Fatigue

My words have left me. I feel my body strained
beyond its limits. And my mind has got enough
and turns away. No more demands on me now.

rose, white

 

 

UTMATTNING

Mina ord har lämnat mig. Jag känner kroppen,
ansträngd över sina gränser. Och själen har fått
nog och vänder sig bort. Inga fler krav på mig nu.

 

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i fatigue, illness, incapacity, living with sickness, lost, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, words | Märkt , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

I have lost my long-sightedness

 

 

 

 

I have lost my long-sightedness outdoors.
Trees and streets and buildings and people
seems like dissolved in a slightly blurry haze.

The diabetes nurse does not recognize the symptom,
the oncologist nurse does not recognize the symptom,
and the optician recommended a new eye examination.

My reflection is that this is like the Time we all live in now!

The community services separated in nearsighted boxes.
People are gloomily trampled in a world of pandemic and
misery and violence, environmental degradation and with
lost hopes and broken relationships. We live in loneliness
and in confusion – and our loss of visions are only met by
restrictions! It is as if we all have been pushed into a sect!

I don’t think I need new glasses, but I think I need other
environments, new places & joy to be able to see clearly
at long-terms. I believe we all need to regain our lust in
the Now to be able to see what may come: own visions!

You cannot not find it in trendy blogs cookbook recipes.

 

 

 

 

Jag har förlorat min långsynthet utomhus.
Träd, gator och byggnader och människor
är liksom upplösta i en något disig dimma.

Diabetessköterskan känner inte igen symtomet,
onkologsköterskan känner inte igen symtomet,
optikern rekommenderade en synundersökning.

Min reflektion är att det är likt Tiden vi alla nu lever i!

Samhällets service separerade i närsynta block. Folk
dystert nedtrampade i en värld av pandemi, våld och
eländen och miljöförstöring och utan hopp men med
brustna relationer. Vi lever i ensamhet och i förvirring
och våra förlorade visioner möts bara av restriktioner.
Det är som om vi alla har knuffats in i en sekt!

Jag tror inte att jag behöver nya glasögon, men jag
tror jag behöver andra omgivningar, nya platser och
känna glädje för att kunna se klart på långa avstånd.

Jag tror vi allihop behöver återfå vår lust i Nuet, för att
kunna se fram emot vad som komma skall: äga visioner!

Du finner det inte i bloggars trendiga kokboksrecept.

 

rose, white

rose, white

Publicerat i create life, desirers, gloom, joy, life crises, loneliness, longing, loss, lost, melancholy, mind thing, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reality, relationships, repression and borders, troubled life, trust, walk of life, walls | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Today news: Louise Glück, Nobelprize winner in Literature 2020


Today news:

Louise Glück,
Nobelprize Winner in Literature 2020

 


Link: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/55238/afterword-56d23699928fe

The poem “Afterword” 1st verse

Reading what I have just written, I now believe
I stopped precipitously, so that my story seems to have been
slightly distorted, ending, as it did, not abruptly
but in a kind of artificial mist of the sort
sprayed onto stages to allow for difficult set changes.

My translation below is to be read only on this blog: not to be copied and spread elsewhere outside it.

Min översättning nedan att läsas bara på den här bloggen: får inte att kopieras och spridas någon annanstans utanför den.

Efterord
första versen

Läser vad jag nyss skrivit, tror jag nu att jag slutade
förhastat så att min berättelse verkar ha blivit något
förvrängd; slutade som den gjorde – inte abrupt men
i en sorts artificiell dimma av det slag som sprutas
på scener att tillåta svåra platsförändringar.

 

rose, whiterose, white

A glimpse from the Swedish Academy October 8, 2020

Publicerat i copied lyrics, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, translations by vonnely | Märkt , | 1 kommentar

How does a horse want it?

This post is alternately in Swedish and English, but I hope the reading will work for you!

Jag tänker fortfarande ibland på hästen Otto – vad hände med honom? Har han äntligen kommit till ro och fått ett hem och ett värdigt liv? Eller säljs han fortfarande och returneras – fram och tillbaka i det oändliga? Kanske blev han slaktad pga av sin oförmåga att tjänstgöra som ridskolehäst orsakad av en  kronisk smärtande artros i halsryggen? Ja. det är ju så vi behandlar ett tamdjur vi en gång kallade ”min bästa vän”!

(Jag läste om hästen Otto i Sydsvenskan och skrev sedan blogginlägget ”I may have cancer but at least I’m not a horse called Otto” postad 14 juli, 2020). Länk/link: http://www.sydsvenskan.se/2020-07-12/hasten-otto-for-farlig-for-ridskolor-saldes-tre-ganger-om-av

The horse called Otto (cropped pic)

 

I still sometimes think of the horse Otto – and wonder what happened to him? Has he finally got peace and a home and a dignified life? Or is he still sold and returned back and forth, never ending? Maybe he was slaughtered due to his inability to serve as a riding school horse due to his chronic painful osteoarthritis of the neck spine? Yes, this is how we treat a domestic animal we once called ”my best friend”!

”(I read about the horse Otto in the Swedish daily newspaper ”Sydsvenskan” and then I wrote the blog post ”I may have cancer but at least I’m not a horse called Otto” posted July 14, 2020.)

 

Tveklöst identifierade jag med hästen Otto, detta då jag vid samma tid i juli när jag läste i Sydsvenskan om honom fick diagnosen bröstcancer. Omedelbart därefter fick jag en läkartid och informerades om den följande vårdproceduren – och jag blev dessutom upplyst om att jag hade ingen inflytande över behandlingen. Den verbala och skriftliga informationen löd: ”Din läkare bestämmer behandlingen och din läkare vet vad som är bäst för dig.” 😦

Undoubtedly, I identified myself with the horse Otto, this as at the same time in July  I read in the newspaper about him, I got to know I have breast cancer. Immediately afterwards, I got a doctor’s appointment and was informed about the following care procedure – and I was also informed that I had no influence over the treatment. Verbal and written information: ”Your doctor will determine the treatment and your doctor knows what is best for you”. 😦

För den som undrar hur illa det är, kan jag berätta att mina testvärden sägs vara mycket bra. Cancern är inte en ”spridd” cancer i kroppen och behandlingen fungerar: cancercellerna minskar i omfång och jag ska senare opereras, kanske efter nyår. Bieffekterna av behandlingen är inte trevliga och tar för mycket tid och ork av min vardag. Och att förlora håret och bli flintis kom att bli för jävla hårt för mig: jag bara avskyr att se mig själv i spegeln. Men jag förväntar mig att bli frisk igen. Och att få håret tillbaka! Jag känner alls ingen oro över detta: ”cancer” idag är inte en synonym för ”död”! 🙂

For those who wonder how bad my health situation really is, I can tell you that my test values are said to be very good. The cancer is not an incurable ”spread” cancer in the body and the treatment works well: the tumor cells decreases in size and I will get a surgery later, maybe after New Year. The side effects of the treatment are still not pleasant and take too much time and energy from me in my everyday life. And losing my hair and getting bald was too damn hard for me: I just hate to see myself in the mirror! But, I expect to get well again. And I look forward to see my hair grow back! I have no worries about this: ”cancer” today is not a synonym for ”death”! 🙂

Men ”om mig” är inte mitt ämne denna gång (annat än indirekt). Igår kväll läste jag i en annan webbtidning ännu en gång om en hästs öde. Rubriken var: Eli vill att hästar respekteras: ”Få frågar sig vad hästen vill”

Hästen heter Melami och blev år 2009 räddad från slakt av Elis mamma – och sedan räddad av Eli från betsel, sadel och allt tvång en häst kan utsättas för.
Vänskapen med Melami fick Eli att tänka på hur vi faktiskt behandlar djur.
Citat: ”… av en slump hittade Eli dokumentären ”The Path of The Horse” på Youtube. Filmen handlar om en medelålders kvinna i USA som jobbar som hästtränare, tävlingsdomare och ridinstruktör. En dag börjar hon reflektera över sitt liv, säljer sin hästgård, köper en videokamera och ger sig ut på en lång resa för att möta författare till flera böcker som gjort intryck på henne. Gemensamt för böckerna är att de handlar om ett annat sätt att se på hästar.”

But ”about me” is not my topic this time (other than indirectly). Last night I read in another online magazine once again about the fate of a horse. The headline was: Eli wants horses to be respected: ”Few ask themselves what the horse wants”

The horse’s name is Melami and in 2009 she was rescued from slaughter by Eli’s mother – and then rescued by Eli from bridle, saddle and all the coercion a horse can be subjected to. The friendship with Melami made Eli to think about how we actually treat animals.  

And ”by chance, Eli found the documentary ”The Path of The Horse” on Youtube. The film is about a middle-aged woman in the USA who works as a horse trainer, competition judge and riding instructor. One day she begins to reflect on her life, sells her horse farm, buys a video camera and embarks on a long journey to meet the authors of several books that have impressed her. Common to the books is that they are about a different way of looking at horses. (Quoted from the magazine and translated to English by me.)

Personligen är jag livrädd för stora djur som hästar, så därför är rätt egendomligt att mina tankar på senare tid har kommit att engagera sig så mycket i hur denna art behandlas. Särskilt travsporten berör mig illa, inslag från den visas på sportteve varje dag tycks det mig, och jag stänger av eller byter kanal. Jag förstår helt enkelt inte hur alla dessa människor som arbetar med hästar kan hävda att de ”förstår hästar”. De förstår ju inte att de misshandlar och förslavar en art – som de sedan idoliserar som en symbol ”frihet”! De verkar vara totalt förblindade för den grymma ironin i detta. Det är en absurd värld!

Vi måste ständigt vara observanta på och förändra vårt tänkande om hur vi tänker om oss själva och hur vi tänker och behandlar andra levande varelser och vår värld. Det är viktigare än alla ”influensers” tips hur du dekorerar ditt hem, eller äter ”hälsosamt”, eller om du är lycklig eller inte.

Personally, I am very afraid of large animals such as horses, so it is a bit strange that my thoughts recently have become so involved in how this species is treated. The trotting sport in particular affects me badly, reports from it are shown on Swedish sports TV – every day as it seems to me, and every time I turn off or change the channel. I simply can’t understand how all these people who work with horses can claim they ”understand horses”! When they do not understand that they are abusing and enslaving a species – which they then idolize as a symbol of ”freedom”! They seem to be totally blinded by the cruel irony of this. It is an absurd world!


We must constantly be observant of and change our thinking about how we think about ourselves and how we think and treat other living creatures and our world. It is more important than all blog ”influencers” advices how to decorate your home, or how to eat ”healthier” – or become happy.

rose, white

 

Below for Swedish readers, it’s about a commercial on Swedish TV, which I cannot translate comprehensibly.

 

 

För svenska läsare:

Jag studsade i fåtöljen i helgen framför teven när jag såg ICA:s reklam för Rosa Bandet nu i oktober. Den är både löjlig och falsk och sentimental och beklämmande, citat ”du har lärt mig att njuta av de små stunderna”. Och att livet inte är för evigt.” Tack för den du!

(Vadå förresten? ”Små stunder”, när de är ju alla – barn, unga och äldre – totalt uppslukade av att glo på sina mobilskärmar.)

Och sedan tar denne löjlige Ica-man en blomkvast och går och sätter sig på huk framför en GRAVSTEN! Och cementar – trots alla förslag på rosa små tiggarbidrag – kopplingen cancer och död!

Kräkmedel! Ja herregud: jag jävlarimej lyfte ur fåtöljen vid gravstensscenen – rena rama TM levitation!

Och jag är säkert inte den enda framför teveapparaten som helt oromantiskt genomgår en cancerbehandling och som blir illa berörd när de ser den här reklamsnutten: jag blev faktiskt överraskande upprörd och kände mig sedan lite nedstämd och splittrad: dunsade ned i den bistra verkligheten fast hela poängen med tv-tittandet hade varit att relaxa från den en stund.

Och det var väl ändå inte meningen, bästa reklammakare, att utanförskapa oss sjuka under stor sten och deltagande, om så framför dumburken! Samma snuttifiering, i samma gamla sköna ”brave” värld

 

Publicerat i about writing, abuse, animal rights, body image, diseases, friendship, frihet, healthcare meetings, human cruelty, life turns, living with others, living with sickness, mind thing, paradigms, poems by vonnely, politics, prose, reading newspapers, rebellious lovers, relationships, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", visionaries, vonnely prose, web papers | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Old

Translated to English below

Jag sover på dagen
och diskar på natten.
Jag äter och jag sover,
sover och äter igen och
tvättar mig bara om tvunget.
Som att gå hemifrån att nötas
mot andras liv. Alla är yngre än
jag: fort gående, blint stirrande
på fånskärmen. Jag är gammal,
jag är långsam och osynlig, men
ser er som jag inte längre förstår.

 

I sleep during the day
and do the dishes at night.
I eat and I sleep, sleep and
eat again and washes me only
if it is necessary. Like leaving my
home to rub me against the lives of
others. They all younger than me and
fast walkers, blindly staring on a phony
screen. I’m old and slow and I’m invisible,
but I see everyone I no longer understand.

 

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i alienation, become old, blinded, loners, nobody's somebody, old age, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading life | Märkt , , | Lämna en kommentar

A soldier of love

man on rose bed

 

I have a lover man in my stable: what to do with
a domestic who does not want to be free? I have
nothing at all to offer him as my heart and body
are drier than all the sand in the Sahara desert!

And his body doesn’t tempt me at all. All what is
left of me is a faster aging, sickness and baldness
and a cure that has killed the taste in my mouth.

I would never want to rest my hands on his hips
and not ever lick his nipples! But I would like to
have a cheese sandwich with sliced green pepper
and a cup black coffee and taste it in my mouth!

I’m dry and have lost all flavor! And what I desire
now is to be free, free to be my own nature again.

I want to decide my own path and not to be run by
my disease, tamed like an enslaved horse to follow
what others orders will cure me: it is slavery! What
in this world justifies that a sick woman loses her
freedom to decide over her life and her treatment?

Oh but I have a lover boy in my stable! And he tells
he worries about me and that I am bound to grasp
all this his love! Yet, I never asked for to carry it on
my back! (I have enough with carry the treatment!)

I want to be free and not to be burden with to have
a “soldier of love” on my back. I don’t want to have
a bridle in my mouth, is that to ask for too much by
me: a bald old auntie with cancer, who has lost her
appearance and got her mind far beyond romance?

Obsession is not my game! I will tear down that stable
he built for himself when I regain health and strength:
and no one to tell me my “obligations” anymore. I say:
we all are free: not to be under the yoke of caged love.

 

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

;

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Captured by the cancer treatment procedure

In Swedish below

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For half a week this post has only had the headline and nothing more has been written – and that tells it all about my current experience of being the object of a traditional cancer treatment. I’m caught up by the procedure, the one offered – and so far the health care willingly admit it’s ”a tough treatment”.

The phrase ”being the object of a cancer treatment” describes well the transformation from being an acting subject, a human being – to be a physical object handled by healthcare professionals, an object without other characteristics than it has a potentially dangerous tumor now in focus – to be eradicated, to whatever cost!

Three months have passed since I was diagnosed and started the treatment. The first few weeks were okay. With the support and advice of the staff, I was able to parry the side effects of the treatment.  I even felt healthier than before, despite the side effects. But I became a regular customer at the pharmacy.

