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

Posted in 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 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Farewell Agadir!

Farewell Agadir, we never met in your
narrow alleys or on your beaches. Your
white sins and dirty morals! Closed eye,
blinded in contempt for your betrayals,
lament and false tears. Farewell Agadir,
black light, we never met in true reality!


Farväl Agadir, vi möttes aldrig i dina
trånga gränder eller på dina stränder.
Din vita synds smutsiga moral! Ögat
blundar i bländat förakt för dina svek
och snyftvalser. Farväl Agadir, svarta
ljus, vi möttes aldrig i sann verklighet.


Posted in authenticity, beliefs, betrayal, blinded, borders, darkness, desirers, distance, dreamers, falsehood, falsity, farewell, fate, heartbreaker, loss, poem in English to Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, with or without you | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ramadan in the Nordic light is a tricky story

 In English below

Ramadan i Sverige är en kinkig historia, vilken tur
att den infaller under våren detta år, då kan man
be 20.30 och äta fort som (…) för att sedan slumra
halvannan timme, äta och be igen. Så middag vid
midnatt och hela släkten samlad viskande i köket
för i detta underbara jävla landet, där sover “man”
klockan 22 och äter gröt i arla morgonstund, uppe
med tuppen (vadå “tupp”?) tar bilen till jobbet fast
man givet inte bör men man gör iallafall rätt för sig,
till skillnad från somliga andra. Andra är väl vi som
har satt klockan på 2 för att be igen och äta frukost
före det förb…nordiska gryningsljuset. Solen redan
vid tre och grannen han snarkar med ögonbindel på.
Hålögda nysvenskar halvsover på bussen till jobbet,
längtande till kvällens festliga ätande. På Tv:n sa en
gång vår statsminister här i Sverige är alla välkomna
för att senare begränsa synfältet, sägandes att här i
Sverige talar vi svenska och tar varann i hand, alla!
Numera fåmäld och med tvådda händer, tuggar han
sammanbitet på lädret på sina gamla svetsarskor!

Jag gör halt här, saknar tro men äter inget som rör sig.


The Prime Minister of Sweden, Stefan Löfven








The Ramadan in Sweden is a tricky story, what a luck
it occurs during the spring this year then you can pray
at 9th PM and eat fast as (whatever) to then sleep half
an hour to eat and pray now again. Dinner at midnight
the whole family gathers and talking low in the kitchen
because in this damn wonderful country, “every” other
sleeps at 10 PM to get up early in the morning as when
rooster crow (what rooster?) eating Swedish porridge,
take the car to work (“no, one shouldn’t but at least I
support myself, unlike some others). Others (that’s us),
have set the alarm at 2 to get to pray and eat breakfast
before that damn Nordic dawn light ruins all. Sun rises
at three but the neighbor he snores with a blindfold on.
Hollow-eyed, the new Swedes half asleep on the bus to
work, thinking longingly about the evening’s eating joy.
On the TV our Prime Minister once told us  that here in
Sweden everyone is welcome, to later on shortsighted
state that here in Sweden we all speak Swedish and we
greet each other by shaking hands, a must! Nowadays
he’s silent and has washed his hands and dogged, he’s
chewing the leather of the shoes he wore as a welder!

I halt here, having no faith but eat nothing that moves.


rose, whiterose, white




Whatever your faith but interested in vegan diches? Check out:

Posted in beliefs, cultures, faith, free, grannar, immigrants, light, living in the world, living with others, morality, nature, neighbors, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics, reality, refugees, relationships, repression and borders, seasons, spring, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Rain in May and potting soil

(In English below)

Jag tänkte gå ut och köpa något
(Microlax, toalettpapper och blomjord)
Men det regnar idag (också),
bra för grönskan och jag kan vänta med
att gå ut nån dag till, det kan
inte regna för evigt heller! Jag sitter här
och tittar ut på blötan,
uttråkad och erinrar mig att jag läste i
tidningen om att folk på
ett äldreboende blivit underhållna med
Evert Taube och en psalm
som i vers ett berättar om ”ljuvliga maj”,
i vers två om fågelsång,
för att i de följande verserna förtälja att
“Allt kött är hö och
blomstren dö och tiden allt fördriver,
blott Herrens ord förbliver”.
Ja, herre gud! I “ljuva maj” i år dog Little
Rickard, född 1932, han
blev alltså 87 år och var jämnårig med
folket på äldreboenden idag.
Och Elvis Presley, han skulle ha varit 85
om han hade levt idag. Jag
säger bara det, så har jag ingenting sagt!
Förutom att det även
sjöngs en svensk version av ”You can
have her” från 1961.
Det blev “Sånt är livet” på svenska! Jaja!
Jag sitter här för mig
själv och ser ut genom fönstret och är
osvikligt uttråkad. Aldrig
äldreboende för mig. Nej tack! Jag lyssnar
hellre på regnet än visor
från min mors ungdom! Är vädret är bättre
imorgon, ska jag gå och handla
(Microlax, toalettpapper och blomjord).

