Then he told: I can feel you are not feeling well
and I know why and lemon like I said: So if you
know, why don’t you then do what you must do
to be the sweet marmalade on my daily bread?
Then he told: I can feel you are not feeling well
and I know why and lemon like I said: So if you
know, why don’t you then do what you must do
to be the sweet marmalade on my daily bread?
“… This is my charge to everyone! We have to be better. We have to love more and hate less. We have to listen more and talk less. We gotta know this is everybody’s responsibility, every single person here. Every person that’s not here, every person that doesn’t want to be here. Every person that agree and don’t agree: it’s our responsibilty to make this world a better place. …”
” We have to love more, hate less” Meghan Rapinoe’s full World Cup parade speech on:
“Drink Tap Water in Sweden! Just Like All Swedes Do!” But don’t beat up people brutally on the street because they annoys you – and think you will get away with it. I’m not a nationalist and have never been. But I’m born and raised in this country with its democratic values and this people with deep grounded cultural feeling for justice. And there are limits when one person’s self-justification becomes to be slander of my country’s legal system and its hospitality, where even I get upset. These American guys now in Stockholm are even worse than the Chinese tourists last year. I am disgusted. “Famous” on tour is not an excuse for bad manners. Come real!
Had a hard day taking the laundry
An afternoon nap and I slept deep
Woke and my hand searching you
and got the fur of my sleeping cat
Me and Cat in a freshly made bed
My body is a dry desert of despair
I said: It’s not important for me to
see you but I believe it’s important
for you. Yet I would like to see you.
But since then I have thought a lot
of what’s really “important” in life.
A home and money enough for living,
that’s “important”. Not to be used for
others’ purposes, that’s “important”.
He wants to cut his ties to gets across
continents and borders to see me. But
why? For love? I dare not believe in it!
Yet, to travel to meet is not important.
Too often, he doesn’t understand what
I say. But such is not important to him.
Love! What is love? Linguistic confusion
and romantic delusions: we quarrel over
nothing! But if he want to see me: okay!
With him, something in the world is good.
In the Greek tale, the hero is captured on the island Ogygia by the beautiful nymph Calypso who seduces him with her love and songs. But every morning the hero gets depressed and leave the love bed and returns to the beach looking over the sea, longing back to his kingdom and his marriage. But in this poem, the modern poet has turned the perspective: the married man has returned to his home and marriage. But he cannot forget his mistress Calypso and all the nymphs’ tempting pleasures.
Three times three roses
I have thrown in the ocean today when stream
moves away from Ithaca.
Three times three pigeons
has fluttering lift from my hand.
There’s red so mighty, Calypso,
a few ounces of it may color the entire sea blood red.
What helps me then distance
and that I escaped you?
The sirens still lures in my dream.
And the sea cools.
And the dream calls out – storm!
and for you.
The original Swedish poem by Forssell below
Tre gånger tre rosor
har jag kastat i havet idag, när strömmen
för bort från Ithaca.
Tre gånger tre duvor
har, fladdrande, lyft från min hand.
Det finns purpur så mäktigt, Kalypso,
att några uns därav kan färga hela havet blodrött.
Vad hjälper mig då avstånd
och att jag flydde dig?
Sirenerna lockar än i min dröm.
Och havet svalkar.
Och drömmen ropar – storm
och efter dig.
It annoys me this false devoted heightening of this girl in media here in Sweden and abroad. She did not start her school strike for the environment to be praised by media and or by celebrities, minor politicians or a silly old pope. Nor did she do it to receive awards and become a celebrity herself. She did it to draw attention to the immediate necessity to stop the climate degradation in order to save our earth and the future of the children. This to be done now! But the societies in the form of media, politicians and various celebrities chooses to kill her mission by raising her as a person and a role model. Note, she is not important to herself, but the environment is overall important to her! And yet the environment is as bad as before. Despite the media circuses around her.
All while people with the power abuse it to deny reality and enlighten themselves in media shaking hands with dictators and photograph themselves with murderers. Everything for greed.
We live in an age of narcissists, but Greta Thunholm is one of the few exceptions, she is a girl with a vocation beyond her own comfort zone. She want a change. She wants concrete actions, not talks.
Det irriterar mig detta upphaussande av denna flicka som person i media här i Sverige och utomlands. Hon startade inte sin skolstrejk för miljön för att bli hyllad av media och kända personer av olika dignitet, inte heller för att få utmärkelser eller för att själv bli en kändis. Hon gjorde det för att uppmärksamma att vi måste få ett slut på klimatförstörelsen och rädda vår jord och barnens framtid. Och detta här och nu! Men samhället i form av media, politiker och diverse celebriteter väljer att försöka döda hennes mission genom att upphöja henne som individ och som förebild. Och miljön är lika dålig som förut. Trots den mediala cirkusens fokus på henne.
Allt medan människor med makt missbrukar den till att förneka verkligheten och flinar upp sig för medias fotografer, skakande hand med diktatorer och fotograferande sig med mördare. Allt för girigheten.
Vi lever i ett tidevarv av narcissister, men Greta Thunholm är en de fås undantag, hon är en flicka kall bortom den egna bekvämligheten. Hon kräver förändring. Hon kräver konkreta handlingar och slutpratat!
Every evening after dark I take a 12 minutes’ walk
around the block. Nor have I ever said, “I want to
be alone. I only said, I want to be left alone.” It is
the Garbo truth: “There is all the difference.” But
all the pushy people you flee call it “your choice”!
I read your letter, roses sweet
with thorns thoroughly hidden
in thin silk paper. I grieve your
heart wrapped in barbed wire!
What you have you don’t want
and what you want is far away.
