unclemaryspoetry

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

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.

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!

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.

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