However, they are  not free, those more or less effective tablets and lotions! I cannot afford it more coming! I need new jeans, getting a (subsidized) wig and pay the dentist  too – but these simple things are not covered by my mini pension! And I feel broken too, thinking of these my limited life conditions.

Yes, three months have now passed. And latest Friday my health condition changed radically to the worse. I became sudden very sick with incredible nausea, killing headache and I was totally dizzy – I had intended to go shopping but it was just to take off my jacket again, stay home and try to survive the day.

These are such a days when you should definitely not live alone or lack a social network. It was totally terrifying!

I’m a little better now than I was that other day, but I just have to realize facts: in the recent months, I’ve been totally occupied with living with the effects of this disease treatment. The treatment has taken over my life! There is no room for any other ”interests”. I ask myself: is this a life?

”Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Winston Churchill once told in wartime.

If it only it were that good – that this now would be the end of the beginning! I’m starting to doubt it! No, it’s probably now it really begins – to live with ”the tough treatment”! I meet other patients during my treatment session’s days – some are treated with another, recurrent chemotherapy treatments, years after the first phase that I am in now! ”But what the hell!” I then think in fear. And the question is again: is this a life?

Does it never end?

For me, the second treatment session starts next week – and it seems to be even tougher. But I’ve had enough of it all already! In addition to every other side effects, the mucous membranes in the nose bleed every day and have been doing so for over a month. It never heals! I wake up every morning to first experience the condition for the day of my tormented nose. The nurses at the Oncologist do not care, ”use a nose oil”, is all they say.

Fuck the nose, what do you need it for anyway!

The first weeks I was so impressed with the friendly and caring staff in the oncology department. But now and overall, I feel like no one cares anymore. We patients lie for one to three hours in a room with two or three beds and get our drip treatments – and we seem to be treated according to an assembly line system (and it is in a phrase told to you ”it is your doctor who decides the treatment for you and she knows what is best for you!”)

We are like hens handled on a conveyor belt in what can be likened a chicken slaughterhouse.

But we are clearly not dead. This then just to be noted!

 

I en halv vecka har detta inlägg bara haft rubriken och inget mer har blivit skrivet – och den och detta säger ju allt om min nuvarande upplevelse av att vara föremål för en sedvanlig cancerbehandling!

Satsen ”att vara föremål för en cancerbehandling” beskriver förvandlingen från att vara ett handlande subjekt, en människa – till att vara ett fysiskt objekt hanterad av sjukvårdsproffs, ett föremål utan andra kännetecken än att den har en potentiellt farlig tumör, nu i fokus – att utrotas, kosta vad det kosta vill!

Jag är fångad av proceduren, den som erbjuds, och så långt medger sjukvården villigt att det ”är en jobbig behandling”. Tre månader har gått sedan jag fick diagnosen och påbörjade behandlingen. De första veckorna var okay. Jag kunde med stöd och råd av personalen parera bieffekterna av behandlingen. Jag blev en ständig kund på apoteket. Jag kände mig t o m friskare än förut, trots bieffekterna.

De är dock inte gratis, de där mer eller mindre effektiva tabletterna och hudkrämerna! Jag har inte råd att fortsätta köpa dylika produkter i sådan omfattning. Jag behöver nya jeans, skaffa en (subventionerad) peruk och betala tandläkaren – men det täcks inte av min minipension. Och jag känner mig helt knäckt bara jag tänker på detta också.

Nu har alltså tre månader gått. Och mitt hälsotillstånd tvärvände nu i fredags till det sämre. Jag blev tvärsjuk med kraftigt illamående, huvudvärk och jag var helt groggy – jag hade tänkt gå och handla men det var bara att ta av sig jackan, stanna hemma och försöka överleva dagen.

Det är såna här dagar man absolut inte ska bo ensam eller sakna ett fungerande nätverk. En fullkomligt skrämmande upplevelse!

Jag är lite bättre nu än häromdagen, men det är bara att inse fakta: de senaste månaderna har jag varit totalt ockuperad av att leva med effekterna av den här behandlingen. Den har tagit över mitt liv! Det finns inget utrymme för några andra ”intressen”. Jag frågar mig: är detta ett liv?

”Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” deklarerade Winston Churchill en gång i krigstid.

Om det bara vore så väl – att det vore slutet på början! Jag börjar tvivla på det! Nej, det är väl nu det börjar på allvar, att leva med ”den tuffa behandlingen”! Jag träffar andra patienter vid mina behandlingstillfällen – en del behandlas med nya, återkommande cytostatikabehandlingar åratal efter den första fasen jag befinner mig i! ”Men va’ fan!”, tänker jag förfärad. Och frågan är återigen: är detta ett liv?

Tar det aldrig slut?

För mig börjar nästa vecka nästa behandlingsmoment, ännu tuffare verkar det som. Men jag har fått nog av det som redan är. Förutom ”allt annat” blöder slemhinnorna i näsan varje dag och har gjort så i över en månad. Det läker aldrig! Jag vaknar varje morgon med att först uppleva min söndrade näsas tillstånd för dagen. Sköterskorna på Onkologen bryr sig inte, ”använd Nosoil” säger de.

Skit vare näsan, vad ska man med en sån till!

De första veckorna var jag så imponerad av den vänliga och omtänksamma personalen på avdelningen. Men nu känns det på det stora hela som ingen bryr sig längre. Vi patienter ligger en till tre timmar på en sal med två eller tre bäddar och får våra dropp och vi verkar behandlas enligt ett löpande band system (det kallas och förklaras för dig som att ”det är din läkare som bestämmer din behandling och hon vet vad som är bäst för dig!”)

Vi är som hönor som matas fram på ett löpande band i vad kan liknas vid ett kycklingslakteri.

Fast vi är ju inte döa förstås! Detta bara påpekat, alltså!

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i changes, diseases, gloom, left aside, life crises, life turns, living with chronic diseases, living with sickness, loss, lost, melancholy, poems by vonnely, prose | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

The empty easel (Det tomma staffliet)

 

In English below

 

bordsstaffli

Det tomma staffliet,
svart lack i bordsmodell.
Pannåer, fortfarande höljda
i sina plastomslag. Vaxkritor för
barn, nu sparade och nedpackade
i en resväska i hård papp från 40-talet
förvarad under en säng, bara flyttad på
vid golvtvätt att inte bli blöt och förstörd.
En hållen nostalgi: den är ett familjeminne.
Alla dessa möjligheter som då föreföll finnas.
Och jag tänker på alla sorgliga sagor som aldrig
skrivs om oss som inte blev någonting alls.

 

 

bordsstaffli

 

The empty easel,
black lacquer in table model.
Canvasses, still wrapped in their
plastic covers. Wax crayons for children
once, now saved and packed in a suitcase
in hard cardboard from the 40s, stored under
a bed, only moved at floor washing not to get wet
and damaged. Kept nostalgia, it is a family memory.
All the opportunities that then seemed to exist! And
I think about all the pity tales that are never written
about all of us who never became anything at all.

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i artistry, create life, creativity, dreamers, incapacity, left aside, loss, lost, past, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry | Märkt , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Bald Beauty in Autumn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a beauty I have become,
bald like trees in late autumn!!
Winter come! Snow, cover me!

What is precious about my life
one sometimes asks in despair:
one life that will pass unnoticed!

Yet, it is still lovely September:
come rain and shine: I am here
and I will so be a while longer!

Such, is assumed to be difficult
I know people believe that, but
the cancer gave me the joy back

When we enter the autumn time,
its shiny skies to the gloomy ones
we reinvent what beauty may be!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vilken skönhet jag har blivit:
kal som träden en sen höst!!
Vinter kom! Snö, täck mig!

Vad är unikt med just mitt liv
frågar man ibland i förtvivlan:
ett liv som passerar obemärkt!

Men ännu är ljuva september:
regn eller solsken: jag är ännu
här, kommer så bli ett tag till!

Sånt här antas vara så jobbigt,
jag vet ju att folk tror det, men
cancern gav mig glädjen tillbaka

När vi inträder i höstens årstid –
dess blå himlar, de glåmiga grå
vi återuppfinner vad skönhet är!

 

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i autumn, Autumn poem, create life, diseases, gloom, joy, light, living with sickness, poem in English and Swedish, poem in English to Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, sickness, trust | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Thank you, doc Nina!

She leaned back in her chair at her desk and said in conclusion: ”You have done very well, this is not an easy treatment but you have done well”. I stood then by my chair ready to go – and I just dropped my jaw and I said nothing.

”Me, what have I done? Nothing but been well taken care of!” I thought confused.

“I should have thanked her”, I said to my son afterwards! Not just standing there silent and staring at her. But she made me feel like I had been through a hell on earth – and now finally got it behind me. Yes, she shocked me!

The following night and the day after I was haunted in anxiety by the past 5 years of struggle with all these negative contacts with the diabetes staff within the Swedish Primary Care system.

Maybe I should send doc Nina a greeting via my contact nurse at the Oncology Unit? But what to say? ”Thanks?”

Thanks!

Thank you, doc Nina for your encouraging closing remarks. What a pleasant surprise you gave me!

 

 

 

 

Hon lutade sig bakåt i sin stol vid sitt skrivbord och sa avslutningsvis: ”Du har gjort bra, det här är ingen lätt behandling men du har lyckats så väl”. Jag stod då vid min stol färdig att gå – och jag bara tappade hakan och sa ingenting. ”Jag, vad har jag gjort? Ingenting annat än blivit väl omhändertagen!”, tänkte jag helt förvirrad.

”Jag skulle ha tackat henne”, sa jag till min son efteråt! Inte bara stått där tyst och stirrat på henne. Men hon fick mig att känna det som att jag genomlevt ett helvete på jorden – och nu hade det bakom mig. Ja, hon chockade mig!

Följande natt och dagen efter i ångest spökad passerade en fem års lång kamp med ständiga negativa kontakter med personal inom den svenska Primärvården.

Kanske borde jag skicka en hälsning via kontaktsjuksköterskan på Onkologen – men vad ska jag säga? ”Tack?”

Tack!

Tack doktor Nina för dina uppmuntrande avslutningsord. Vilken angenäm överraskning du gav mig!

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

Publicerat i healthcare meetings, poem in English and Swedish, sickness | Märkt , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

I was young at a time when…

In English below

 

Jag var ung i en tid när man kunde
sätta tiden på sitt armbandsur efter
tåget, varje avgång exakt på minuten.
Jag var ung i en tid när ”tiden” var lika
förutsägbar som ett brev på posten: det
nådde alltid mottagaren. Och vi hade tro.

Jag var ung i en tid när var sak hade sin
plats och så även du, en skomakare vid
sin läst, annat att bli kallades klassresa.
Livet blev bekvämt, framtiden lysande.

Samhällsmedborgaren blev konsument
och pliktad att köpa, bilen ersatte cykeln.
Charter till Spanien och grekiska grabbar,
jugoslaver, italienare och finnar byggde
landet, bodde i baracker och slet ut sig.

Vad som då stod som skrivet i sten har blivit
till grus och sand. Men med lite tur går ditt
tåg enlig tidtabellen. Gamla ”Posten” är död,
ingen levererar längre dina brev och paket.

Ingen röker längre som borstbindare men ”alla”
är som besatta av sina mobiler. Online hela tiden.

Frihet, Jämlikhet och Broderskap är börsnoterat
och outsourcat, klassmärket återinfört: tandlösa
går nu vi gamla i graven, allt medan ungdomsgäng
har gangsterkrig och skjuter skallen av varandra.
Lata slödder utan tro.

Vad är poängen med min historiebeskrivning?
I ”Tiden” som den nu är – ingen alls! Jag har inga
svar, men söker desperat frågor. ”För Sverige –
i tiden” myntade vår kung när han ärvde kronan
1973. Borde vi fråga honom? Han kanske vet!

Hur vi ska få tillbaka en oskuldsfull framtidstro
och lära oss att följa hjärtats svindlande röst!

 

 

I was young at a time when you could set the time
on your wristwatch after the train, each departure
exactly at the minute. I was young at a time when
“Time” was as liable as to put a letter in a mail box,
it always reached the recipient. We lived in faith.

The citizen became a consumer and obliged to buy.
Volvo replaced the bike. Commons on a charter trip
to Spain, while Greeks and others in poverty came,
toiling in industrial jobs to create our welfare, sent
the money home and slept on matrasses in barracks.

What was then written as in stone has become to sand
and gravel. You’re lucky if the trains will leave according
to the timetable. No post office deliverers your letters.

No one smokes anymore as before but everyone are
obsessed with their cellphones. Online all the time.

Freedom, Equality and Brotherhood are listed and
outsourced, the class market is re-introduced: with
no teeth and derailed we old now go to our graves,
while the youngsters create gangster wars to shoot
the heads of each other. Lazy rascals without faith.

What’s the point of my history description? ”Time”
as it is – none. I haven’t got any answers but need
desperately to create questions. ”For Sweden – with
the time” our King coined when inherited his crown
in 1973. Maybe we should ask him? He might know!

How to regain a childlike faith in a future and how
to learn to follow the stunning voice of the heart!

 

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i alienation, beliefs, changes, choices, create life, culture values, faith, life turns, living in the world, lost, lost trust, morality, paradigms, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics, present time, repression and borders, Swedish conditions, Swedish poem to English, Swedish souls, unhappiness | Märkt , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

September 6, 2020 Hong Kong

Riot police disperse pro-democracy protesters during a demonstration oppose postponed elections, in Hong Kong, China September 6, 2020. REUTERS/Tyrone Siu

 

Quoted: HONG KONG (Reuters) – Police fired rounds of pepper balls at protesters in Hong Kong on Sunday as hundreds took to the streets to demonstrate against the postponement of legislative elections and a new national security law imposed by China.

Hong Kong leader Carrie Lam postponed the Sept. 6 election for seats in the Asian financial hub’s Legislative Council for a year in July because of a spike in coronavirus cases.

 

Publicerat i poems by vonnely, politics | Märkt , | Lämna en kommentar

Hidden in the shadows

 

He want to stay standing in the shadows,
hoping for a glimpse of her whom he cannot
forget about. He’s stubborn and want to believe
that his life depends on her come to turn around
and get a little smile in her eyes when sees him.
Just to give him a sign! A vain hope and he
knows it. But he cannot leave but stays,
an anonymous man lost in his longing.

(A longing that’s stuck in how she looked
before her appearance turned unsightly!)

Lost in a cancer treatment, lost her hair, lost her look, lost
self-confidence. What has become of me, she’s thinking in
despair. A sickness took me and everything that once was
attractive about me is gone. Left behind is this poorly aged
woman who barely cope to look at herself in a mirror! Why
does he still stands behind in the shadows and torment me
with this his longing after a romance that once was but now
is lost and gone? Oh, just walk away! Let me walk the tunnel
to another side and another life where other things matters!

 

 

Han vill stanna kvar i skuggorna och hoppas
på att få en glimt av henne; hon som han inte
kan glömma. Egensinnig som han är vill han
tro att hans liv beror på om hon kommer att
vända sig om och få ett litet leende i ögonvrån
när hon ser honom. Bara som ett tecken! Ett
fåfängt hopp och han vet. Men han kan inte
gå därifrån utan stannar kvar i skuggorna,
en anonym man förlorad i sin längtan.

(En längtan som fastnat i hur hon såg ut
innan hennes utseende förlorades!)