And it may be you will love two men
And one you have and the other not
And you swallow the latter his bitter
words, as you not want to see him go
And yet you still drink the sweetness
given by him whose heart you have
And you’ll leave to the future to give
you the answer to what is right to do
And one’s luck is a loss for the other
But your heart still wants them both
and at nights you’ll make love to one
and fantasizes another, comes hard
“At my age anything unexpected that isn’t medical or mortal should be celebrated.”A quote attributed to Kathleen Brennan.
If any say “at my age”, she’s for sure not 6 years old… or 20 or 30 years old either for that matter. She could be in her 40s but then she is not old enough and not entitled to say it. Yet, it is a panic age and foresight women breaks up in divorces, changing life styles.
If any in age 50 use the phrase “in my age”, she’s got a point and at 50 the body obvious is failing with to keep it up with whatever is to keep up. But it’s still silly if she believe in something like that. Because age 50+ today is not (in the West) as aged 50 was only 3 – 4 decades ago. There is still a long time future to expect.
But at 60 it looks like it’s time to gather yourself to face the life fact of mortality – and at 70 you’ve got it right. The time left is short!
I don’t know how it happened – but to my surprise I became 70 this year. Once becoming 60 was bad enough, but shortly I closed my eyes and imagined that I still didn’t look like my true age. But now a decade later I have to bite the bullet and realize that I am “old” and be what I am. And since my parents died at age 72 and 75, it’s like a hair-raising horror story!
Now this me, newly 70-year-old, the formula “my age” still feels like a suit not made for me, one size too big and further: badly tailor-made. But I try to live in my saggy suit – and then I realize to my surprise it seems to be forbidden for you to even mention “aging” and “mortality” for those close around but younger than you. “Now, don’t say things like that, no one know who goes first and when”, they hush you down. True, but still more people dies “at my age” than in those younger-than-you generations! So why not be allowed to speak loudly about what is urgent for you to talk about?
(At the contrary, you are allowed and even expected to have (had) a pension insurance and funeral saving!) (Like in past times having condoms in the wallet, just in case!)
It is not as much that I actually want or need to talk about difficulties in aging and of the coming death, it is that it is uncomfortable for people around you if you do it that arouses my curiosity for the topic. Do we have here an elephant in the room? Is it some kind of taboo around life challenges in higher ages? Don’t mention you haven’t come to terms with your mortality (at your age)? Don’t mention you still are able to fall in love and want to have sex and closeness with someone special (at your age)?
And yet again, people just love to tell to you “age is nothing but a number” if you come to only mention you are not young any more. Well, if age is just a number – please tell it to my hurting hips in my wakeup nights!
I suspect this attempts muzzling old people is for to hold us back in the gate from become unpleasantly serious about life as it raises younger people’s suppressed anxiety about their own existence, can it be?
This platitude is preferably followed by another “life is short, so why be serious about it!” Yes, why indeed?!
Maybe because it is true “you only live once” and you are no doubt mortal – and this is your only chance to be serious about anything in your precious life!
He asked me if I had written something at my
blog that same day and I said no. “No poems?”
he asked and “No!” I said. “Why?” he queried.
“I have nothing to write about” I said unhappy.
“So what are you doing today?” he tried more.
“Chat with you and listen to music on YouTube”.
I answered. “So nice!” he thought. “Yes!” I said
but “No!” I was thinking. And he asked no more.
He tries even if we strive in different directions!
Once he got me trapped and now I can’t get free
and no doubt we’ve a thing going; a kettle boiling.
Getting close I’m told what I can’t tell, him to lose!
I curse that fate he’s blessing: because he got me.
I see closed doors and borders, all those “no-go”,
but he’s all determined to find his way to my bed
and change his life. But I’m not a key to anything.
Yet he is as trapped as me and none of us are free.
It was when you were cornered not to be serious
about us but showed to be alike those hypocrites
you hate that you burst out in anger and told me
not to waste my time more on you. And then you
did what I never thought you would do to me, left
me and the shock made me numb for a long time.
But I believe you really loved me and that you still
miss me. I miss you too, but I never want you back!
When one goes, the other is seen left behind:
But the former will be what comes. The other:
the laughing gentleman, now ridiculous naked
butt as the fairy tale emperor: but still haughty
he gabbles his garbage. Far after the abscesses
burst, stenches still stays in the air in Sweden’s
public space: nothing is the same – and yet it is:
as the birches again rustles their summer song!
Den som går och den som är kvar:
den förre är den som kommer och
den andre, löjets sanna gentleman
lämnad förlöjligad därhän så naken
om baken som sagans kejsare men
ändock skrivande skrävlande dynga.
Bölderna sprack: stanken sprider sig
alltfort över Sveriges offentliga rum:
inget är sig likt i liklukten! Likt likväl:
att björkar nu susar sin sommarsång!
Wellknown and popular folk song in Sweden, but in origin from Finland.
The poem was written in 1915 by Viktor Sund, Finnish-Swedish teacher and librarian. The story tells that the poem was written for his own wedding, but his fiancee died shortly before the wedding and he never married. The music by Oscar Merikanto, Finnish composer.
Verse three of three:
Where the birches rustles, there among them
we will promise each other fidelity and love
Where we will build the home for our young
happiness and make life lovely for each other
“So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.” Hermann Hesse Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte
He sent me a photo and he had
a chin like a hedgehog. He said
“You can kiss me as much as you want!”
“Oh thanks,” I said in fear. “Yet I don’t!”
Han skickade mig ett foto: han hade
en haka som en igelkott. Så han sade
“Du kunde kyssa mig så mycket du ville!”
“Tack,” sa jag, “men hellre en annan kille”.
The key to love and affection will never be without attraction. Age differences are not about wrinkles or saggy old bodies contra firm and young bodies. What culturally define an attractive and fashionable man in common eyes differs more over the decades than the fashion and beauty ideals for women.