Winter Bathing photo-by-julia-lindemalm-göteborgsposten -sweden 2016

I intended to go out today to shop (something)
(microlax, toilet paper and potting soil).
But it’s raining today (too), good for the greenery
and I can wait to go out another day,
it cannot rain forever, can it! I sit here and look out
at the wet street, bored and
reminds me that I read in the paper that people
at a retirement home had
been entertained with songs of the since long
gone troubadour Evert Taube and
a hymn, which in verse one tells about the “lovely
May”, in verse two about
lovely singing birds, to tell in the following verses
that “All flesh is hay and
the flowers will die and your time passes away, only
the word of the Lord remains.”
(OMG!) Now in this May, Little Rickard died, he was
born 1932 and became 87 years, i.e. in
the same age as people at retirement homes today.
And Elvis Presley, he would
have been 85, if he had lived today. I just tell you,
having said nothing, ok! Except for
it was also sang a Swedish version of “You can
have her ”from 1961.
It’s “Such is life” in the Swedish version! Well, right!
I sit here on my own, looking out
the window and I’m truly bored. But heck no, it’ll be
a “home for old” for me. No thanks!
I’ll rather stay here, listen to the rain than listen to
songs from my mom’s youth!
If the weather is better tomorrow, I’ll go shopping
(microlax, toilet paper and potting soil)!

rose, whiterose, white





Posted in aging, cultures, inspiring music, joy, morality, old age, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, remembering | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Aging female body (part I and II)

He made me hate my aging body, as mercilessly mirrored
when I dress in the hall looking at these undeniably saggy
boobs and right before, in the bathroom caring for what’s
secretly hidden “down there” my flaccid pussy prickly dry
lubricated with an estrogen ointment. To be approached
by any man in an unseemly age (or any improper position
for that matter) is utterly desexualizing – afterwards…

Before him, I strived to accept my age-changing body and
its flaws and it worked well until I was foolish to be caught
by everyone’s weakness – the longing to love and be loved,
allured by this exotic peacock, a guy with his own agenda!

It took some efforts to break free from his spell. Now I am
contented I am over and done with him. But, still remains
rose, whitethe dislike I got to my body. I’m free from him but cannot
free myself from the bad feelings my physicality gives me:
forced to look at my body and care for it, dress it and live
in it, this unshapely old and plump, female human sack!

My common sense tells me my body is worth to be liked
on its own terms and it is not worse aged than any else’s!
But I can no longer deny to myself the negative emotions
that I have for my corporality, emotions that won’t listen
to my rationalism but stay in me and refuse to leave me.

For this my disgust, I blame the man who wooed me. We
came close and then he insisted he wanted to have “a life”
with me, move to my home and bed! Simply ruin my life!

But I did not want that! I was lonely, yes. Surely I wanted to
be loved but with him I wasn’t happy either. I felt like as my
integrity constantly was under attack by him. What was my
rose, whiteoptions? Suffer being alone (missing him) (or someone), or
suffering with all the anxiety he caused me! I was confused.

My lifestyle was threatened! He called it love. He said I had
bad thoughts about him. He said I never listened to him; he
never listened to me. He wasn’t good for me, I had to reject
him. I still have to struggle with the unpleasant feelings for
my body; the body he requested, but which he was denied.


You searched for a canned ham and
you found my living, aging flesh. You
searched for my pearl and my source
to imagined treasures and you found
my ocean of debts and shortcomings.
You were looking for a “woman” and
found me, like a wildly growing weed.
I am certainly disappointed with you!


(Part II is inspired by a verse in a poem by Edith Södergran
that is often read by blushing virgin girls at school endings
in June in Sweden and well known for Swedes in any ages.

Eye the autumnal lifetime and longing in an old human’s worn
and wrinkled hand. A stored wine is every old man and woman,
spiced with bitter tears and a budding hope that refuses to die.



Posted in aging, alienation, become old, body image, changes, closeness, create life, desirers, dreamers, falsity, fears, fragility, images, life and love, loneliness, lost romance, lost trust, maturity, old age, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, vulnerability | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The footprints we make in others

Like you smitten me and like I smitten you
to burn, to then disappear and become to
ashes. A petrified footprint found in Kenya
1.5 million years old. The olden tales about
lost paths and of grievous searches for the
one gone. The footprint we made in others
that we left. Footprints others made in us.
An ongoing petrification of what once was.

Som du drabbade mig som jag drabbade dig
för att brinna, för att sedan försvinna för att
bli till aska. Ett förstenat fotavtryck, funnet i
Kenya, 1.5 miljoner år gammalt. Sagorna om
vilse vägar och mödosamma sökanden efter
den andra. Fotavtryck vi gjorde i andra som
vi lämnat. Fotavtrycken andra gjorde i oss.
Pågående förstening av det som var en gång.