Förlorad i en cancerbehandling, förlorat håret,
förlorat utseendet, förlorat självförtroendet. Vad
har det blivit av mig. tänker hon i förtvivlan. En
sjukdom drabbade mig och allt som en gång var
attraktivt med mig är nu borta, efterlämnande
denna hastigt och illa åldrade kvinna som knappt
klarar av att se sig själv i spegeln! Varför står han
fortfarande kvar bak i skuggorna och plågar mig
med denna hans längtan efter en romantik som
en gång var men nu är förlorad och borta? Åh, gå
bara bort! Låt mig gå genom tunneln till en annan
sida och ett annat liv, där andra saker spelar roll!

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i diseases, life and love, life crises, life turns, living with others, living with sickness, longing, lost, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, sickness, unhappiness | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

A fading summer, a fall to come

 

Dry feet and a heart that bleeds
A fading summer, a fall to come

When it darkens earlier and earlier

A soft and cooling wind caresses me
at late night walks. It is a late August
kissing bright September, which will
soon come with all its colorful glory

Like Eve once I met evil this summer

A snake pretended to be a supporting
friend to then turn against me in rage
Envenomed my poor trusting old heart

Well, I stay on my track but cannot help
but ponder about why someone chooses
to be mean and malicious? It’s so strange!

But what good that never happened
will not happens now either, but such
a betrayal will be buried, no memorial

I moisturize my old dry feet and try to
live on with my aged and scarred heart
Now as another summer fades away…

One not gets younger for sure, you sighs
as all in you gets drier: your feet and all
other body parts, your mind… Maybe
even your hope to be loved and seen?

And then you get almost tempted to sing
like once Vera Lynn ”Is that all there is?”

Oh, but hold on!

Say, what could ever be more than a ripe
glowing autumn? It’s pure passion in action!

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

vonnely, my photo taken nearby my home, 25 Sept 2014

Publicerat i autumn, Autumn poem, betrayal, changes, choices, living with others, maturity, old age, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, seasons, trust, walk of life | Märkt , , , , , , , , , | 3 kommentarer

Ode to Aiden

 

 

 

 

This is an ode to young Aiden and all the others of my online friends
in recent years. Really more of so-called “friends” than true friends,
yet bless them all, because they gave me their attention for a while.

And that’s more than what people online in my own age did or do –
not to talk about people here where I live my life, just like a loner.

It used to go well at the first initial chats. I always thought so, but
not guys like Aiden. Because men online make demands quickly –
just to have a nice chat over the oceans is not enough for them.

No, they want your email address to send you photos (what for?).
They ask for WhatsApp or Skype. Or tell you to send them photos
of you showing you from head to feet. (Why? Just being pen pals!)

Yet bless them all because they gave me their attention for a while.
And that’s more than what other people around me ever did or do.

After the first five messages those youngsters all the sudden loved
me and wanted to marry me! A woman over 60 and more go naked
making out with a guy of 30? Poor me, what a sight that would be –
so thank God for the far away views! No, never cross any borders for
strangers, but stay safe where you are in your lonely room like an
elusive girl in a tower, far off in the Arctic cold!

Yet, I bless them all because they gave me their attention for a while.
It’s more than what people do here, where I live my life!

Persistently they kept on calling on me “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down
your hair”, these blinded princes dreaming about a life in a glory land
of milk and honey, not realizing that the girl they were wooing had cut
her graying hair, got old and fat and fled from the tower a long ago.

Everybody spinning for something…

(But left in the tower sits the abandoned old witch, the stepmother in
all the tales of all time, lonely as hell and longing for some chats – with
Aiden or the others who gladly waste their time on an old woman.)

And I greet you all male internet lovers who kept me company. I still
sit here by my window, looking longingly at the greenery out of reach,
tempted to drop a fake braid, a catfish to hook up. But never more!

Still, everybody spins for something and everybody hides a fool inside…

…and this is also a tribute to all of us who still live in fairy tale dreams and
illusions. As we do and talk with someone as if we knew the other’s heart,
we soften the thorns on the paths of our lives. And sometimes you may tell
a stranger in sky secrets you never told anyone else. No harm in that, it can
even be good – and sometimes some of us get lucky, find the glove for the
hand. One must at least try! Allow the heart to stay naive and vulnerable.

Last I heard a blackbird sings his lament over Europe’s fields of blackened
blood, while here in my Nordic country, life and death have gripped me by
my throat. I wanted to clean out all rubbish to be real and clear-eyed. But
I was an ingenue in the game of life and I guess I will be until my last day.

I now end this ode over Aiden and all the others, true friends and “friends”
not so true that I met online. I bless you all for have chatted with me! But,
this is a closing, life changes and I have no more time for pastime nonsense
talks. I say goodbye to you Aiden and all of you others. Thanks for the ride!

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

man on a bed of red roses

Publicerat i dreamers, dreaming, friendship, heartbreaker, hjärtekrossare, loneliness, loners, morality, online friends, online romance, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reality, rebellious lovers, satire, words | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

No poems tells about cancer (En bröstcancer tiger stilla)

In English below

 

En bröstcancer tiger stilla, men
bieffekterna av alla mediciner mot
den som man får gör det inte, de tiger
inte stilla men gör dig illa. Gör dig så sjuk!
Medan cancern fortfarande tiger, tiger mörkt!

Men ordet uttalat tiger inte stilla. Det väcker
olustiga känslor och udda reaktioner. Hos dig
och hos andra. Likväl är det bara ett ord med
två vokaler och tre konsonanter: inalles fem
bokstäver!

Likväl ett ord dignande av mening: liv, lidande,
kanske en förtidigt galopperande död! Det låter
som litteraturens hästar. Men är ett fullkomligt
opoetiskt ord! Inga dikter berättar om ”cancer”!

Upplyst blottar det våra inre mörker; en flaxande
fågel utan markkänning. Ord väcker känslor, men
dina känslor är inte sjukdomen. Du vet det! Men
i vad ska du landa och vandra med alla de andra?

Jag funderar på att säga att jag lider av en långvarig
bihåleinflammation. Ingen skulle bli provocerad eller
illa berörd av en dylik åkomma. Då jag kunde ostörd
dväljas och kväljas i behandlingens alla obehag!

Ord är en massa känslor, men dina känslor är inte
sjukdomen. Ja, jag upprepar mig! För vem håller
den som ingen Gud och ingen kärlek har? Livet
gör det! Livet håller dig, hela vägen.

 

 

 

 

A breast cancer is silently calm, but the side effects
of all medications you will be given against it aren’t.
Never modest they will harm you and make you sick.
While the cancer is taciturn as before! Its dark silence!

But the word pronounced is not calm. It awakens
uneasy feelings and odd reactions. In you and in
others. Still, it’s just a word with two vowels and
three consonants: totally five letters!

However, it’s a word weighty with meanings:
life and suffering, maybe a premature galloping
death! It looks like the horses of literature. But
it is a completely unpoetic word! No poems
tells about having ”cancer”!

Illuminated, it exposes our inner darkness; a flapping
bird not knowing its ground. Words arouses feelings,
but your feelings are not the sickness. You know that!
But in what can you land and walk with all the others?

I ponder about to say I’m suffering from a long lasting
sinusitis. No one would be provoked or badly affected
by such a condition! Then I could undisturbed stay in
it and deal with all the discomforts of the treatment!

Words are loaded with feelings, but your feelings
are not the sickness. Yes, I repeat myself! But who
will hold the one who has no God and no love?
Life does! Life will hold you! All the way.

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

The word ”cancer” comes of course from the Latin and is the name of several different diseases that have in common that some cells in the body run amok, merge and begin to grow and form a tumor. Some tumors are harmless but those which are not are called cancer. Such a tumor can be a danger spread in your body and can kill you if it is not detected and treated. Women cared for breast cancer in Sweden have a survival rate of 86%. The key question is to detect the disease at an early stage, before it spreads in the body. But a breast cancer is silent and sometimes or often goes undetected by you who may get such a silent sickness in your body. Preventive care in society is therefore important.

Ordet ”cancer” kommer förstås från latinet och är namnet på flera olika sjukdomar som har det gemensamt att några celler i kroppen löper amok, går samman och börjar växa och bilda en tumör. Det finns ofarliga sådana och andra som är farliga och kallas cancer. En sådan tumör kan sprida sig i din kropp och döda dig om den inte blir upptäckt och behandlad. Kvinnor vårdade för bröstcancer i Sverige har en överlevnad på 86 %. Nyckelfrågan är att upptäcka sjukdomen i ett tidigt skede, innan den sprider sig i kroppen. Men en bröstcancer tiger stilla och förblir ibland eller oupptäckt av dig som drabbas av den. Samhällets förebyggande vård är därför viktig.

Publicerat i changes, courage, darkness, diseases, fragility, living with chronic diseases, living with others, living with sickness, obstacles, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading life, reality, trust | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Time on hand!

 

When you’re 71 as I am now,
how much time do you have on hand?
That’s what you secretly wonder while
keeping up the appearances,
smiling.
But, over time you have toughened up,
the soft paw shows the claw for people
trying to dismiss you.
You say ”I have no time on my hand for
such nonsense and bullshit!”
You say ”I’m old” and people think
”frail”!
You say ”cancer” and people just faint.
People say ”do not judge a book by its
cover”, but the book is to be found in
a secondhand shop, only
to be discovered
by people having time on their hand
to just strolling around, aimless and
carefree. Coming around:
”Hello, nice to meet you!”
Old-timers having all time
for others.

rose, whiterose, white

 

Publicerat i ageism, aging, fragile, left aside, life turns, old age, old-timers, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, time, time sense | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

August is coming

 

The summer is almost gone, August comes this weekend.
It’s the last summer month in the Scandinavian landscape.
It will get dark earlier now and deeper with pitch black and
chilly nights while the days still will be nicely sunny and hot.

It is too late to sow, but if you’ve been lucky you may have
more to harvest than unfulfilled dreams and broken hopes.
Whatever is, the August sun will still shine bright for you to
enjoy, even if its cold nights will make you to get yourself a
warmer coat. To feel the breeze with a scent of melancholy!

Me, I’m already living in the fall of my lifetime and I might
die in my 70s as my parents did, or I will live to 93 like my
grandfather.  Oh, you never know what comes next, surely!
But it would be good to learn to live down to earth –
to be real but still carefree.

My body is old and weak and it fails me all the time. Though,
one’s eyes and the heart never grows old and love is a miracle
I still miss and desire. But still a lot can happen! It is true
the saying, ”it’s not over before it’s over”!

Now lovely August, I welcome you with your fantastic smiles
and your sour yet colorful red rowan-berries. Embrace me –
and yes! Dance with me in the difficult time with frailty and
sickness that now has come for me to deal with. Even if it will
be my last dance in this world! Whatever will be will be…

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

Publicerat i authenticity, autumn, Autumn poem, become old, body image, coping ability, courage, create life, darkness, desirers, diseases, fragility, loss, missing, old age, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Pee in my tea (an ordinary day in the middle of the week)

 


 

 

 

 

 

I browsed this morning through a blog written for about 3 – 4 year back in time to last year, a woman writing about getting a treatment of breast cancer. It was with long posts and therefore too much to read, but I picked up on this blog the information that I should have started the cancer treatment with first go to the dentist and get a checkup status. No one told me that at the Oncology Unit.

The treatment can give inflammation in the gums, etc. … And I have periodontists since a very long time and  for the last months now an inflammation in the root of a tooth to be removed. (It was not treated in the spring due to lockdown for every 70 plus at dental clinics due to pandemic. And before the pandemic came, a new partial prosthesis was also planned … ) My mouth status is really bad. If the dentist care should be informed about a cytostatic treatment, why wasn’t I told?

Well, to be fair! The need of dentist care was mentioned in one of the brochures I got from the oncologist nurse. True! Likewise there were a few lines about having diabetes and that the blood sugar can  raise much to need more insulin. True!

But what about that: you go through investigations and get to know you have cancer and will get a cytostatic treatment, surgery and radiation. And then you meet with a nurse who talk an hour about all  the bad sicknesses this treatment will give you. And then she gives you a thick plastic map with brochures – as soon as I saw it at her desk I actually felt my brain lock downed – and you take the plastic map with all paper information with you home and leave at desk, to read… later! Later, as you are all mixed up in your brain by this new situation and all papers and that talk and talk, too much of everything.

This young woman chosen by the care to be my “contact nurse” mentioned about blood sugar raise later in passing but stayed for a long time talking about body pain and nausea and stomach problems losing hair and the importance to call Emergency immediately if I get fever… It made no impression on me that emphasis on pain talk, I have suffered from chronic pains all my life.

Her name is E**** and I said later to my son after the first meeting with her “if I ever get a dog again I will never call her E****, that’s for sure”. But I didn’t see problems coming, no…

Well I left the blog reading and checked in on a site where I chat with people – those who bother to contact someone who turned 70 and more. Lucky, a guy had wrote me. I wrote a friendly reply. Not because the sun is shining today and no rain yet or for feeling healthy and good for once, but because yesterday I got into a argument with a dude from Asia somewhere at this same site. The day before I was in conflict with a high ranked academic middle age man from Nigeria who claimed that he was a professor of peace and conflict research, wanting to know about Sweden and getting to know a Swedish woman. Did not work well on me. I asked him to piss off.  But I wanted to be friendly today.

Now I got a quick response on my answer with a comment that I understand was meant as to be a compliment. I wrote nicely just like Jane Austen, the man told me! Yuk! I took a sip of my herbal tea in shock. It tasted like someone had pee in it.

I would prefer to be likened with George Orwell or something similar if at all… or writing like Tom Waits sings, oh whatever…  🙂 But certainly not be compared with an old English maiden causing movies with these ridiculous English romances, Hugh Grant faces, yuck! I have never had the desire to read Jane Austen, truly. 😦

The phone rang in that moment, but as on charging in the kitchen a long corridor away, I did not catch the call. I then saw that it was a number from the hospital or the health center. I’m fed up with talking with them at health care. 😦

What about my tea? Taste changes of chemo therapy seems to be common. That may be the cause of the odd taste of my tea? And I feel a bit troubled when I look at my hand holding the tea cup. The skin has become at least one size too large and the skin is not wrinkled like skin wrinkles normally but like silk paper and it moves like waves. Scary!

The phone rang again, it was a curator at the oncologist. The nurse in charge of my treatment had contacted the counselor because I had told her that I wanted a contact support with a counselor. But I never did that! I had asked other staff earlier about there were counselors, but I never considered to call one. Actually I eventually pondering about a support person working somewhere else, not connected to staff at the hospital.

But obvious this nurse I got on my neck has classified me as a difficult and a disturbed person. True, I don’t like her and obviously she doesn’t like me either. ”Nice”, to know!

But it didn’t feel good thinking about that I for many months must deal with this person, supposed to be my “support” during the long tough cancer treatment. She is presumed to – from what I read on health care sites – have drawn up a treatment plan in collaboration with me which to be called ”my treatment plan”. I haven’t seen that yet! All I’ve heard when I didn’t like the first planned treatment with a lot of cortisone, causing my blood sugar level raise high as hell. So I stopped taking more cortisone and the day for the first treatment, I refused to take it. The staff didn’t believe it first!

Well, then the nurse said it was another treatment, easier and she would talk the doctor and call me on phone. And I went home.