An unshaved man’s apperance in a movie during the 40s to the 60s told us without word this was a slob that lost the grip over his life. The last 20 – 30 years it’s the straight opposite: this image show a man who is successful in his life and with an excess of self-confidence in his bag.
But if you was young or brought up during the 50s you got the old fashion eyes for what attracts you to a man. Bibi Johns on the image above with her younger partner, was born 1929 and I was born 1949. Even with that age difference we are both culture fixed in the same time ideals what a good looking man looks like. I think Bibi Jones was lucky to find her lover in a time just before every young man around 30 has a stubble chin, because when we were young, that look was of an untidy slob. If Alex Racec would have had such a chin, he would never won the lady’s heart, I’m sure. (Bibi Johns represent “the lady style” from the 50s but I never had that style as I was young woman in 70s. But still, born in true working class I never fancy or had any sloppy looking boyfriends on a date…)
But now 70 but still twenty years younger than Ms Jones, I’m not that lucky when it comes to romance a younger man. (Yes, that situation has actually occured in my life too!) I know of course what my problem is: beauty is in the viewer’s eye. I try to change and update my views, but I’m just too old to fancy such a chin…
But even if I try to deal with it – what I never can deal with is the effects on a sensitive skin by kissing a hedgehog man. You may think 3-day stubble look is incredible sexy… But whatever you think of the scrubby look, this outcome on a woman’s face you can see on the pic to the left is not okay! It’s called beard burn – and it certainly hurts and burns for days. So no, I don’t want such kisses… Do something about it, man! (If you want me!)
I have done some research online and this is apparently the fashion for men today up to a certain age (men over 60 still looks like unshaved slobs with this look) and not many admit the problem with beard-burn. But I found on and athletic site a guy who actually admit this bad consequense for the female partner and recommended fellow men to try a softening hair conditioner in shower. Maybe it helps, at least couples need to work for a solution. It’s okay to be stylish – and you can do and be whatever you want as long you not harm others…
BODY SHAVING!! What the f**k is that on a grown man: it would be like kissing a smooth baby butt! 😦
What an age-eyed cultural damaged woman like me more have problems with of the nowaday fashion for men is that phenomenon body shaving. Only the thought to have sex with a man smooth as baby’s skin is repelling…! I happens to experience that line of hair from a man’s navel down below the waist of the jeans very sexy. A man’s hairy legs is hot in bed, it turns out so well with the soft skin of my inner thighs… But what about born with a chest with no hair, or with just too much off it? Well, if nature is that unfortunated with a poor guy, I certainly can love him anyway. Love and sex is more than fashion looks…
The problems with a large age difference in a couple relationship are not so much about the differences in the present time, but about values, the fashion ideals and the music taste that you once grown up with. It’s printed in your skin as tattoos.
By the way, I can’t stand either today’s fashion with tattoos on the both sexes. (In Sweden today it is so common in the younger generations that it is not tattooed is the rare.) No risk for any amorous feelings from me there! But I cannot understand that it is allowed for healthcare professionals to have their bare arms covered with such ugly and tasteless decorations. When any such person will treat me in the near future, I will refuse to allow him / her to do so. Simply!
(But I love the tattooed singer Gizzelle and her version of “I found a love” ) (to be found on Youtube!)
I became 70 years in April this year and it feels as strange as it would be to wake up one morning in the wrong body, like being a woman and discover having a thing “down there”, that should be not on me but on the other one – the one man I dream about to share my bed with. Aged and/or old fashioned or not: you never get too old for the need of love.
(Yet, now at the end of this post I suddenly realize that with this subject of hedgehog men, I have actuallty written myself into my right age: I am really an old-fashioned aunt, stuck in old ideals from earlier decades! Oh but excuse me, I think I need now a soft soothing kiss…)
VideoSpäte Würdigung für NS-Opfer
“Berlin buries prisoners’ tissue kept by Nazi-era doctor”
This doctor’s name was Hermann Stieve. He was active until his death in 1952 and he was never charged for his dealing with the executed prisoners’ remains.
A quote from the BBC article: “The anatomist’s use of the prisoners’ corpses had been kept almost in plain sight, because he kept meticulous records of his work. He had a particular interest in reproductive anatomy.His work was some of the first research to suggest that stress – in the form of being sentenced to death – could disrupt a woman’s menstrual cycle.”
BBC quote: “He then dissected them for research, before discreetly cremating and interring their bodies anonymously.”
Monday May 13, 2019 the bodies of 300 female resistance fighters got their last respect in an ceremony.
BBC quote again: “In a statement, Dr Karl Max Einhäupl, CEO of the Charité, said the burial was part of an effort by the hospital to confront its – and German medicine’s – difficult relationship with Nazism.”
“By burying the microscopic specimens at the Dorotheenstadt Cemetery, we want to help restore to the victims some of their dignity,” he said.
Hermann Stieve on the photo above was (according to Wikipedia) elected in 1940 as a foreign member number 799 of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences.
(NCBI: The National Center for Biotechnology Information advances science and health by providing access to biomedical and genomic )
“Swedish-German contacts in the field of anatomy 1930-1950: Gösta Häggqvist and Hermann Stieve”.
We have a lot in our Swedish history that is not tasteful but seldom talked about.
It’s surely a nice feeling-good movement to play the righteous nation in the world, but the historical reality within our borders is more complex than that.
Every Swedish newspaper no matter if small, had a short notice about this burial. But I just think Swedish TV and Radio Sweden too should have paid this cremony some respect by reporting about it. But of course – radio and TV public education is to serve us SOMA spaced drinks, to let us comfortably sink down in our big deep armchairs in our Brave New World. (?)
I refer in the last sentence to Aldous Huxley’s novel “Brave New World” (1932). “Soma” was the drug served the citizens to keep them in order.
I met him on the internet,
and that is something I will always regret.
