactly what is proper, what

is out of order between people, but

perhaps their day was also bad, their son

had got himself expelled, became a ter-

rorist, set fire to headmaster´s wig...

Well then you may just understand this man

to be uncomfortable seeing a shawl

of Palestinian fashion and the one

who wears it has to carry all the blame

be smeared in puke and xenophobia

There always is an explanation, now

she softly looks again, feeling like Je-

sus, almost, carrying this pair´s suffering

upon herself, (as if she didn´t have

enough of it) But now he cannot stand

the sight of Anna´s mild and querying eyes

trying to share a thought with these poor two.

His features crack, distort, his evil child

within appears, he shrinks, becomes the age of two

sticks out his tongue and sneers a Boo!

2011-01-18 @ 14:49:13 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

Beret

Conditions for wearing beret:

Warm ears and chilly crown.

No perspiration in arm pit where baguette goes.

Under other arm where is carried

flattened director´s chair,

sweat may appear.

But feet, flat enough for espadrillos.

Talent for side-of-mouth whistling.

A slight bow-leggedness, a swaying gait.

Big hands, hairy fingers.

Curiosity, awareness, ability for switft conclusions.

Sense of smelling. Actually everything that enables us

the very day we find a beret in a drawer,

without effort figure out who previously

has been wearing this beret.

2011-01-17 @ 11:41:07 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

A Midsummer Night´s Dream

The Common Eider Ladies choir

”Sonorous Eiderettes”

are practising in S:t John´s night

A champagne-intoxicated glockenspiel ostinato

in topmost descant

rises over the archipelago

Eagerness and excitement, gaiety and exaltation

The drakes silently suck

their sea-foam pipes on far out islets

Ducklings nibble at mother´s rear end feather

Shush, mommy is singing -

Soon enough we will become pillows

Reposing under other creatures´ dreams

2011-01-17 @ 11:39:09 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

Välkommen till min nya blogg!

2011-01-11 @ 12:30:55 Permalink Allmänt Kommentarer (0) Trackbacks ()

unclemaryspoetry

My Poodle and I

Unlucky Love

The Shawl

About Florrie

Florrie

For how long may you have your poems?

Due to a window-cleaning agenda

The Spilling of Time

The Shawl

Beret

A Midsummer Night´s Dream

Välkommen till min nya blogg!

Om