Next day she called giving a new date and telling me to take the same doses cortisone. “But you said I would get another treatment”, I said. “Yes, but now you shall have this treatment because the doctor has decided that is the best for you” she brusquely told.

She was insistent but so was I, so I ended the phone call as brusquely as she was. Later that day, the doctor she had referred to called me a couple of times and I told him my point and my version of the situation and then later that day he called me once again and said I would get the treatment I wanted. I was surprised but relieved.

And for me this conflict was a past, that’s how my personality works. Not for that nurse apparently. I met her again for the first treatment Monday this week. I was humble pretending I had nothing against her and I thought I had calmed her down with that. But no, she had some eggs to brood and the hatching was this counselor calling me today.

She wasn’t stupid, I heard on her voice she without a word pictured the situation well. And she was okay talking to. I arranged an appointment with after the next treatment day and I will ask her if she can help me get another “supporting nurse”. Well, good!

But still, after that ”supporting” telephone call today which the nurse had arranged as if it is me having any mentally problems wanting to be involved in my treatment, the rest of the day was ruined and I felt stressed and depressed and miserable.

 

That young nurse is certainly like getting pee in my tea. Lost my purpose keep on living this life. How much bad luck can one get, really! I’m stunned!

My plan for the day was go shopping downtown. Now I was disturbed and disoriented, trampling around looking for things to get ready to go… but finally I was ready to take the bus downtown to buy litter to my cat and some beauty stuff to me.

I went first to the beauty shop. It’s a very little shop and 6 customer in a queue was too much to “keep the distance” so I waited outside. The two young blond, slim girls with perfect faces who works as salespersons were both busy. Getting close my turn I entered looking up my coming buying. There was one woman with a child who had been waiting longer than me and was next – and she expected to be served.

It was a very short woman with an apparent foreign look and a broken accent in talk, the few words she said “I have waited long”. But the saleswoman ignored her and wanted to serve me. But I took a step back and said “it’s her turn”. The immigrant woman said meekly to me ”but you can go ahead me”. And the saleswoman was ready to serve me! But I said firm, “no, it is your turn please take your place to be served”. Oh, that spontaneous happy smile coming on her face! 🙂

Now the saleswoman had no choice but to serve her. Me, I was more thinking about the woman’s little son about 6 years old or something, who witnesses his mother get humiliated like that in country like Sweden by that blond Swedish saleswoman.

I wonder what is wrong with these young blond native Swedish nurses and salespersons of today? This is what we have in Sweden in daily life today, bulldozer attitudes and what commonly is called “hidden racism”.

One have to keep an eye on them: the ”good ones”! I just say “Fuck all those perfect people”!

rose, white

 

 

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A scarred memory

 

 

 

One hour before midnight the darkness falls
and the days continue to pass by one by one
I sit in silence in shadowed rooms where my
life take place with shards of broken dreams
on the floor around my bare feet, sharpened
A clinking cracked sound as of glass, I barely
breath, takes time to leave bloody footprints
after me out in black nightly rain my scarred
memory wonder “do I ever cross your mind?”

 

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”Lover please!”

You don’t want me anymore, but I miss you,
he wrote

I will never stop love you, my dearly beloved,
he wrote

I tried so hard all the time to please you and
the more I tried, the more I pushed you away,
he wrote

You were always angry at me and I never can
understand what you want from me but don’t
stop talking to me I can’t live without you, pls
he wrote

Tell me what I have done wrong to you, that’s
what you always say, I have done everything
wrong but you don’t explain to me what I can
do to do it right, you just tell me it is over and
we only can be friends, why do you say that?

He wrote

Of course we are friends, I love you forever and
you know that, I’ve told you hundred times and
I will wait for you forever and ever, I miss you,
he wrote

I miss you, talk to me… I’m going to work hard
to understand you and get you back, don’t go…

(And she has stopped responding to his messages)

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

 

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When my lonely heart calls

I saw a smile and I thought it was for
me. But it was just life that fooled me
again. You can’t trust anyone, can you!

What I thought was kindness was just
my blindness. I looked around for him
but he was nowhere. And it seems like
there’s not ever any for me to look for.
Why am I struggling to keep me on my
feet when life is just a sinkhole? I have
just my walks at nightly streets in rain
and my lonely and gloomy room, lit by
the TV screen. I loved him once and his
tender smile brought a foolish hope to
my heart. Now he smiles on another.

And when the night falls, loneliness calls!

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

 

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Nu ska jag läsa Knausgård, tamigfan!

Sorry, only in Swedish this time, it’s my reflections on a Swedish debate article.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kom idag att läsa en kulturartikel i GP från 2:a juli i år skriven av AmericaVera-Zavala: ”Att välja bort en författare är inte deplattformering.” (Deplattformering = censur). Hon gillar inte och läser inte Knausgård på grund av hans ideal och kvinnosyn.

Jag vet inte vilka hans ideal är och vilken kvinnosyn Knausgård har. Jag har heller aldrig läst hans böcker, det jag har läst om dem har inte attraherat mig. Jag har dock läst ett utdrag på en sida på Adlibris (tror jag det var) och tyckte av det lilla avsnittet att han skriver fantastiskt bra. Men maskulina kriser är ju inte precis min boklusta.

Det finns böcker jag bara inte orkar mer än tjugo sidor eller så. Uttråkad säger jag till den uppslagna boken (författaren) ”okay, du skriver bra (inte bra) och jag fattar vart du leder mig, men jag orkar faktist inte vara din följeslagare i 350 sidor (eller mer), sorry!)

För mig finns det två kriterier för att jag ska läsa en roman: 1. Den ska vara bra skriven. 2. Författaren ska lyckas intressera mig för vad han/hon skriver.

AmericaVera-Zavala skriver att hon gör bortval på andra grunder

Citat: Att välja bort en viss typ av män på grund av deras beteende handlar för mig inte om att moralisera. Jag hade kunnat vara oärlig och säga att det är deras konstnärskap jag inte tycker om. Inte heller finns det en principiell hållning. Kanske handlar det allra mest mest om att markera insikt om alla kvinnor som blev bortvalda.

”Jag gjort den här typen av bortval hela mitt liv.” skriver hon också. Jag antar att hon aldrig läst Strindberg heller…? Jobbigt, alltså! 😦

Av de artiklar jag ögnat av AmericaVera-Zavala verkar hennes ideal och ställningstaganden i mitt tycke vara märkliga. En roman skriven av henne skulle vara mitt bortval på ideologiska grunder. Det är tack vare vänsterpartister som hon som numera är aktiva i vänstern som jag aldrig mer kan rösta på Vänsterpartiet. Revisionistiska partiet som Miljöpartister och SAP är ju också omöjliga val. Det är ett stort dilemma för mig inför nästa val. Men nu handlar det ju om vilka böcker man inte ”får” eller inte ”bör” läsa…Och vice versa.

Jag håller med om vad du säger, men jag är beredd att gå i döden för din rätt att säga det.” så sammanfattade Evelyn Beatrice Hall Voltaires attityder som de uttrycks i Traktat om toleransen.

Tänk man skulle tvingas leva i ett samhälle där såna som AmericaVera-Zavala styr! Fasans tanke! Jag ryser! Man får tänka på Voltaire och acceptera att hon får yttra sig fritt…

Den roman jag nu läser tråkar ut mig. Den andra börjar med en slakt, inget för en vegetarian att gå vidare med. Imorgon ska jag till bibblan och lämna tillbaka dem och låna något annat. Och då ska jag kolla om Knausgård finns tillgänglig… Tack för boktipset, America! 🙂

rose, white

rose, white

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I didn’t like that book

I have found a love, but he is not for me.
I understand what he said, but still he is
a loving friend. Then the other man who,
is like a leech on me never let me go free.
It is like I now live in a French novel that
I once read in my youth, there everybody
loved someone else and love never could
be reciprocal. I didn’t like that book.

 

 

Aubrey Beardsley, Isolde

 

 

 

Jag har hittat en kärlek, men han är inte för mig.
Jag fattar vad han sa, han är ändå en kärleksfull
vän. Sen har jag den andra mannen som är som
en igel på mig, släpper mig aldrig fri. Det är som
om jag lever i en fransk novellsamling som jag en
gång läste i min ungdom, där alla älskade någon
annan och kärleken aldrig kunde bli ömsesidig;
Jag gillade inte den boken.

rose, white
rose, white

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Numb!

Magnificently shot out of life’s catapult in the air,
born free and landed hard, where were you then?
Between battles, when loneliness and emptiness
and my smallness spreads, where are you then?

Those weary breaks between struggles kill more
than bullets can do. If someone were here, how
could I then be able to reach out for a hand? As
I feel like I am numb and unable to move?

 

 

Magnifikt skjuten från livets katapult i luften,
föddes fri och landade hårt, var fanns du då?
Emellan striderna, när ensamhet och tomhet
och min litenhet sprider sig, var finns du då?

De duvna avbrotten mellan allt stim dödar mer
än kulor kan. Om någon vore här, hur skulle jag
kunna sträcka mig att nå en hand? Jag känner
mig som avdomnad och oförmögen att röra mig.

rose, whiterose, white

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I’m Otto!

Actually, I may be a horse called Otto? Writing ”I may have cancer” as I did in a previous post, was too naively optimistic and a totally wrong belief. Since then, I have been informed that I actually have cancer. And I will get the well tried and trampled trailed for treatment right away. In a hurry, actually!

Well, that’s good! My first impression, given further information about the treatment that will come, was I just have to hand it over to the professionals, comfortable laid back in an armchair with a sick bag in one hand and ladies magazine in the other, checking out nice wigs I might would like to wear, then when my own hair falls off…

Yet, that was a short passing feeling, just lasting the short minutes in a consultant doctor’s distant little room. But walk from there through the long and big and alienated and impersonal hospital corridors, to come out in the summer and go to the bus stop that looks the same as half an hour earlier – before I knew! And take the bus home, feed the cat and make a cup of coffee… all in me is since then just a ”no”! I don’t want this! This, the nearest coming future.

And it strikes me there, afterwards all the information given by the health care staff, that I have not once been asked if I want to go through with this challenging treatment or not. The health care staff just assume I will accept it and that I will do it. ”Why?” I ask. But not loudly, just silent in my mind, yet repeatedly ”why”, ”why do it?” it’s staying. Will I do it? It’s not certain, actually! Not even if I would be a horse called Otto!

I have been informed there are counselors at the oncology clinic if I need to talk with someone. So get a crisis is common or even expected. And I realize this kind of change is expected to be a life crisis, but I’m just not made for that coat. All I can say is that I don’t like this.

But it’s a life experience and something is (finally) happening in my life, (professional) people are involved in my life. It will not be like sitting in voluntary quarantine, isolated from society as during the last months because of the pandemic. That was all about to stay safe, having it extremely boring while seeing others don’t care a shit about safety regulations – and becoming a long uncertain time not seeing an end of it, it was a mentally disaster.

How is it the real Otto the horse lately? I don’t know and I don’t know much about horses either. Actually I’m afraid of them and I avoid meeting them nowadays, as I can’t “read” them and therefore don’t understand how to communicate with them. When they showed teethes or put the ears back, I froze of horror or ran as fast as can to the other side of the nearest fence.

But I know they are animals normally living free in herds. Which not means, to be stabilized in a stable with other horses and moved around with no ability to create belonging to the own kind. People use horses like slaves and then they say they “love animals” and they make them to symbols for “power” and “freedom. It’s terrible.

I’m Otto! I need belonging and I need to be free.

 

rose, whiterose, white

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Hassan

Yahya Hassan 2019

Yahya Hassan 2019

His publisher told the media that his death was

a disaster.

Yet now he is with the stars above and he has left
the battlefields behind him with all the scribblers
on the literature pages in newspaper in Denmark
and Sweden who played dice over his garments

and his undying written words;

It was a nasty pen war over the naked dead body of
a young warrior. They didn’t truly know him but yet
they fought over his body parts, claimed to know his
one truth and to understand him

better than all the others.

He would have laughed at that circus macabre and
then, so I believe, he would have cried, heartbroken;

as the lover he was.

He has left the catastrophes behind him and got a kind
of peace, far from all arena noises: a star he was in his
short lifetime. Safe, he is now a star in the sky

among his equals. Brightly shining!

His white words in capital letters on a blackboard.

rose, white

rose, white

 

 

 

Yahya Hassan (19 May 1995 – 29 April 2020) was a Danish poet of Palestinian descent, who in poems and public statements criticized both hypocritical Muslims and immigrants, as well as the hypocrisy in the Danish policy and the Danish society in general. His first collection of poems was published in 2013 and his second collection of poetry was published at the end of 2019. He was found dead in his apartment on April 29, 2020.  He was 24 years old at the time of his death.

 

I have done the translation  from Danish without permission, so it is for private use only on this blog, not allowed to be copied and spread outside it. Please respect this, for my sake. Thank you! 🙂

From Yahya Hassan 2, poetry collection 2019

BAD YEAR

THE FEELINGS SHORT CIRCUITED
AND THE THOUGHTS STRUCK SPARKS INTO THE HEAD
SHAME BECAME PRIDE
AND FEAR TO ARROGANCE
I DON’T BELIEVE IN MY PEN OR IN MY PISTOL
BUT I STILL HAVE THEM ON HAND
I DON’T BELIEVE IN MY LAUGH
AND I DON’T BELIEVE IN MY CRY
SO I WALK AROUND AND HEM A LITTLE
NOW I WRITE POEMS WITH A BROKEN HAND
IN A LANGUAGE THAT GRADUALLY HAS BECOME
A LITTLE MORE OVERLOADED THAN MY MOTHER TONGUE
NOW I’M SHOOTING PEOPLE
THAT DOESN’T UNDERSTAND OTHER THAN BULLETS
NOW I GO TO BED EARLY
TO STAND UP TO NOTHING
NOW I’M TRAINING ME UP
TO BE RUN DOWN AGAIN
NOW I HAVE SURVIVED ANOTHER WINTER
TO SPEND ANOTHER SUMMER BEHIND BARS
NOW I CURSE THOSE WHO PRAY FOR ME
AND FIND PEACE IN MY ENEMY’S ARMS

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I may have cancer but at least I’m not a horse called Otto

The horse called Otto (cropped pic)

 

I may have cancer but I am not born and not living in Yemen.
I may have cancer and I certainly have arthritis but I’m not a
horse called Otto, sold and returned, over and over again –
because of his neck pains, caused of arthritis.

Who cares how Otto feels about his life situation?

I may have cancer, but I am at least not one monkey slave in
Thailand, chained to pick coconuts: leaving me to blindly buy
products coming out of cruelty! I may have cancer but at least
I am not a woman in South America or in India or in Africa.

I may have cancer, yes! But I live in a country with a good
developed  healthcare, organized for everyone and I don’t
have to put my faith in God to get a treatment.

I may have cancer, but living in goddamn Sweden  I will
get the same treatment as a rich man would get  – and if
you would call that communism, then you’ve something
worse than cancer, I can tell you that!

I may have cancer but I am not dependent on your views.
If you would tell me to shut up, I would simply tell you to
leave me in peace or go and fuck yourself and if you would
threaten me for that, I would call the police and they would
not shot me three times in my white skin back, to die and
then blame me afterwards for it.

I’m free and I am not in Hong Kong. Fuck you, Xi Jinping,
you had a choice!

I may have cancer and it’s a personal trauma and it can so be –
for me! As I’m not one of the 80 million refugees in a selfish
world  governed by money and corrupt politicians.