He had pics of sparkling eyes, a lovely smile.
Charmed, I was thinking I will chat for a while.
But soon he covered my every waking hour
and he took away from me all my power.
Once I was a lonely woman but now I was his queen.
We were both trapped in front of the computer screen.
And you will see, come close on the internet
is something you can’t regret and not forget.
But our first call on phone revealed a boy’s voice,
video calls alike as a younger brother’s lack of joys.
Then, two months on the edge with him planning his life
and telling me all about his love and about me as his wife.
And then he said to me: coming close on the internet
is something you will always regret, you not to forget!
We say the same thing, but we all say it from different angles
and we don’t mean the same, yet remember none of us are angels.
And if I could talk to you, I would tell you
I’m not happy for this either. But you and
I and talking was never good and it always
went from bad to worse. And I had to end
us hurting each other. There was no other
way but to throw you out of my life. Now,
what more to share? Tears of missing and
grief, far from love? But you had no tender
feelings for me, was only interested in your
own feelings! What is left to miss? Feeling
small and sad and unhappy, entangled into
a relationship of mutual verbal abuse? No!
She’s his first love, he told her.
He is a pain in her ass but she
can’t tell him and thereof she
feels like she’s a burning bush
in a blinded desert. You’re my
woman now, he said, you’d tell
me your intimate dreams. She
said, I am my own and I decide
what I tell or not and to whom.
She wants him differently and
he wants her as she should be.
When walking home from the grocery in spring rain this last Friday afternoon, I saw all the pollen floating on the streets down the drains and sudden from nowhere I came to think of the Swedish proverb “Better a bird in the hand than ten in the forest”.
Because all the little birds in the wild and free sings lovely here in this my new living area, far from colonies of magpies there I stayed before, just half a year ago.
But the bird I got in my hand this spring crows, despite he is a very young and lovely man, like an old chained magpie from times back before.
And lately he always turns me down every day, as blaming me for thinking bad about him, whatever is. And I certainly not think well about that his doing. Because these days I begin my days in good mood, but then I talk to him and I become framed with shit from his innocent young white breast.
Every relationships has its ups and downs, he then told when I object. Now know people, this is an online romance and we two lovers have known each other for about two months only, so whatever to say about that – we certainly moving fast to the bitter ending up!
So to all his eager talk about meeting in real life, I just told him last “save your money”, and he said “what do you mean, you always thinking bad, you know I am a serious and hard working man and all I want is to make you happy, so what do you mean by that?”
I can’t say anything so he understand me, so I say nothing but I think in my mind I should change and restrict my settings on my online Profile. And keep ten birds in the forest and hold my hands free from chains in my private life. And think of a happy future on my own.
Because I hear the birds in the woods sings lovely and I know the air there is clear and fresh and one can walk and breathe freely. And I can see where I walk in this day’s spring rain the annoying pollens floating on the streets down the manholes – to be forgotten about until next spring.
(The English version of this proverb is “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”, but romantic minded I like more the Swedish one.)
We try to talk to keep it going
but we’re not doing it so well,
I miss so much to sense your
body near mine, not so much
about sex as a severe longing
to feel your presence here and
no words can tell us about that
My lover thinks it’s better to say “ok”
than to argue. And “ok” is, according
to him, what he say and “arguing” is,
according to him, what I do! It is just
too much for any woman to endure!
Yet, I’m a white rose with a pink pen.
Haven’t you forgot something, I asked.
No why, he said. I said, it’s my birthday
today! OMG!, he said, happy birthday to
you and I love you and I wish I was there
now to celebrate you! Well, I’m used to be
alone, birthdays and all other days, I said.
But you deserve so much more, he told me.
I said, what you deserve is not always what
you get. He had not an answer to give me to
that, so I went to take a shower and wash my
hair and it was still early and yet very much too late.
Vid 70 har man samlat på sig berg av
illusioner, förlorade, återvunna, återfunna.
Livet går vidare, javisst! Men själv har man
nått sin vägs ände och går inte längre med.
Och sedan då alla dessa berg som skymmer
den fria sikten till ingentings frid och fröjd!
At 70, one has gathered mountains off illusions
lost, recycled, recovered. Life moves on, sure! But
you yourself have reached the end of your road and
follows no more. And then all of these mountains that
obscures the free view to peace and glee of nothingness!
I like to read. Not as much as when I was a child and a youngster and wanted to escape the lonely feeling of being an outsider in the world, but still today – the library is where I go if I go somewhere.
I like to read poetry. And I like to write poetry (at least I imagine my writing is poetry and even good poetry). I like short stories, but I haven’t written any. But I really wish that I could. I like to read crime stories. But I have not committed any crime. Well, I’ve at times got a pen with me home that wasn’t mine. But nothing more serious wrong than that ( I hope).
And I like reading cookbooks, but I really don’t enjoy cooking so much. Especially not from read recipes. But cookery books can give me ideas – well yes, if I remember them, then in the kitchen … (But I don’t!) Anyway, I like to read them.
There is a Swedish cookbook that I have borrowed several times at the library during the years.
The book is titled Sultanens Auberginer. Recept och matminnen från hela världen. (The sultan’s Aubergines. Recipes and food memories from all over the world.) The writers are Stina Katchadourian and Sabina Ståhlberg. The book was printed 2003. I don’t think the book is to find in other languages than Swedish and I’m sure it’s not to find in a book shop. But it can be find at a local Swedish library or ordered from it.
The dishes are exotic from many different parts of the world but traditionally in the sense that the book is based on a diet that contains meat dishes. And the two authors have an “open-minded” attitude that I definitely not share:
(Page 131) “In international contexts you have to strain your own prejudices. Even things that you really don’t like you should sometimes taste, otherwise you insult your hosts who might have invested a whole month’s salary at dinner. It’s just to swallow. .. “
For example, the authors write about eating dogs or insects in China … and I’m quoting from the same page “But what makes us think that it is so disgusting, scary or awful? Habits, values, feelings. What applies to us is what we have learned is eatable.”
