unclemaryspoetry

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

 

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

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

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!

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!

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!