See me:

I am not on the run with no home, no food, no safety and
no healthcare. I may have cancer, yes! But do not tell me
“I’m sorry to hear that” because I’m one of the lucky ones
in a cruel and poisoned world, there animals and women
and children and colored people are treated as inanimate
objects or second-class citizens, to suffer unfairly, having
no privacy and no space for hopes and dreams, and with
nothing but fear in the dark.

I may have cancer, yes! But at least I’m not a monkey slave
in Thailand. I’m not a horse called Otto. I will be well treated,
and I will be fine.

Macaque helping trainer collect fallen coconuts. Surat Thani, Thailand

 

Sydsvernskan 12 July 2020, a story about a retired race horse, imported from England to a horse trader in southern Sweden photo Britt-Mari Olsson

 

 

 

 

texten omstruktured 24 juli 2020

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Rainy July

 

Now damn it’s fucking raining again and life is as banal
as a country song. In the corner the TV shows reruns of
reruns while the night darkens toward a new day which
will be as soaked as the days before. The time has gone
past me and I limp behind. Love flowed down in drains –
now an umbrella is my friend and discreet cane. Oh my
sweet youth rained away and left me under a crying sky!

 

 

 

 

Nu regnar det igen, ta mig fan och livet är lika banalt som en
sommarballad av Tomas Ledin. På teven körs en repris av en
repris medan nattens mörker sänker sig sakta mot en ny dag
som även den lär bli blöt. Tiden har sprungit från mig och jag
jag haltar efter. Kärleken rann ned i gatubrunnarna och nu är
paraplyet min vän och ett diskret stöd. Oh ljuva ungdom som
regnade bort och lämnande mig under en gråtande himmel!

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

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July gloom

Summer Rainy Day Outfits: What to Wear When It’s Warm and Soggy | NextTribe
JUNE 14, 2019 BY KIMBERLY CIHLAR ·

And the rain keeps on pouring from the sky,
my balcony plants flooded into rotten roots.
rose, whiteA face fades away and the days’ grays, alike
my hair while my lonely heart shrivels. And
I feel like I am sinking away with my hands
full of dirt from past times, no diamonds to
sell! So wash me, rain! And clean my mind –
the horizon comes!

 

 

 

 

Och regnet fortsätter att forsa från himlen, mina
balkongväxter översvämmade, ruttnande rötter.
rose, whiteEtt ansikte som bleknar bort, medan mina dagar
grånar liksom mitt hår och mitt ensamma hjärta
skrumpnar. Det känns som att jag sjunker undan
med mina händer fulla av lort från gångna tider,
inga diamanter att försälja! Så tvätta mig, regn!
Och rengör mitt sinne – horisonten kommer!

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Lonely geranium / Ensam pelargon

Always, you and I (a love thing)

always argued
always led to a breakup
always missing you

Vi (en kärleksgrej)

vi grälade jämt
vi gjorde jämnt slut till slut
vi saknar varann

Lonely geranium I

and summer came
but the lover never came
lone geranium

Ensam pelargon I

och sommaren kom
men älskaren kom aldrig
ensam pelargon

Lonely geranium II

July, heavy rain
My lonely geranium
drowns, lost in tears

Ensam pelargon II

Julis regnbyar
Min ensamma pelargon
drunknar i tårar

Lonely geranium III

One single fucking geranium
on my balcony in pouring rain
asks crying ”what have I done?”

Ensam pelargon III

En enda jävla pelargon
står på min balkong i ösregn
frågar i gråt ”vad har jag gjort?”

 

rose, whiterose, white

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As the world appears (barber wire haiku)

As the world appears
Why bother picking flowers?
And why fall in love?

Barbed wire Flower
The power of tyranny
Hong Kong Orchid Tree

Trump and Xi Jinping
like monsters in ancient myths
kills our single lives

What to dream about
in the blooming summer nights?
Knife death or kiss glow?

Another summer
to miss what I never got
The sweetness of love!

The sweetness of him
Strawberries with whipped cream
A summer wind kiss

Now, another day
I eat my porridge, dreaming
Then I brush my teeth

I cannot be happy,
and I sleep with nightmares
in an unfair world

 

 

In Swedish below

 

 

 

 

Som världen ter sig
Nån vits att plocka blommor?
Att förälska sig?

Se taggtrådsblomman!
Tyranniets övermakt
Hong Kong Orchid Tree

Trump och Xi Jinping
som sagans monsterdrakar
tar ditt enda liv

Vad att drömma om
i sommarblommande nätter?
Knivdöd eller kyssglöd?

Ännu en sommar
att sakna vad aldrig gavs –
kärlekens sötma!

Sötman som är han
Jordgubbar med vispgrädde
En sommarvinds kyss

Nu, ännu en dag
Jag äter gröt och drömmer
Borstar tänderna

Jag är olycklig,
och sover med mardrömmar
i en orättvis värld

rose, whiterose, white

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Came to mention Ezra Pound

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As visiting the library, we came to talk about a certain Fantasy writer, my son surprised to find that author’s books still at the shelves. This because as he said of the racial typology created in the writer’s novels. I said ”And what about Ezra Pound then, should he too be swept out from the library shelves?” ”Who was Ezra Pound?” my son asked. ”A poet, and he was a fascist”, I said. Then I went to the poetry shelves but could not see any book by Ezra Pound. Well, maybe he could be found in a collection of English poets? Or in the basement store? I didn’t ask any librarian, not that keen. But when coming home, I  looked him up online on different poetry sites. He was a complex personality, this writer – his early year’s romantic yet unadorned and clear poetry versus later times, his murky journalistic speeches, based in Italy during the WWII. (The latter I haven’t read, just read about.)

How to relate to bad people and/or crimes that have been in the past: not forgiving not forgetting! That’s my motto!

But a good poem is a good poem, whoever wrote it. (When it comes to any novel with an offensive content, I might would have a different opinion – the same as my son.)

Pound is most famous for his longer poems, like those called Cantos. They don’t interest me much, maybe lazy I like the very short ones from his young age.

rose, whiteThe translations into Swedish are made by me and must stay on this blog for private use only, not to be copied and/or spread around. 

 

Alba (published in early 1900’s)

As cool as the pale wet leaves
of lily-of-the-valley
She lay beside me in the dawn.

1. Compare with Provencal troubadour poetry which Pound had studied: Alba = dawn; and morning song from a guard to warn hidden lovers of the daybreak. Alba also means white, symbolizing purity.
2. Compare with haiku, a Japanese short poem.

Gryning

Sval som liljekonvaljens
blekt våta blad, låg hon
bredvid mig i gryningen

A Girl

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast –
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child – so high – you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

(It is common told by people interpreting this poem that it is about the nymph Daphne that preferred to become a tree to get away from the stalking and horny god Apollo. But that is not how I experience this poem, not any of the ancient Greece in my reading.) 🙂

En flicka

Trädet har gått in i mina händer,
Saven har stigit upp mina armar,
Trädet har vuxit i mitt bröst –
Nedåt,
Grenarna växer ut ur mig, som armar.

Träd är du,
Mossa är du,
Du är violer med vind ovanför dem.
Ett barn – så hög – är du,
Och allt detta är dårskap för världen.

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

(Yes, talk about it!) 😦

Och dagarna är inte fulla nog

Och dagarna är inte fulla nog
Och nätter är inte fulla nog
Och livet glider förbi, likt en
sork som inte ruskar gräset

In a station of the Metro (published 1913)

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
petals on a wet, black bough.

På tunnelbanan

Dessa ansikten som framträder ur folkmassan;
Blomblad på en våt, svart gren.

Hong Kong Orchid Tree, I’m thinking about those poor protesters trampled by China’s dictatorship

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(Hidden) thoughts / Trolls bursting

private photo by YB vonnely June 21, 2014

private photo by YB vonnely June 21, 2014, 3.40 AM

(Hidden) thoughts

Hidden behind gloomy winters, hidden behind
now June’s sweet greenery, hidden behind light
makeup and polite smiles, throngs my thoughts
like ugly trolls about all the dreary and sad that
has been. A depressing thinking about all falsity
and broken hopes gives me devouring anxiety in
nightmares. Sour, is the wine in my aging veins.

In Swedish: (Dolda tankar)

Dolda bakom alla dystra vintrar, dolda bakom
nu i junis ljuva grönska, dolda bakom måttfull
makeup och artiga leenden, trängs tankar likt
fula troll om allt det trista och tråkiga som har
varit. Ett deprimerat tänk om svek och grusade
förhoppningar ger förtärande ångest i nattliga
drömmar. Surt, är vinet i min åldrande vener.

 

 

 

Trolls bursting at sunrise

I obey a call for an annual health check for the first time
in my life as I have a feeling I should do it this time. And
X-ray shows there is something in my chest that should
not be there. I am treated carefully and tenderly – as if
I could get a crisis or any like it. But oddly, I’m calm and
I think “Why not me if others”, say ”We’ll see what will
be”. Next night I sleep serene with no nightmares for a
very long time. True told: trolls burst of the sunlight!

In Swedish: Trollen  spricker i soluppgången

Jag hörsammar en kallelse för en årlig hälsokontroll
för första gången i mitt liv, för jag har en känsla att
jag borde den här gången. Och röntgen visar att det
finns nåt i bröstet som inte bör inte vara där. Jag blir
noggrant och ömsint behandlad – som om jag kunde
få en kris eller nåt. Men konstigt nog är jag lugn och
tänker bara ”nå, varför inte jag, likaväl som andra!”
Säger ”Vi får se vad som kommer att bli”. Och nästa
natt sover jag gott utan maror för första gången på
länge. Sant som sägs: i solens ljus spricker trollen!

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i courage, create life, living with sickness, obstacles, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reality, troubled life, trust | Märkt , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

(Unable to) turn life around

Still Life, movie 2014

To turn around to look in another direction seems
easier than it actually is: you have your blinders on
and you get stuck into one or the other futility and
makes it to something utterly essential. Your mind
becomes your shackles in a thinned air and not one
trail to liberation; a free view and to breathe in the
open air. You say ”better one bird in the hand than
two in the bush”. But it’s not at all true and further,
that bird so tightly held in the hand, it has died.

In Swedish: (Kan inte) vända livet

Att vända sig om för att se i en annan riktning verkar
lättare än det faktiskt är: skygglapparna på och man
biter sig fast i den ena eller andra futiliteten och gör
den till något särdeles oumbärligt. Ens sinne blir ens
bojor i en förtunnad luft och inte en led till frigörelse:
fri sikt och att andas i en öppen rymd. Man säger sig:
”bättre en fågel i handen än tio i skogen”. Men det är
ju inte alls sant och dessutom – den där fågeln så hårt
hållen i handen, den har dött.

 

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i aging, coping skills, incapacity, life turns, loneliness, loss, lost, mind thing, past, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, sadness, thinking, troubled life, unhappiness | Märkt , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

I am nobody’s somebody

I am nobody’s somebody.
Someone out there! In here
and yonder you, I’m you nobody!
Who hardly knew me, neither my
dreams. I miss someone, nobody.
 

I eat the summer greenery with my eyes,
to feed me in the coming winters. I think
the time will add arm lengths of oblivion
between us. Someone will not remember
me and not my name. And I will again
roam freely and carefree.

 
Jag är ingens någon.
Någon där ute! Här inne
och bortom dig; jag är du, ingen!
Som knappt kände mig eller mina
drömmar. Jag saknar någon ingen.

 
Jag äter sommargrönskan med mina ögon
att livnära mig på under kommande vintrar.
Jag tänker att tiden ska lägga armlängder av
glömska mellan oss. Någon ska inte minnas
mig och inte mitt namn. Jag ska återigen
ströva fritt och sorglöst.

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i distance, forgetting, free, loners, lost romance, oblivion, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, summer poem, summertime | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Midsummer Dreams in the freezer

 

 

 

 


Lonely men

All these lonely men, where do they all come from?
And to what will they go with all their dreams, kept
strictly secret in their hearts, and at their backs and
behind harsh smiles? Open up, reacting like oysters
fear of be eaten alive and instantly die, in the other.

Alla dessa ensamma män, var kommer de alla ifrån?
Och till vad ska de gå med alla sina drömmar strängt
hemligt bevarade i deras hjärtan och burna på deras
ryggar bakom kärva leenden? Öppnas, reagerar som
som ostron räds slukas levande strax dö, i den andra.

 

 

 

Not touched but seen

Jag vill inte bli vidrörd.
Jag vill inte bli förflyttad.
Det skulle vara trevligt att
bara sitta här och bli sedd.
Men man kan inte få allt, sa
man när jag var barn. Nu är
jag gammal och blir varken
sedd eller hörd och saknar
dessutom vetorätt. Sällan
begärd men ofta rörd och
förflyttad och nästan död.

I don’t want to be touched.
I don’t want to be removed.
It would be nice to just sit here
and be seen. But you cannot get
it all I was told when I was a child.
Now I am old and neither seen nor
heard and more, I’ve lost veto rights.
I’m seldom desired but often touched
and moved and removed almost dead.

 

 

 

Is this June?

Is this June, my balcony plants ask me.
Take us instantly indoors and spare us
from hard winds, rain and lack of heat.
We don’t die but suffer silently unseen.

Är detta juni, frågar mina balkongväxter.
Ta oss genast inomhus, och förskona oss
från hård vind, regn och utebliven värme.
Vi dör inte. Men vi lider tysta och osedda.

 

 

 

 

Midsummer Dreams I

I don’t mind being alone on a Christmas Day.
I don’t believe in Santa anyway. But I believe
in Midsummer Night Dreams. And today it is
the Midsummer Eve! It’s the day when a lone
Swede feels unhappy; by the stigma to be odd
and omitted.  Loved by no one.

Jag har inget emot att vara ensam på en
julafton. Jag tror iallafall inte på jultomten.
Men jag tror på midsommarnattsdrömmar.
Idag är det Midsommarafton. Dagen när en
ensam svensk känner sig olycklig av stigmat
att vara udda och utanför, älskad av ingen.

 

 

 

 

Midsummer Dreams II

(I don’t mind being alone on a Christmas Day.
I don’t believe in Santa anyway. But I believe
in the dreams in Nordic Midsummer Nights.)

And it is Midsummer again! I fight my way out
to nature with trekking poles, to then fall once
again this time on a gravel path. Bleeding knee
and elbow. I ask my son to call for a taxi home.
Antiseptic to clean my wounds, a quick pizza in
the microwave. My dreams rests in the freezer.

 

 

 

(Jag har inget emot att vara ensam på en
julafton. Jag tror iallafall inte på jultomten.
Men jag tror på midsommarnattsdrömmar.)

Midsommar igen! Jag kämpar mig ut i naturen
med gåstavar. Men faller ännu en gång, nu på
en grusväg. Blöder på knä och armbåge. Säger
till sonen att ringa efter en taxi hem. Desivon
för att rengöra såren. En snabbpizza i mikron.
Drömmarna vilar i frysboxen.

 

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”I’ll be seeing you”

The missing after someone has reappeared in a bad
smell. It lies like a wasted dishrag on a disused field.
I sit on a road edge somewhere in nowhere with my
back to the field but the bad stinking scent still reach
my nose. I don’t want it more, missing. He made me
to an angry person. I still am. I don’t want that either.
Beyond healing, I escaped from a war without ending.