I totally disagree in their opinion. I’m a vegetarian and it is more than “values” in that. And if a host would be insulted if I wouldn’t appreciate his efforts to make a dish with meat and refuse to eat it? So be it! What is worst, to insult a guest by force him/her to eat something against beliefes or to “insult” the host by say a polite “no thanks” and explain why? There is no respect to a host in being dishonest to him or her and eat what you find uneatable and disgusting. But it is of course my view.
An example from a book:
Is it respect to accept the pride hospitality of “poor Peruan” Indian’s making a dish of a boiled guinea pig, as that’s all he has? The poor one? I would rather go hungry, even if be rejected out to a lonely jungle danger – thrown away from the house welcoming fireplace. Yes, I mean it seriously.
Guinea pig! Just look at it!
So why do I like this book and borrow it over and over again when the recipes are not in my taste? It is for the small talks and all the little humorous stories in between the recipes, that I find so entertaining!
And even as being a vegetarian, of all fruits and vegetables the aubergine is one of few I don’t like to eat. Yet my favourit story in the book is about aubergines:
Sultan’s eggplants (page 25 in the book translated by me)
One day when Sultan Mahmud was hungry he was served aubergines. He liked them a lot and said:
– The eggplant is excellent food.
A courtier began to praise the dish with great eloquence. When the sultan had eaten enough and became tired of the dish, he said:
– The eggplant is very harmful food.
Whereupon the courtier began to talk about the eggplant’s harmfulness with even greater eloquence.
– But my good man, said the sultan surprised, haven’t you just sang the praise to the eggplant in every tones that can be?
Yes, my lord, replied the courtier, but I am your courtier and not the aubergine.
He think I’m weak and he think I’m fragile, yet
he cling to me harder than glue. I want to die
with him inside me, but I don’t know if I ever
will be able to live with him out in this world.
I dream about him every night and that must
be something, yes! But it is so much harder
to be awake and try to talk to him!
I didn’t dream about my young lover last night but
about a faded and grayish album cover from which
a worn Tom Waits talked rough to my guy. He said
raspy “Don’t you get you bore her to lose her, what’s
wrong with your male mind, young man?” I woke up
in a good mood with my mature body well-rested.
I heard a tune on Youtube and wasted my morning
with reading some Swedish song lyrics, the younger
generation. It is that tiny but constant hope to find
something that is genuine and heartfelt. But no?
I said to myself, everyone cannot be geniuses. Ok!
Yet no doubt the young have skills to do something
of what they have, making a living of it; faking it.
And I slept gray for the rest of the day.
(Forget your young guy who never gets it right!)
But I got a bad dream and I guessed it was because
I want to dump him! Oh, at first he made me sleep
so beautifully! But then he told me his wet dreams
and it ended that beauty!
Yes, life in its simplicity is far too complicated. I think so.
And I find experiences as suffering and longing and hopes
are best in songs to share with others. Happiness and joy
and such are for the real and private life, not so much to
write about. How get around? As I want him (something!).
Anyhow, I wish he had been real stuff! But I guess I’ve to
be happy if I can make good lyrics of a not so good man.
I never asked him “have you lost your common sense how
to talk to a woman?” I just said “I’m tired” and “good night”.
The way in which a man never speaks to a woman about certain things! And she,
panties halfway off, what a blanket now discreetly covers, her heart and all that’s
hers on ice! Gives the fuels to her extinct saying, “what do we do now, little one?”
Danish “Hva’ Gør Vi Nu, Lille Du” = English “What do we do now, little one?”
(An attempt to translate “L’encre de tes yeux” by Francis Cabrel to Swedish and English. I’ve put the Swedish translation first as I like it most to be the best one, but just scroll below and you can read in English.)
Eftersom du och jag aldrig blir vi
Eftersom vi var galna och ensamma
Eftersom de är så många
Även moralen talar för dem
Jag vill ändå berätta för dig
att allt jag kunnat skriva
var det jag tog från dina ögon
Jag insåg inte att du hade dina band.
Förtrollad av att se på dig glömde jag mina
Vi drömde om Venedig och om frihet
Jag vill trots allt berätta för dig
att allt jag kunnat skriva –
ditt leende dikterade det för mig
Du kommer att vandra länge i mina drömmar
Du kommer alltid från öster där solen går upp
Och om jag så en gång skulle glömma dig
Jag vill ändå berätta för dig,
att allt jag kunnat skriva
länge bar doften av bitter saknad
Because we will never be together
Because it’s crazy, because alone
Because they are so many.
Even the morals speaks for them
I still would like to tell you
that all what I could write
was what I took from your eyes
I did not see that you had your bonds
Looking too much at you I forgot about mine
We dreamed of Venice and of freedom
I still would like to tell you
that all what I could write
was what your smile dictated to me
You will be walking for a long time in my dreams
You always come from the side where the sun rises
And if I ever will forget about you
I still would like to tell you
that all what I could write
will for long have the scent of regrets
Francis Cabrel L’encre de tes yeux
Du är inte ett dugg trevlig, men alldeles för svår!
Men ändå får du blodet att rinna ned till mina lår,
och för att säga sanningen, också vad där emellan.
Uttröttad snubblar jag och faller på mina egna tår,
men du och jag? Nej fan, det ska då till mera sällan!
(translated from Swedish)
You are not at all a pleasant guy, but a real nut!
But still you get my blood to flow down to my butt,
and telling truth, also what is in between my thighs.
(Exhausted, I stumble on my feet fallen for a tomcat!)
But you and me, really? No hell, that would not be wise!
I Must Be Dreaming, Lyrics: Willy Deville
An angry man stands at the corner waiting for me; his arms crossed
over his chest. “I’m ashamed of you” was the last he said to me. But
his English is not good so maybe he meant “I’m ashamed of myself”?
But from what he has showed me from before, that is hard to believe.
Yet “believe me!” was a phrase he rubbed and rubbed me with, again
and again and then once more and all of the time.
After a few weeks of strong amore like that, I’m worn out and I feel like
I’m fading and choking. “Frankly my dear” I could tell him, “I’m too old
for a passionate love on the edge of life or death!”
That was what he used to tell me “I will die if you leave me”. Well, I’m
leaving and when I pass him at his corner I will also leave him the link
to a good undertaker. Because he is simply too much for any woman!
I heard it said in the old days it’s rare to dream in color. But I now read on the web it’s rather the opposite? I don’t know if it is true or not. My dreams usually vanish from my memory as soon as I wake up, so what they were about I only vaguely remember, and if they were in color – I’ve no idea!
But if I at any rare occasion dream in clear color, that dream has a big impact on me and I remember color dreams longer and stronger than others. Newly awake it puts me in a good mood. This can of course be due to that it often annoys me when my dreams slip out of my conscious control and thus the opportunity to reflect on them.
(I find dreams interesting to reflect on, but I have no interest in any fanciful symbolic or psychoanalytic interpretations, that is far away from my mind and way of thinking.)
Recently I had a colorful dream in pink and as it felt so strange to me when I woke I suppose such dreams doesn’t happen so often (to me). The specifically with this dream was it seemed to be only the ending of the dream that was pink: the dream – whatever it was about and whatever if it was in color or not – it ended a two- dimensional image of brightly shining pink roses that gave me a feeling of pronounced wellbeing. I remember well the two-dimensional embodiment of this image as well as its beautiful and strong color.
The other night I had another dream in color. In the dream, many people were gathered to a big feast of some kind and all were dressed in traditional folk costumes in a very clear red color. In reality, these kind of specific folk costumes that I dreamed about are usually adorned with jewelry and needlework of various kinds. But not in my dream. The suits were very simple and the dream only showed a lot of people dressed the same. But no specifics of the individuals, just groups of people moving around.
The dream were separated in two parts. In the first part, a young woman was walking on a road among others and she was on her way to meet a certain young man. The (brown) road ran between (very) green hills and lots of those traditional costume dressed people (so very red dressed) came flowing down the hills to the road in groups, all with the same goal as the woman: towards a city ahead.
The young woman, who was me but still not me, looked around for her male friend. But she couldn’t see him in the crowd of people. At a couple of times she thought she saw a glimpse of him: tall and slim and dark-haired; but no – it was not him! So she continued to follow the stream of people. But she was not one of them and she was not dressed like them.
Coming to the city (here was a leap in the dream to the second part of it) she went into a house and walked from room to room, looking for the young man she wanted to meet. In every room were many people gathered, all from the same clan or family. In a corner in one of the rooms she went through stood a group of men in dark clothes (and not red but black), looking like mafia types. One could feel they were dangerous and bad people. But they as well as all others only looked at the woman but let her passes on to the following room, not bothering her at all in her search. I had the feeling that everyone knew who she was, but that she had no connections to these people – except for the young man she was looking for.
As she continued to yet another room, I could now see her shape from the back. And I could see she was young, slim, gracile and straight-backed and walked with a princess’s dignity, integrity and moved unaffected between the people that she passed. She wore a full-length dress, so much I’m certain of and I got the impression that the dress was made in some discreet and little shiny greyish lavender-colored fabric.
When she had went through all the rooms without finding the person she was looking for, she returned the same way through all the rooms, now disappointed and with her head a little down. I looked at her, but at the same time I was her. I was her but yet not her, but I felt what she felt – and now the dream become to be permeated of a very strong and intense feeling of deeply sad grief.
I woke up from the dream in this intense and overwhelming sadness with tears in my eyes. But what was left after the grief melted away were the memory of all the red costumes and the very green hills. So despite the sadness in the dream, afterwards it was a “feel-good” dream because of its colorfulness.
So what was the dream about? Well, I know a young man who would say if he read this “oh, that’s about me” and he’s welcome to think so, I bid on that! But I know it’s not about him. It is about a romance that has not yet begun (or that has almost started) and about which one can predict – without being an omniscient unconscious dream director – it will run out into nothing… Still a strong and beautiful dream that gave courage to my soul. 🙂
I said: Sam, see you in Casablanca!
And he shrank to a boy’s voice in a
phone with a lousy connection and
vanished in the night. Now it’s late
and I’m running out of time, but still
I’ve that last dream. I’ll go to sleep –
alone as always and wake the same,
seems to remains until one morning,
always coming too fast, when I’ll be
carried out feet first, dreams to dust.
Sam as I once knew, dreamed of me
as I about him to join in Casablanca.
Oh, it’s just the same old song about
love and a man and a woman, lost in
the flow of time. But I’ll wait for him!
She could hardly sleep at all last night and
yet she woke up at four in morning, went up
for coffee and checking internet, then quick
back to bed to sleep and she woke up again
after two dreaming in two dimensions image
and in color: pink roses and she simply can’t
get that sweet smiling man out of her mind!
Let’s not talk about the past
I don’t want to
I come to your bed with my body
and with my NOW and my PAST
All that is me I put in your hands
in all the trust you asked me for
How can you know me
if you don’t want to know my life?
How can I know you?
Edith Södergran (1892 – 1923) is a Finnish-Swedish writer and she was a pioneer in the Scandinavian literary modernism in the early 1900s. She never got not much fame for her poetry before her death, rather the opposite. But she knew her greatness. She got tuberculosis at the age of 16 and died of this disease only 31 years old.