Hans Leip, wrote the poem ”Lili Marleen during WWI 1915, later popular song WWII

Casablanca (1942) Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saknaden efter någon har dykt upp igen i en dålig
lukt. Den ligger som en bortkastad disktrasa på en
obrukad åker. Jag sitter på en vägkant, nånstans i
ingenstans med ryggen mot åkern, men disktrase-
lukten når ändå min näsa. Jag vill inte ha den mer,
saknaden. Han gjorde mig till en arg mänska. Och
det är jag fortfarande. Jag vill inte ha det heller.
Bortom läkning, flydde jag från ett krig utan slut.

rose, white

rose, white

 

 

 

 

R.I.P Vera Margaret Lynn Born: March 20, 1917
Died: June 18, 2020

I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces all day through
In that small cafe, the park across the way
The children’s carousel, the chestnut trees, the wishing well
I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day
In everything that’s light and gay
I’ll always think of you that way
I’ll find you in the morning’ sun
And when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon
But I’ll be seeing you
I’ll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon
But I’ll be seeing you

Lyrics by Irving Kahal, music by Sammy Fain

Publicerat i grief, heartache, leaving, loss, memories, missing, poem in Swedish and English, poem in Swedish translated to English, Poetry | Märkt , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Harsh wind, some reflections

The rain ended and the summer heat came but
the harsh wind has stayed. And it is hard-bitten
merciless. My balcony plants looks like terrified
puppies. My mother heart aches for little ones.

rose, white

 

 

 

I’m worn out from lack of sleep and too tired to fall
asleep when I return to my bed right after noon. An
irksome flashy flapping plastic sheeting on a scaffold
at neighboring high-rise house neither helps me find
some rest. Only my cat snores peacefully beside me
with her chin on my pillow.

rose, white

 

 

 

I have lost a key to get out, not to stay in a hideaway.
To live with Loneliness is itself a challenge, but added
with guidelines to isolate oneself during the pandemic,
it is simply a killing.

rose, white

 

 

 

People form volunteer groups to buy food and to put
shopping bags outside the secludes door. Obviously,
they feel kind-hearted in doing this. So they do it then
to flatter their egos, at expense of the needy? Oh, to
help out? Yeah, but what a lovely lack of reciprocity.

rose, white

 

 

 

The goodhearted ones seems not to realize that the only people
the lonely ones meet, are anybody checkout clerks at any store.

-Thank you!
-Thank you!
-Have a good day!
-You too!

Two seconds of eye contact. Three seconds smile. (You’re alive!)

rose, white

 

 

 

Unmanned check-out to borrow books at the libraries or to shop
and pay goods in stores, may take away the only human contacts
we loners have. What’s the rational gain in that? Man need man.

rose, white

 

 

 

Those tuberous taciturn knotty lonely ones, those the merciful and
socially skilled ones out there – warmth by the sun and comfortable
cooled by the wind – still lacks patience for.

rose, white

 

 

 

Why not simply add a free candy bag with sugared rat poison in
the grocery bag placed outside the doors to us superfluous? No?

Well, what about Swedish elderly housing where doctors prescribe
palliative care for elderly, from a diagnosis made on phone, suspecting
covid-19 in a person which the doctor never met. Without information
to the sick person and refuse to give it to his or hers family, ordinary
medication is removed and the old one is isolated, left to die alone.
Can that be true? ”In Sweden?” As an infamous president asked.

”Reality surpasses poetry!”

rose, white

 

 

 

None of us was born for to measure the expectations from others.
Sometimes we have to opt out people who have unreasonable or
unhealthy demands on us. It’s harder than one can imagine. But
death in life is the horrifying abyss of deep loneliness, when no one
expects anything from you (anymore). Can that explain why some
people stay in poisoned relationships?

rose, white

 

 

 

The staff at the hospitals who must look into the eyes of sick
people in wild death anxiety on the intensive care units, to go
home from a work then see crowds on the streets of partying
pub visitors and protesters who rather deadly infects others
(like me) for the right to howl that lives matters. Whose life?

rose, white

 

 

 

I’ve just read the novel ”The Night in Lisbon” by Erich Maria Remarque. It’s a story about the precarious life of refugees who lack paper, during WWII. A well written and exciting book, shocking in its relevance to the refugees’ situation also in the burning present time – for anyone to read, but especially Swedish politicians now in discussion to decide the coming “Swedish migration policy”. They talk about humans lives, bundle individuals in ”quotas” and “quantities” and “reception opportunities” as if this suffering individuals were cattle and not people.

It’s certainly also awful, to talk about animals as ”cattle” and handle them in ”quantities”.
rose, white

 

 

Slaughterhouses. It doesn’t have to be like this.

 

rose, white

 

 

 

The neighbor organized a party and I put up a note at the stairs to reserve the lift for the old people who lives in the house and can’t use the stairs to get out and back home. One of the neighbor’s guests held the elevator for long and then demonstratively coughed in it for about ten minutes. My request was apparently perceived as racism. It came to totally broke me down. It has taken me a couple of weeks to recover from the deepest misery and grief and misanthropy. Now I just want to move from here. I can’t stand this house, this neighborhood, this city, this squabbling little country.

rose, white

 

 

 

On Wednesday morning, June 17, the Swedish Parliament held a memorial ceremony for all those who have been affected in one or another form by the consequences of the pandemic in Sweden. It just gives me just heartburn. Pathetic!

rose, white

 

 

 

One have to love something to survive mentally in difficult times, if so only a cat, a dog or a flower on ones balcony. And you shall cherish and believe in yourself! Whatever may be.

 

I like pictures. I like the picture of Remarque and his dog. (That paw on the man’s knee!)

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

 


In Swedish below

 

 

 

Regnet slutade och sommarvärmen kom, men
den hårda blåsten har stannat kvar. Och den är
bitande obarmhärtig. Plantorna på min balkong
ser ut som skrämda valpar. Mitt modershjärta
värker för dessa stackars små.

rose, white

 

 

 

Jag är helt urlakad av brist på sömn och för trött att
somna om när jag återvänder till sängen strax efter
tolv. En irriterande fladdrande klapprande plastfolie
på en byggnadsställning på ett angränsande höghus
hjälper mig inte heller att finna lite vila. Endast min
katt snarkar ostörd bredvid mig, med hakan på min
kudde.

rose, white

 

 

 

Jag har tappat en nyckel att komma ut, och inte bli kvar
här, undanskymd. Att kunna leva med Ensamhet är i sig
en utmaning, men utökad med direktiven att isolera sig
under den rådande pandemin, är helt enkelt mördande.

rose, white

 

 

 

Folk bildar frivilliga grupper för att handla mat och ställa
kassar utanför isolerades dörrar. Uppenbarligen känner
de sig godhjärtade när de gör detta. Så gör dom det för
att smickra sina egon, på bekostnad av behövande? För
att hjälpa till! Jo, men vilken skön brist på ömsesidighet.

rose, white

 

 

 

De godhjärtade verkar inte inse att de enda människor som
ensamma träffar, är något kassabiträde i vilken som butik.

Obemannade automater för att låna böcker på bibliotek eller för
att handla och betala varor i butiker, tar kanhända bort de enda
mänskliga möten ensamma har. Vilken rationell vinst finns i det?

– Tack!
– Tack så mycket!
– Ha en bra dag!
– Du också!

Två sekunders ögonkontakt. Tre sekunders leende. (Du lever!)

rose, white

 

 

 

Dessa knöliga svårpratade knotiga ensamma som varmhjärtade och
socialt kompetenta där ute – värmda av solen och behagligt svalkade
av vinden – förstärker sin självbild med men likväl saknar tålamod för.

rose, white

 

 

 

Varför inte helt sonika lägga en gratis godispåse med sockrat råttgift
i matkassen placerade vid ytterdörrar till dessa oss överflödiga? Inte?

Nåväl, vad då med svenska äldreboenden där läkare ordinerar palliativ
vård för äldre, efter diagnos ställd på telefon av misstänkt covid-19 för
en människa läkaren aldrig träffat. Utan information till den sjuke eller
dennes familj tas ordinarie mediciner bort och den gamle isoleras att
dö ensam. Kan det vara sant? ”In Sweden?”

”Verkligheten överträffar dikten!”

rose, white

 

 

 

Ingen av oss föddes för att leva upp till andras förväntningar. Ibland
måste vi välja bort de människor som har orimliga eller ohälsosamma
krav på oss. Det är svårare än man kanske föreställer sig. Men döden
i livet är den avgrundsdjupa fasans ensamhet, när ingen förväntar sig
något av dig (längre). Kan det förklara varför en del människor stannar
kvar i förgiftade relationer?

rose, white

 

 

 

Personalen på sjukhusen som möter de sjukas ångestfyllda
ögon på intensivvårdsavdelningar och går hem från jobbet
att se folksamlingar på gatorna med festande krogbesökare
eller demonstranter som brutalt sprider en dödlig smitta för
”rätten” att fritt trängas och skräna att liv spelar roll. Vilkas?

 

 

 

Jag har precis läst romanen ”Natt i Lissabon” av Erich Maria Remarque. Den berättar om det osäkra livet för flyktingar som saknar papper under andra världskriget. Det är en spännande bok, välskriven och chockerande i sin relevans för flyktingars situation även i en brännande nutid – till vem som helst att läsa, men särskilt svenska politiker som nu ska besluta om framtida migrationspolitisk och som när de talar om dessa människor, avpersonifierar dem och buntar ihop dem i enheter och kvoter som om de vore boskap och hänvisar till ”mottagningsmöjligheter”. Som om det vore en ursäkt!

Det är för övrigt också hemskt att tala om djur som kvantiteter och boskap och besättningar.

rose, white

 

 

 

Slakthus. Det behöver inte vara så här.

rose, white

 

 

 

Grannen anordnade en fest och jag satte upp en lapp i trappuppgången att reservera hissen för de gamla som bor i huset som inte kan gå i trappor. En av grannens gäster höll kvar hissen och hostade demonstrativt i runt tio minuter. Mitt önskemål uppfattades tydligen som rasism. Det kom att knäcka mig fullständigt. Det har tagit mig ett par veckor att återhämta mig från den djupaste bedrövelse, sorg och misantropi. Nu vill jag bara flytta härifrån. Jag står inte ut med det här huset, det här kvarteret, den här stan, det här lilla käbblande landet.

rose, white

 

 

 

Onsdagen den 17 juni höll riskdagen en minnesceremoni för alla som drabbats i en eller annan form av pandemins konsekvenser i Sverige. Det ger mig bara halsbränna. Ynkligt.

rose, white

 

 

 

Man måste älska något för att överleva mentalt i svåra tider, om så bara en katt, en hund eller en blomma på ens balkong. Och man ska vårda och tro på sig själv! Hur det än är.

 

woman with a cat, Pablo Picasso 1900

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

 

Publicerat i alienation, courage, culture values, distance, falsity, fears, fragility, grannar, grief, human cruelty, human rights, left aside, living in the world, loneliness, loners, loss, lost trust, morality, neighbors, obstacles, old age, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics, poverty, present time, sadness, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, troubled life, vulnerability | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

A ”Dear John” letter, answering ”Missing you”

(pastiche) In English below

Käre John!

Om jag nånsin tänker på dig
drar jag en lättnadens suck
Jag är fortfarande här ensam
och du långt härifrån
Jag antar att du undrar varför
jag dumpade dig, men hur länge
kan ett träd stå rak i en storm?
Mitt frusna hjärta minns knappt ditt
namn och så vore, ler jag knappast

Jag får tiden att gå
tänker sällan på dig
men blir galen på den tomma tiden
utan våra fjärran samtal, som dock
aldrig lugnade ett längtande hjärta

Men efter månader av frid i sinn minns
jag dig igen och saknaden kom fräsch!
Din samma desperation som alltid!
Men jag tänker inte förlora kampen.

I min värld finns ingen plats för dig
men du kunde aldrig förstå det.
Mitt hjärta skulle ha krossats igen,
med ett långdistans samtal ikväll.

Jag sänder i tanken ett meddelande
som ett sms från min själ till din, om
avstånd som inte kunde överbryggas,
och hjärtan som inte borde krossas

Om jag nånsin tänker på dig
drar jag en lättnadens suck
att jag är fortfarande här ensam
och att du är långt härifrån.
Jag dumpade dig, för hur länge
kan ett träd stå rak i en storm?

 

 

 

 

Dear John!

If I ever think of you
I draw a sigh of relief.
I’m still here alone
with you miles away.
I guess you wonder why I left you
but how long can a tree withstand
a storm without fall down to break?
My frozen heart barely recall your name
and if so, I hardly smile.

I get the time to pass
seldom thinking of you
but gets crazy of all the empty time
without our long and distant calls,
though never soothed a longing heart.

After months of peace in mind, I recall
you again and the missing comes fresh.
Your desperation the same as always.
But I’m not going to lose the fight.

In my world there is no place for you
but you could never understand it.
My heart would have been broken again
with a long distance call tonight.

I send you a message in my head like
a text message from my soul to yours,
about distances that cannot be bridged,
and about hearts that shouldn’t be broken.

If I ever think of you
I draw a sigh of relief
that I’m still here alone
and that you are far from here.
I dumped you, because how long can a tree
withstand a storm without fall down to break?

 

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

 

 

Publicerat i absence, armed loneliness, Attraction, create life, farewell, heartbreaker, hjärtekrossare, inspiring songs, leaving, life and love, longing, loss, lost romance, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, remembering | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Traumas that will remain in their souls

Spåren av covid-19 Aftonbladet June 6, 2020

Andreas Bardell Aftonbladet June 6, 2020 ”Fårorna i ansiktet lägger sig djupa och röda. Märken som knappt hinner försvinna, innan de är tillbaka igen. I tre månader har Sverige kämpat mot coronaviruset. Och i frontlinjen står vårdpersonalen. För dem är det inte bara den livsviktiga skyddsutrustningen som sätter sina spår.”  ”The marks on the face fasten deep and red. Marks that barely gets time disappear before they are back again. For three months, Sweden has been fighting the corona virus. And in the front line stands the healthcare staff. For them, it is not only the vital protective equipment that sets their marks.

Catrin Henricsson, nurse intense care

Catrin Henricsson tells (translated:

“I remember one day when I just broke down and cried.

After several days of deceased patients, I see how my colleagues struggle with heart and lung rescue on a severely ill covid-19 patient. A patient that I had been nursing for several days. My feeling there and then was just ‘now it gets enough’. From a mental point of view, I could not take in what was happening. It was no longer possible to try to understand what this was.

Just a few days before, I had put a deceased patient in what many call a body sack. And then I was with the relatives in an empty room where they had to say goodbye. They were fully equipped with long aprons, mask and visor, just like us.

My professional role dropped that day and tears ran under the hot equipment.

One by one the patients died. No matter what one tried to do, it wasn’t always enough. The stress and frustration grew more and more every day. Both over the situation at work and at home, but also when you saw crowds in town. It is just like there is no understanding, or respect, for how serious the corona virus is. ”

Catrin Henricsson originaltext ”Jag kommer ihåg en dag där jag bara bröt ihop och grät.Efter flera dagar med avlidna patienter så ser jag hur mina kollegor kämpar med hjärt- och lungräddning på en svårt sjuk covid-19-patient. En patient som jag själv hade vårdat i flera dagar. Min känsla där och då var bara ’nu får det räcka’. Rent psykiskt orkade jag inte ta in det som hände. Det gick inte längre att försöka förstå vad det här var.Bara några dagar innan hade jag lagt en avliden patient i vad många kallar för liksäck. Och sedan var jag med de anhöriga i ett tomt rum där de fick ta ett sista farväl. De var fullt utrustade med långa förkläden, mask och visir, precis som vi.Min professionella roll sjönk den dagen och tårarna rann under den varma utrustningen. En efter en avled patienterna. Oavsett vad man försökte göra, det räckte inte alltid till. Stressen och frustrationen ökade mer och mer för varje dag. Både över situationen på jobbet och hemma, men också när man såg folkmassor på stan. Det var precis som att det inte fanns någon förståelse, eller respekt, för hur pass allvarligt coronaviruset är.”

 

 

My comment: Sweden has for the last decades dismantled emergency preparedness and privatized and profitable healthcare –  which thoroughly has disarmed ”the Swedish approach”  in this pandemic crisis. The bourgeois and conservative politicians in municipalities and county councils who have been responsible for this lack of preparedness, are now blaming the Swedish Social Democratic government for the disaster they have created!!!

Now we are here: The reality did not measure our ideals how it ”should be”. The romantic Swedish myth, that humans are rational creatures has been smashed. For any in the healthcare staff to go home from work and see at streets people’s cynical arrogance for this terrible pandemic, it must be ”the straw”… !

Healthcare staff works around the clock under pressure to save people lives with their own lives at risks. Their experiences are dramatic and will stay with them for the rest of their lives. Is there any readiness in society to give them care for their traumas, when this crisis finally will be over? Does the government have any plans? What resources do municipalities and county councils want to invest to compensate the healthcare staff for their heroic efforts during this pandemic? This poor and hard working healthcare staff seems not even get a summer vacation this year!

 

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A poor man’s longing for love and a woman

Dan Andersson, Swedish poet, 1888 – 1920

Dan Andersson “Jag väntar vid min mila”. Translated to English by me (note, for private use only on this blog, not to pass on in other contexts).

I’m waiting at my charcoal pile

I’m waiting at my wood fire while my watch hours proceed
while the stars are wandering and the nights pass by.
I wait for a woman, from where the long routes lead,
the dearest, the dearest, with blue eyes.

I imagined a wandering snow-capped blossom
and I dreamed about a trembling, elusive smile,
and I thought I saw the most loved one come
through the forest over the moors, a snow heavy night.

Happily, I wanted to wear my dreamed one on my hands
and carry her through the thickets to where my hut stands,
and call out with joy to my most loved and dearest:
”Welcome, you who I’ve been waiting for in lonely years.”

I’m waiting at my charcoal pile while my watch hours proceed
while the forests chants and clouds drift in the skies.
I wait for a wandering lass, roaming where the roads lead,
the dearest, the dearest, with blue eyes.

 

Original poem:

Jag väntar vid min mila

Unknown charcoal-burner

Jag väntar vid min stockeld medan timmarna skrida,
medan stjärnorna vandra och nätterna gå.
Jag väntar på en kvinna från färdvägar vida –
den käraste, den käraste, med ögon blå.

Jag tänkt mig en vandrande snöhöljd blomma,
och jag drömde om ett skälvande, gäckande skratt,
jag trodde jag såg den mest älskade komma
genom skogen, över hedarne en snötung natt.

Glatt ville jag min drömda på händerna bära
genom snåren dit bort där min koja står,
och höja ett jublande rop mot den kära:
”Välkommen du, som väntats i ensamma år.”

Jag väntar vid min mila medan timmarna lida
medan skogarna sjunga och skyarna gå.
Jag väntar på en vandrerska från färdvägar vida –
den käraste, den käraste, med ögon blå.

 

 

Dan Andersson (1888 – 1920), was a pioneer in the genre ”Swedish workers’ literature” belonging to the generation of young autodidacts that appeared in the early 1900s. His death was accidental. He and his wife Olga were expecting their first child and Andersson traveled to Stockholm to find work to support his family. The hotel where he stayed his first night in Stockholm had just before been cleaned up with cyanide gas against bedbugs, but the hotel staff had not properly ventilated the mattresses. Andersson and another guest died during the night. His daughter Monika was born on the day 6 months after his death. Dan Andersson himself, was born into a poor working-class family and started working as a helper to the adult workers and a charcoal-burn at the age of 12, as many working class children at that time. But his dream was always to be a writer. He was able to write several collections of poems, short stories and articles before his untimely death. His poems belongs to Swedish literature treasure and his poems are still sung and well known among common people.

 

To give you a sense of the ambience when Andersson’s poems are performed in singing and the moods his lyrics create in listeners, I think this video gives a link. (Although I don’t know what the woman sings!) 🙂

 

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The potential slayers / dräparna

Painting in Täby kyrka Sweden

To take part in a mass demonstration during a pandemic is like completely drunk get in a car and drive off, regardless of whether one can kill or injure someone through this lack of judgment. Whoever does such is a presumptive killer. It is the ego in affect saying ”I have the right to do this”. Narcissism in high form:

“’Life matters’, so let’s gather and spread the virus so it will persists, the weak and old to continue to die prematurely. Their lives doesn’t matter anyway – and by the way, they are told to stay home and not meet with people, so it’s their own fault if we would infect them! Gathering like this, we feel so happy and vividly immortal, so touching impressed over our own goodness – and those others they will only continue to cost money, on us… It’s our lives that matters. Get it now, old boomer?”

Is that so?

The United States has its history, we have ours. Sympathetic strikes, such as these in Sweden covers bitter truths about Swedish conditions. Hatred against Sami latest in February this year! But who cared, except for the Sami minority? These Big Swedes, who want Samiland as a leisure area, disgusting! The Swedish previous racist history against northern minorities is a horrifying story, and one we not learn about in Swedish schools, why? And it continues – the expulsion of young Afghan Swedes: there you can talk about a ”lost student celebration” and a ”lost generation”! But do Swedes care about that? China’s trampling down on Hong Kong students demonstration rights and the Uyghurs’ right to their religion, that concerns us in Sweden – for China’s repressive regime is here among us, present in every network in Swedish trade and Industry, and in the universities – and in the silence of Swedish politicians and the EU. Previous demonstrations times ago, collected less than 50 people. Great! Hardly noted of media! No, go home and listen to a recording of Billie Holliday, singing “Strange fruit”. I myself (71 years old and pariah marked) will go out in the public space to buy cat litter, and to hell with you, if you don’t ”keep the distance” in the store. I will not say anything and act out like you do, but be sure I will silently put a curse on you.

Att delta i en massdemonstration under en pandemi, det är som att plakat berusad sätta sig i en bil och köra iväg, oavsett att man kan döda eller skada någon genom sitt bristande omdöme. Den som gör det är en presumtiv dråpare. Det är egot i affekt som talar ”jag har rätt att göra detta”. Narcissismen i högform: ” ’Life matters’, så låt oss då samlas och sprida smittan så att den består och de sjuka och gamla fortsätter att dö i förtid. Deras liv spelar iallafall ingen roll och förresten är de tillsagda att stanna hemma och inte träffa folk, så dom får skylla sig själva. Samlas så här, vi känner en så otrolig lycka och gemenskap och blir så rörda över vår egen godhet, vi är odödliga och framtiden är vår och de där andra, cancersjuka cystostatikabehandlade, njursjuka, diabetiker… oh, de kostar bara pengar. ”Life matters”. Våra liv! Fattar du nu, gamle stöt?”

Är det så?

Usa har sin historia, vi vår har vår egen. Sympatistrejker som dessa döljer beska sanningar om oss. Hatbrott mot samer senast i februari detta år! Vilka brydde sig utom den samiska minoriteten? Dessa storsvenskar, som vill ha Sameland som ett fritidsområde! Vidrigt! Sveriges rasistiska historia i förföljelsen av norrländska minoriteter är en fasansfull historia, och en verklighet man inte lär sig om svenska skolor, varför? Och den fortgår, utvisningen av afgan-svenskar… Där kan man snacka om ett ”förlorat studentfirande” och en ”förlorad generation”! Men vad bryr sig svenskar om det? Kinas ihjältrampande av Hong Kongs studenters demonstrationsrättigheter och uigurers rätt till sin religion angår oss – för Kinas förtryckarregim finns här, närvarande i vartenda nätverk i svenskt näringsliv, i universiteten – och i tystnaden från svenska politiker och från EU. Tidigare demonstrationer mot Kina samlade mindre än 50 pers! Stiligt! Inga större uppslag i media. Nej, gå hem och sätt på en inspelning av Billie Holliday, sjungande Strange fruit. Själv ska jag (70+ och pariastämplad) gå ut i det offentliga rummet och köpa kattsand och fan ta dig om du inte håller avståndet i Ica-butiken. Jag säger inget och agerar inte ut som du, men var säker på att jag läser en tyst en förbannelse över dig.

 

rose, whiterose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

Publicerat i culture values, poems by vonnely, politics, rebellious lovers, sentimentality, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, troubled life | Märkt , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar

Neither for nor against (The Swedish approach)

In English below

I
Jag är inte med dig, jag är inte mot dig
jag är mittemellan dig och alla, intryckt
nedtryckt under din höjda arm, näsan
begravd i din armhåla, du stinker:
byt deodorant!

Eller: håll avståndet.

II
Sluta mörda gamla människor
i samhällsvård genom selektiv
enfald, ungas åldersapartheid

Något stinker i Sverige när gamla människor
i offentlig vård dödas genom ett systematiskt
organiserat åldersurval och av en förblindad
ålders-apartheid hos den unga själviska
generationen. Kommande till makt!
(Skrämmande tanke!)

Det är inte ”sorgligt”, socialministern! Det är för jävligt.

III
Någonting ruttet stinker i staten Sverige:
högkonjunktur för begravningsfirmorna,
utrotningen av hjälpbehövande gamla är
framgångsrik. ”Den svenska modellen
fungerar”, hävdar svenska ministrar.

Är de både döva och blinda?

IV
Det stinker ruttet i staten Sverige och
jag är inte med dig, jag är inte mot dig, bara
trött och förbannad på att bli förklarad värdelös,
att bli isolerad, eller bokstavligen spottad i ansiktet!

Är detta den ”ultimata lösningen” för att bli av med oss ​​
40-talister som blivit seniorer? Barnbarnen formerar sig
i massdemonstrationer, sprider och firar Lady Corona?

rose, whiterose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

I
I’m not with you, I’m not against you, I am between
you and you all, pressed and depressed under your
raised arm, my nose buried in your armpit and you
stink: change deodorant!

Or: keep the distance!

II
Stop killing old people in
public care by selective apathy
and age-apartheid of the youth

Something rotten is stinking in Sweden when old
people in public care gets killed by systematically
organized age selections and blind age-apartheid
among the selfish young generation. Coming to
power! (Scary thought!)

Please Minister of Health, the numbers of old dead is not “sad”, it’s a throttling fucking disaster.

III
Something rotten stinks in Sweden
And it’s a boom for the funeral homes
Killing of needy old people is successful

”The Swedish approach” works, repeats
Swedish ministers over and again.
Are they both deaf and blind?

IV
Something is stinking in the state of Sweden. And
I’m not with you and I’m not against you, I am just
weary and pissed to be declared useless and to be
caged in isolation, or literally be spit in my face.

Is this the ”ultimate solution” to get rid of us baby boomers
who have become seniors? Grandchildren taking their seats
in mass demonstrations, spread and celebrate Lady Corona?

rose, whiterose, white

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The promised land of the Cinnamon Bun

Cinnamon buns are ”public domains”, anyone everywhere can copy them, to eat and enjoy. But everything written online, even on a blog, is copyrighted. You cannot copy my writing and not take all or part of my written material as your own writing, and / or distribute it further. In short: there’s a ban, to take my bun! 😉

See, here we are, and here we stand
in the promised land of the Cinnamon Bun,
there the poor are still powerless underdogs, but
covered in white hard pearl sugar, looking welfare.
There the rich getting richer, dressed in Salvation Army
second hand, looking causal, gnawing on an organic carrot.
And you got the rights you can pay for.

Pearl sugar, pearl sugar, sweet white sugar!
Pearl sugar, white sugar greed, grabs me by
my throat, I cough and I choke and I silence!
Pearl sugar, pearl sugar sweet sugar!

See here I am, and here we stand
in the promised land of the Cinnamon Bun,
there I take my coffee black in my castle and give
my regrets, brown cookies aren’t served here and
frankly Sweetie, a bun with white pearl sugar isn’t
healthy at all, not even at the Salvation Army.
But you got my respect if you can pay for it.

Pearl sugar, pearl sugar, sweet white sugar!
Pearl sugar, white sugar greed, grabs you by
throat and you cough and choke and silence!
Pearl sugar, pearl sugar sweet sugar!

Yes, here we are, and here we stand
in the promised land of the Cinnamon Bun,
there queer Tintomara once was told by her mom:
two things are white, innocence and arsenic. But now
we have pearl sugar and white mildew on our longing
gooseberries. But sure – not only the Swedes have that.
But we have our rights served and paid for.

Pearl sugar, pearl sugar, sweet white sugar!
Pearl sugar, and gooseberry jam on our bun,
deep in throats, we cough, choke and silence
Pearl sugar, pearl sugar sweet sugar!

See, here we are, and where we stand
in the promised land of the Cinnamon Bun and
a scent of something rotten buried comes across the strait.
But Hamlet sleep deep and well-feed in front of his TV and
Ophelia is busy writing culture stuff for Today’s News.
And the coffee is cold and the sink dirty full.

Pearl sugar, pearl sugar, sweet white sugar!
Pearl sugar, white seeds, dropped by Gretel &
Hansel, birds took them and a witch waits with
gingerbread sweets, keeping her pot boiling.

In the promised land of the Cinnamon Bun!

rose, white
rose, white

”Tintomara” is an androgynous character in Carl Jonas Love Almqvist’s novel ”Drottningens juvelsmycke” (”The queen’s tiara”). Almquist lived 1793 – 1866, and he was a controversial person in his time because of his radical ideas and he had also a troubled private life and escaped justice for the United States. He suffered badly of homesickness and wrote home to Sweden in letters ”only Sweden has Swedish gooseberries”, which has become a common saying still in use among people. The term thus refers to homesickness and not to different kind of berries… 🙂

”Hansel and Gretel” is one of the tales collected by the Brothers Grimms.

Regarding pearl sugar – as researching on Google I learned that there are (only) two kinds of pearl sugar, Swedish and Belgian. Swedish pearl sugar is to be found in every little grocery store here in Sweden, so is apparently not abroad (news to me!). For those living outside Sweden and want to bake Swedish buns and not finding pearl sugar, you can replace it with peeled or chopped almonds. Not icing! Because a good cinnamon bun is crispy on the surface and just soft inside, not sticky.

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Thistles

 

Life hasn’t been good to me so far, so
why do I bother to put seed in the soil?

I never felt people were there, I fought
alone and all I got was meager harvests.

And thistles on my field, stings my heel!

I’ve resigned from desires out of reach
and set up trellises on my balcony, and
I plan to plant creepers, to get privacy.

True, once I wanted to be happy, but life
is rough and it’s very creepy to deal with.

It’s said “choose your battles”! But I rarely
did because troubles came looking for me,
to hide or run! And sometimes one has to!