That my writing is poetry no one can deny , that it is verse I do not want to claim. I have tried to bring some reluctant poems under a rhythm and thereby found that I possess the power of the word and the image only under full freedom, that is, at the expense of the rhythm. My poems are to take as careless notes by hand. As for the content, I allow my insight to build up what my intellect in restrained posture views. My self-confidence relies on I have discovered my dimensions. It behooves me not to make me less than I am.
Förord till diktsamlingen Septemberlyran: “Att min diktning är poesi kan ingen förneka, att det är vers vill jag inte påstå. Jag har försökt bringa vissa motsträviga dikter under en rytm och därvid kommit underfund med att jag besitter ordets och bildens makt endast under full frihet, d.v.s. på rytmens bekostnad. Mina dikter äro att taga som vårdslösa handteckningar. Vad innehållet vidkommer, låter jag min insikt bygga upp vad mitt intellekt i avvaktande hållning åser. Min självsäkerhet beror på att jag har upptäckt mina dimensioner. Det anstår mig icke att göra mig mindre än jag är. Förf.
The translations of the poems here below are mine and not meant to be copied and spreed.
Black or white
The rivers runs under the bridges,
the flowers glows by the roads,
the forests bends soughing to the ground.
For me is nothing more high or low,
black or white,
since I have seen a white-dressed woman
in my beloved’s arm.
Svart eller vitt
Floderna löpa under broarna,
blommorna lysa vid vägarna,
skogarna böja sig susande till marken.
För mig är intet mera högt eller lågt,
svart eller vitt,
sen jag har sett en vitklädd kvinna
i min älskades arm.
I was alone on sunny beach
at the forest’s pale blue lake,
in the sky a single cloud floated
and on the water a single island.
The mellowed summer’s sweetness dripped
in beads from each tree
and in my opened heart ran
a little drop down.
Jag var allena på solig strand
vid skogens blekblå sjö,
på himlen flöt ett enda moln
och på vattnet en enda ö.
Den mogna sommarens sötma dröp
i pärlor från varje träd
och i mitt öppnade hjärta rann
en liten droppe ned.
When the night comes
I stand on the stair and listen,
the stars swarm in the garden
and I stand out there in the dark.
Listen, a star fell with a sound!
Don’t go out in the grass with bare feet;
my garden is full of shards.
När natten kommer
står jag på trappan och lyssnar,
stjärnorna svärma i trädgården
och jag står ute i mörkret.
Hör, en stjärna föll med en klang!
Gå icke ut i gräset med bara fötter;
min trädgård är full av skärvor.
Tomas Tranströmer’s poem “Om Historien” (About History) from the poem collection “Klanger och spår” (Sounds and tracks) published 1966
En dag i mars går jag ner till sjön och lyssnar.
Isen är så blå som himlen. Den bryter upp under solen.
Solen som också viskar i en mikrofon under istäcket.
Det kluckar och jäser. Och någon tycks ruska ett lakan
Alltihop liknar Historien: vårt NU. Vi är nedsänkta,
One day in March I walk down to the lake and listen.
The ice is as blue as the sky. It breaks up under the sun.
The sun that also whispers in a microphone under the ice cover.
It’s lapping and ferments. And someone seems to shake a sheet
Everything looks like the Story: our NOW. We are immersed,
Konferenser som flygande öar så nära att störta…
Sedan: en lång darrande bro av kompromisser.
Där ska hela trafiken gå, under stjärnorna,
under de oföddas bleka ansikten,
utkastade i tomrummet, anonyma som risgryn.
Conferences like flying islands so close to overthrow …
Then: a long trembling bridge of compromises.
There will the whole traffic go, under the stars,
under the pale faces of the unborn,
thrown out into the void, anonymous as rice groats.
Goethe reste i Afrika 1926 förklädd till Gide och såg allt.
Några ansikten blir tydligare av allt de får se efter döden.
När dagsnyheterna från Algeriet lästes upp
framträdde ett stort hus där alla fönster var mörklagda,
alla utom ett. Och där såg man Dreyfus’ ansikte.
Goethe traveled in Africa 1926 disguised as Gide and saw it all.
Some faces becomes clearer of all they get to see after death.
When the daily news from Algeria was read up
a large house appeared where all windows were darkened,
all except one. And there one saw Dreyfus’ face.
Radikal och Reaktionär lever tillsammans som i ett
formade av varann, beroende av varann.
Men vi som är deras barn måste bryta oss loss.
Varje problem ropar på sitt eget språk.
Gå som en spårhund där sanningen trampade!
Radical and Reactionary live together like in a
shaped by each other, depending by each other.
But we who are their children must break us loose.
Every problem calls out for its own language.
Go as a track dog where the truth trampled!
Ute i terrängen inte långt från bebyggelsen
ligger sedan månader en kvarglömd tidning, full av
Den åldras genom nätter och dagar i regn och sol,
på väg att bli en planta, ett kålhuvud, på väg att förenas
Liksom ett minne långsamt förvandlas till dig själv.
Out in the terrain not far from the settlement
lies since months a magazine left behind, full of
It ages through nights and days in rain and sun,
on the way to become a plant, a cabbage head, on the way
to unites with the ground
Like a memory slowly turns into yourself.
The Swedish poet TomasTransstömer is said to be enigmatic. I don’t experience him like that. But in this poem, written in the 1960s it seems truly so. For me, it is especially verse number V that is difficult to fully grip.
What I’ve found out is: André Gide traveled in Africa in 1926 and wrote after coming back home to France, critical articles about the French colonialism in Africa. The “Dreyfus affair” was a major legal scandal in France in the early 1900s.
I don’t understand the connection between Goethe and Gide. But a key to understanding this verse (and the poem at whole) can be the Swedish common saying often used “Historien upprepar sig” translated word by word “The History goes again” meaning “The History repeats itself”.
During the 1960s when this poem was written, a rebellion and a bloody war took place in Algeria, where the colonial power of France showed horrific violence against the Algerian people. Common people in Algeria still remember this war and the murder and assault from France and the Algerians still hate the French without forgiveness. The wounds have never healed.
Right now, there is an uprising in Algeria triggered of the upcoming presidential election, that was supposed to be in April. (It’s now postponed indefinitelye.) Every Friday after the prayer gathering, large and determinded and peaceful demonstrations take place. Met by riot police, as one can imagine.
Last demonstrations in Algeria on Friday March 15, 2019
Märk nu mina ord, jag besökte er ett tag,
men var verkligen aldrig där: ett vingslag
mot din kind i natten, du rös till litegrann.
Vi bor i Sverige men lever i världen. Våra
tankar borde vara såsom svalor i skyn en
dag om våren och inte släpas ned i tunga
leran; att så sällan slungas högt och fritt.
Label my words, I visited you for a while
But was really never there: a wing stroke
your cheek in the night, you got a shiver.
We dwell in Sweden but live in the world.
Our thoughts should be like swallows at
the sky a day in spring, not pulled down
into clay; so rarely raised high and freely!
You don’t have to love me. But you must have
love in your hands. When I walk barefoot over
your meadows, I want to be welcome to come
at your wayside: we sleep under the same sky.
Du behöver inte älska mig. Men du måste ha
kärlek i dina händer. När jag går barfota över
dina ängar, vill jag bli välkommen att komma
till din vägren: vi sover under samma himmel.
Poem by Karin Boye living 1900 – 1941, my translation for private use only
I gladly stand here and freeze at a street below
for to see those two windows at a gable glow.
The one who lives in there is to me very dear.
I get sick in my heart, when it shines there.
I want to go to the corner, I want slowly return
so I might can get a glimpse of you, that I yearn
That you are so close… Why am I standing here?
I get sick in my heart, when it shines there.
Jag vill gärna stå på gatan här och frysa
för att se två fönster på en gavel lysa.
Den som bor där inne är mig mycket kär.
Jag blir sjuk i hjärtat, när det lyser där.
Jag vill gå till hörnet, jag vill långsamt vända,
så att jag får se dig skymta fram kanhända.
Att du är så nära… Varför står jag här?
Jag blir sjuk i hjärtat, när det lyser där.
(from the poetry collection Härdarna 1927)
See also my post “On May 31 1941 it was too late for Margot” Posted on 31 May, 2017
And Sam said “Lady, you shot me” and
he fell back and hasty he bled to death,
still in his 30s. Soon 70, I walk my way
slow and oldish as life and people have
hurt me hard but haven’t killed me, yet.
Now another spring comes dirty melting.
Yesterday the sidewalks were nicely dry
and clean. At the same parking lot a wind
blew oak leaves in hectic rustling circles.
The leaves whispered hoarse and excited
in their last dance. Today they are soaked
and silenced, raked into piles and cleaned
away like dirt with gravel and sand.
I want to hold every moment in my tenderly
cupped hands but constant pains and saved
sorrows distracts me and I lose my sight and
forget. But I still remember how Sam shouted
“Lady you shot me” shamefully bleed to death.
I have been sitting at my desk today for hours
waiting for the blessed words to come to me.
But my words seems to have ran out through
my door with him who said he would love me
“forever”. I talk about him who said he wanted
to come to me IRL but never did, now he never
will. I don’t know much about what is coming.
But I know now that “love forever” lasts pretty
precisely two and a half year. I also know that
even if it is just one of the first days in March
and today is cold and snowy, I will see coltsfoot
flower this year too. And I dare to believe that
my words and love will come back to me again.
I gave her my heart and she sliced it
and spiced it and fried it and show it
to the world to view and to consume.
Since I’ve fled the battles she gives me
bad names but my name is Adonis and
my heart is pure and true, although it’s
changeable as the seasons. As love is!
But what is it that women want, I just ask!
When the passion is over you thank your lucky stars
for being able to cross the wasted land for fresh water
without get a headshot from your ex beloved. There is
a road on the other side of your misery, but the trick is
to get there without bringing those sacks of bitterness.
Ravaged meadows behind you, but you breathe freely –
still alive! You say to yourself “Never more!” Know then,
once you’ve eaten the love apple your heart demands it
again. Your eyes are now enslaved headlights to catch
someone to love. And we all want to be seen and loved!
Swedish translation in summary:
Din; kärlekens lilla loppa
vill alltid upp och hoppa!
Våren springer bort
kylan är tillbaka och det
snöar och ingen älskar mig
idag, jag går tillbaka till sängen
för att vakna upp till en annan dag
Spring runs away
The cold is back and it’s
snowing and nobody loves
me today, I’m going back to
bed to wake up to another day
He said, why would I make friends
when people are just fake, I’m lost
in a fake world, I’m 34 and my life
is over. I said I just got a headache!
I woke up too early next morning still
with a headache. I felt sad for me and
for the poetry he had lost grip on in his
life. Him off, I felt both relief and grief,
because I had come to love him a little.
Despite a lot of vinegar in his dressing!
And now afterwards I can still see him
in my mind walks the streets in the city
of Nowhere. Knowing no one and feeling
like no one and counting all his bruises.
Did he ever bother to see me? Maybe he
has simply now made me to yet another
tearing and thorns in his jacket and soul?
Wonder, will he ever get out of himself?
Although he rejected people he had to
marry, he told me, as it was “expected”.
I said no one forced him to. He asked if
I wanted him to be alone whole his life!
It was there our companionship got its
deadly shot. And I pity the one he once
will marry as he may make her to suffer
neglected as he himself feels like now.