(”Chosen” battles ain’t battles. Life is a battle
and we were never asked! Just born to a crib.)

Now I set seeds in soil, still doing my time
within the brackets, as they once became!
Strange life! I try to embrace it, as it is.

 

rose, whiterose, white

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Lady Corona coughs in the elevator!

Once, a very long time ago, I was married to a Latin American. I left him when my son was 6 months. The son grew up without a father and in Swedish culture, but is defined in the statistics as ”second generation immigrants”. That’s all silly.

As an adult, he applied for a job in a municipality and the interviewer said about his last name (the father’s) ”So good, then we have someone who can talk to the immigrants”. ”Talk to the immigrants,” said the son puzzled. ”Have you tried to say hi?”

Some decades later after my divorce, I had for while a relationship with a black guy from Africa. At one point when we were sitting in his kitchen talking, he suddenly put his brown on my chalk-white hand and said ”look is it not beautiful”. It was.

He had an English first name and Swedish sounded surname.

At one occasion he applied for a job a few miles out of town and was told on phone that he had gotten the job. When he got there, he was met by a very strange attitude. His intended employer was in the yard outside the workplace. And he looked at my friend leaving his car. Silence at first, then he said he was not ”him”, the man my friend asked for to meet. But then he was him! Yes! But yet not! Then he was at least ”he”, but troubled about it and didn’t know what to do with this situation. So he said ”wait here”. And then he went into the house and was away for a while. Then he came back and said ”there are no jobs here”.

”But …” said my friend, but he got it, of course he did! So he went back to his car and drove home again. ”You should have reported him, it was illegal what he did” I said. And it would have cost him heavy fines. ”Yes, I know” said the friend. ”But I became so low, I just didn’t have the strength to fuss. I just wanted to forget it ever happened and move on.”

That is Sweden.

Sweden is a small country, stale provincial, on the dominating cultural arena “right” defined fight with “left” defined and it is much about WORDS. Those declared themselves as radical and sworn anti-racists, decide what is to say and think. They actually not fight racism, they widen and affirm it. Salafists are oppressed civil rights fighters. Arabs and Muslims are nowadays not Arabs or Muslims, because to use such words can imply that you have prejudices. So now we have no Muslims or Arabs in Sweden, but ”brown men”. And because they are brown (and men!), they are oppressed and they are doomed to die young. Punto!

Now we have Minneapolis, everyone heard about! Thankfully, police officers in Sweden are not like in the US. The rotten eggs that shoots young black men out jog or tramples a black man to death, would never even be admitted to enter a Swedish police school.

All this said, I’m bored by those blacks or immigrants who, nota bene here in Sweden and not in US! , believes that reprimands and rules ”always” are about ethnicity. Sometimes they aren’t – and what does it do to you, if you can’t read the difference?

And now I come to my errand with this reasoning.

I live in a staircase with 18 tenants. Most people who live here are between twenty and thirty years. Five of eighteen are over 70 and according to the Public Health Authority, we should  avoid situations where we may be exposed to a covid-19 infection. I am 71 years old so I am ”the young one” among these five seniors, the four elderly old all have all home care service.

All five of us have in common we cannot get out without using the elevator.

It was for to get access to an elevator I moved to this house. It is very small elevator. In these Corona times it is too small for two people.

The other day, a neighbor put up a note that she would have guests this Saturday, a birthday party for her daughter. All guests would observe and obey given restrictions to avoid spread the virus infection, she wrote on the note.

We live on the same floor. And I thought about the elevator and that a lot of people would come here, using that very small elevator. I was worried. So I went shopping of Friday instead of on Saturday. I didn’t have to go out on Saturday then. But I was worried anyway.

Although I dislike tenants who write little notes for the stairways or the laundry room, I actually wrote two notes (for the first time in my life). One to put besides the elevator door at ground floor and one at the elevator door on ”my” floor.

I wrote ”Kindly! Avoid using the elevator to let it only be used by the older tenants living in this staircase who cannot walk in the stairs. This request, to avoid the spread of Corona virus. Thank you!”

My apartment door is just right opposite the elevator door. And in the afternoon I could hear a lot of people came to my floor. At 10 o’clock in the evening I went out to the kitchen to make tea. Passing the front door I heard people talk loud in the stairwell. Curious if they obeyed my note, I looked into the peephole. Well, it seemed so.

I went happy back to the kitchen. Then I heard some kind of turmoil in the stairs. Peeping again!

Some people had entered the elevator and kept the door open, just standing there and not leaving. A woman in red t-shirt walked in and out and a younger slim woman – my neighbour I guessed – ran back and forth…

”What are they doing,” I was thinking. It seemed strange it all… But I left and went out to the kitchen to make my meal. It was anyway clear that my note did not have the desired effect. I was now disappointed and felt a bit ridiculous.

Some minutes later and on the way back to the living room, I could still hear people talk at the elevator. ”But what are they doing!!!,” I thought again  – and looked again.

The woman in red t-shirt had now resolutely seized the elevator as hers and she was standing there coughing vigorously… She did it for a very long time too! Well, but I could not stand there so long! So I left to my living room.

But I could still hear voices from the staircase and when I again look into the peephole, she has just got out of the elevator – and then she took the stairs down.

I began be tired of this “peeping” and at a moment earlier I had an impulse to simply open the door and ask people what it all was about. Now I’m glad I didn’t as I think it might have been an intended provocation to create trouble with me.

Then for the rest the evening when I checked people quietly left and no one acted as odd as that woman.

As told before,  18 tenants live here. The majority are young people. Five are older and under the quarantine restrictions imposed due to the pandemic. Of 18 tenants, sixteen are adults, and one is a child. Two tenant are not white Swedes. These two, the child and her mother, was them having the birthday party. The woman coughing in the elevator was one of their guests. All guests were black (of them I actually saw i.e.)

Covid-19 does not take into account skin color but the age. But thanks to this woman who apparently was upset for my note and just had to cough in the elevator to insult me, thanks to her I was imprisoned in my apartment. Because I hardly can walk down the stairs without bad pains in my hips.

But I wanted to take my usual evening walk… Well, after midnight I took a plastic glove and wet washcloth with diluted chlorine and left my apartment. And wiped off the handrail and elevator buttons and went out for my late walk. But it was not as nice as it use to be. This whole thing, my wrongly understood note and that coughing woman in the red t-shirt had made me upset and I felt deeply insulted.

A cup of tea again when I came back home… But then sudden I thought ”oh damn, I have forgot to take the evening insulin”.

It happens sometimes that I forget it. But just as I was about to put the insulin pen in my pale white skin, I stopped and thinking – and then I checked the jar where I keep today’s utensils. Oh no! I had already taken my evening insulin!

I was so disturbed by this event that had been – the misinterpreted note and the hostile woman’s behavior – that I was on my way to double-dose my night insulin!

If I had done it, it would undoubtedly had led to a hypoglycemia during the night! What would had happened to me? Would I have woken up in time, before eventually coming into coma? That is what I think about now. ”Thanks” red Lady Corona, I hope I will never see you again!

 

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Told in parentheses

 

(In brackets!) An aged poet wrote: ”Undvik inte extasen, nu
när torkan alltmer breder ut sig, över de inre fälten.” (Do not
avoid the ecstasy, now when the drought is spreading, over
the inner fields.) I barely know what “ecstasy” is any longer!
Oh, I may lack passion and lust in a fleeting passing thought,
but honestly – I don’t bother anymore about such a hassle.

A young poet wrote “I have lost my shadow”, and my home-
belonging in homelessness has been taken away from me. He
wrote about his war life in capital letters and he never reached
to slow down to write in lowercase, and now he’s like an ancient
young hero beaten to death. His tales belongs nowadays to his
conquerors who tore the armor off his body and violated it, to
then threw it to stray dogs on a dump, to eat him. (He died
for love and honor, poor devil!)

No dogs howls in my backyard
And no dogs gnaws on my ribs

My nightmares lack relevance and shoreline.
Waking up with a claw in my chest – I still do
the day. You live with little things in everyday
life, thinking it is not too late to cross stormy
seas, which separates the young from the old.
The old with their hay and way and the youth
with its slapsticks and masquerades! No dogs
are howling, Hamlet has fallen asleep in front
of the TV, my cat purrs on my lap. No drama!
(I’m humming “No robber is in the forest!”

The surviving daughter of a well-known Swedish poet
and playwright, wrote: ”Min gard är numera försedd med
rörelsedetektorer, taggtråd och elektricitet. Det gick fort.”
(My guard is nowadays equipped with motion detectors,
barbed wire and electricity. It came fast.)

Behind bars, I read between the lines and parentheses!
I kind of like to live behind bars, partly because of my
own drive, but only partly! And I thought I was finally
safe, but it’s the same story again – someone close
that you believed in, stabs your vulnerable heel.

 

 

 

 

 

(Inom parenteser sagt)
En åldrad Ölandspoet diktade:”Undvik inte
extasen, nu när torkan alltmer breder ut sig,
över de inre fälten.” Extas vet jag knappt vad
det är längre! Kanske saknar jag passion och
lusta vid en enstaka gångs tankesprång, men
ärligt talat ids jag inte mera ett sånt besvär.)

Den unge poeten skrev ”Jag har förlorat min skugga”och min
hemtillhörighet i hemlösheten har tagits ifrån mig. Han skrev
om sitt liv i krig med stora bokstäver, men nådde aldrig en tid
att sakta ner och skriva med de små bokstäverna. Han är som
en ung antikens hjälte, slagen ihjäl och hans berättelser tillhör
numera hans erövrare, de som slet rustningen av hans kropp
och skändade den, för att sedan slänga den på en soptipp, att
ätas av gatuhundar. (Dog för kärlek och heder, stackar jävel!)

Inga hundar ylar på min bakgård
Inga hundar gnager mina revben

Mina mardrömmar saknar relevans och stränder
Vaknar med en klo i bröstet, jag gör ändå en dag
Man lever med de små tingen i trist vardaglighet
Tror att det inte är försent att resa över stormiga
hav, som skiljer en ung från en äldre: gamlingens
hö och dö, en ungdoms narrspel och maskerader
Men inga hundar ylar, Hamlet har somnat framför
teven och katten spinner i mitt knä. Ingen drama!
(Och jag nynnar ”Ingen rövare finns i skogen!”

Den efterlevande dottern till en känd poet och
dramatiker skrev: ”Min gard är numera försedd
medrörelsedetektorer, taggtråd och elektricitet.
Det gick fort.”

Bakom galler, läser jag mellan raderna och parenteserna!
Jag typ gillar att vara bakom galler, delvis på grund av min
egenarts driv, men bara delvis därför. Och jag trodde att
jag äntligen var i säkerhet. Men det är samma historia
åter igen – någon nära som du trodde hundra på
sticker en kniv i din sårbara häl.

rose, whiterose, white

P.S. Krøyer: Sommarafton på Skagen (1892).

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You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet!

You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fy fan för äldreboenden, ättestupa och
hurtig underhållning med Evert Taube!

Jag skulle hellre äta råttgift än att bo där! Den
sen decennier bortgångne och mytologiserade
trubaduren Taube är sannerligen ingen under-
hållning för de nutida äldre! En gammal horkarl
och en idol för min mors generation – alla hans
låtar är som sånger sjungna av gravgrävare!

Åt helvete med allt det där!

Vad sägs om Rolling Stones ”I can’t
get no satifaction”, Prince vickande
rumpan sjungande ”Kiss”? Eller B B
King ”Rock me baby”? Okay, Queen
“Who wants to live forever?” Sant –
men längre än bo på äldreboenden!

Uppenbarligen!

Utrota Taube och förbjud ättestupan!

Blodtryckstabletter och potatismos och Taube!
Serviceinstitutioner för gamla kallas för ”hem”!
Ålderdom är inte en dödsorsak ska du veta och
behov av andras hjälp ska inte heller göras till
en dödsdom! Se nu här hur gamlingar förvägras
sjukhusvård, om komna i coma lämnade i dagar
för att sedan dö (plågsamt) av vätskebrist och
svält – till toner av den där Taube! Aldrig i livet
tänker jag någonsin bo på ett sånt jävla rövhål!

Åhå! Du tror mig inte nu? Men då säger jag
dig bara detta: ”You ain’t seen nothing yet”!

 

You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck the retirement homes, mercy killing places
cheerfully entertaining with ballads by Taube!

I’d rather eat rat poison than living there!
And the since long gone and mythologized
troubadour Taube is truly no entertainment
for elderly today! Once a womanizer and an
idol for my mom’s generation. Now it’s more
like songs sang by a grave-digger.

Fuck it all!

What about the Rolling Stones ”I can’t get no
satisfaction ”, Prince wiggling his butt singing
”Kiss”? Or B B King ”Rock me baby”? OK then –
Queen ”Who wants to live forever?” True – but
you’ll live longer not stay at a retirement home!

Quit the ”Taube” romance from ”old age entertainment”
and clear away all deaths through the organized neglect!

Blood pressure tablets and mashed potatoes and Taube!
Service institutions for the old called ”home”, you hear it!
Old age is not a cause of death, you to know and to make
frailty need of assistance to a death sentence: it’s simply
age apartheid! See how old ones are denied hospital care,
if coming in coma: left for days – to then die (painfully) of
fluid deficiency and starvation! (To a tune by Evert Taube!)
I will never ever let me be dumped in such a fucking place!

Aha! You don’t believe me now? But then I will
tell you just this: ”You aint seen nothing yet”!

Fight the age apartheid!

rose, whiterose, white

 

 

 

 

Not Fragile
Bachman-Turner Overdrive

Comin’ to you cross country
Hoping boogie’s still allowed
You ask do we play heavy music
Well, are thunderheads just another cloud,
And we do
Not fragile, straight at you
Then we vanish to the night
Still in your ears but out of sight.
Not fragile.
Don’t think we feel hurt or wounded
Or our egos are showing through
Its our world that’s been disrupted
And our strength reflects from you
Well it’s true
Not fragile over you
Try us when you’re getting down
Feelin’ high or just hangin’ round.
Not fragile.
The times we travel in our lives
Will make us hard and give us drive
We may seem distant most of the time
But many thoughts are still on our minds.
Not fragile.

Låtskrivare: Charles Turner
Text till Not Fragile © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
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The Day cools down / Dagen svalnar

 

Tiden har gått och dagen svalnar,
men ett sårat hjärta blöder ännu lätt.
Ett ansikte stelnat som en mask och tårar,
dolda. Salta åkrar ger ingen grodd och ingen
skörd. Fridfull ter sig din ofrid när som natten
nalkas. Livet som det blev, pågår ännu ständigt.
Gryningar rodnande, fulla av hopp och galla. Jag
groddar frön i maj för en balkongsommar, medan
onda vintrars klogrepp håller illa hårt om mitt hjärta.

 

Time has passed and the day cools down, but
a wounded heart still bleeds easily. A face, stiffened
like a mask and tears, hidden. Salty fields do not yield
sprouts or harvests. Your worry seems serene as when
the evening comes closer. Life as it became is constantly
going on. The dawns are blushing, full of hope and of bile.
I’m planting seeds in May for a balcony summer meanwhile
a claw grip from evil winters holds my heart painfully hard.

rose, whiterose, white

Publicerat i aging, courage, create life, dreamers, nature, opportunities, past, poem in Swedish and English, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, present time, recollections, remembering, seasons, spring, vulnerability | Märkt , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Lämna en kommentar