Posted in Africa, inspiring images, loss, past, Poem in Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading life, roots, transformation | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moses Tegnell med sin stafettpinne leder svenska folket genom Corona-pestens ökenlandskap

Moses Tegnell with his baton leads the Swedish people through the desert landscape of the Corona plague

Anders Tegnell visar den svenska modellen för Corona strategin

De rör sig ur dunkla dis, de sågs aldrig komma
I fängelser utan dörrar, tror vi att vi ska överleva…
De dirigerar förlusterna av schackrandet,
det påbjudna spelandet där allt synes vara
Gråtmilda bedrövelser berör dem inte
Staten dominerar bara genom att äga mandaten
men gömd i skuggan och alltid i en förklädnad
Gemene mans belöning? Att vidmakthålla mörkret!

Moses Tegnell tog sitt parti utan rädsla…
det fanns ingen opposition under hans myndighet
Corona förbannelser över dem som höjde sin röst
Dödsfall i tusen som i krig och alltid en vinnare
Sanden är vittnen och stenportalerna som föll
från himlen: förväntad signal från transcenderad
ande, ett primärt meddelande av fred och kärlek!
En annan känsla, bara kärlek?

(Han grät blod, hans medvetande var splittrat
han visste att konflikten var separationen
han visade på den eviga källan som hört hans röst
Men bara få själar samlade samman sina rop
Jag har sökt i bergen och i havet och i full storm
svaren på frågor som bara han kunde ge
Nu är jag tillbaka från en gripande resa
Priset på tvivel! Jag vill debitera idag!)

I Sverige är “samhället” istället för en Gud
Befrielsen ur utanförskapets blödande smärta
Kungen en bro mellan medborgare och riksdag
marknadskrafterna en ursäkt för dominans
Själlösa ministrar gör sig rika på folkets ryggar
deras “dygd” avslöjad, dumhetens tyranni
krigen mot migranter ursäktas med god tro
Dold i skuggan, trosbekännelsen är makten

Staten och kapitalet, som guld smälter samman
Cirkusen är klar, något nytt kommer att börja
Vissa kontrollerar, andra kommer att lyda
Märkta och sorterade som nötkreatur, för tron
Branden är beredd och kättare kommer att brinna
Kunskapen är dold, de planerar sin strategi väl
Sätt fåren i karantän, men låt vargar tjuta, rusa fritt …
Hur svårt kan det vara att vakna till klarsyn?

Unga svikna, lagda i förtidiga gravar, deras öden
drabbar oss bakbundna vittnen, Fadime Sahindal
Yaysar Hassan och många fler, lamm för beundran
och dyrkan aldrig insläppta i brasvärmen, fåfängans
burar pedagogikens svärd mellan sanning och altare
Indisk guldhandel, psykiatrikliniker och inhumanitet

(Templen lagda i grus, de visa att reinkarneras
Gömd i skuggan! Gömd bakom tröskeln)

Staternas slavar, de ber sina böner
Dold i dollar döljer sig Armageddon
Ibland känner jag för saker som försvinner imorgon
Jag ändrar riktning med alltför stor lätthet
”Säg inte att vi kan, om du inte följer upp …”
I min önskebrunn fanns det en början och ett slut
Nattliga tankar, inget kunde överträffa dem
Gömd i skuggan! De kommer alltid att upptäcka dig!

Pestplågad, flackande omkring på dammiga vägar
Din själ lider nu svårt för det jag beklagligen säger
Den som styr din trosbekännelse vill ha din vilja
Som en mörk skugga i en Lovecraft’s roman
Vi föll ned i längtan och stormar medan vi sov och
vaknar med tyngden av dem som kommer att drabbas
Var inte rädd bakom visiret, sanningen gömmer sig där
Det pris du betalade, ger dig rätt att bli varse vad som är…

Det skäller hundar där ute …
Jag ritar ditt ansikte, Tegnell, så som min vision är
Jag grunnar över vad som kan komma att bli
Kartan, den har jag rivit itu, tappade många bitar
Statsepidemiologen ser på oss och spårar riktning
Jag såg testamenten gå förlorade i malströmmen
Moralbud funkar inte och inte heller att predika
”fred och kärlek” gömmer en bowiekniv i handen?

Och man frågar sig, vilken tid har vi kvar här? Vart
kommer vår längtan att gå och kommer passion att
mera existera? Hur kan man gå med skor så fientliga?
Har du inte varnat oss tillräckligt ofta, undrar vi?
Tungan i munnen har inga ben, är tjock men kluven
Om du biter ihop tänderna hårt, öppnar sig såret igen
Erinringarna är konstanta, men minnet är kort
Gömd i skuggan, de låter de dig inte sova!

Vad gör vi nu med vad allt som ska komma?
gnälla är ovärt, liksom att klaga över gångna lidanden
Jag sitter vid sjön och hör Statsministern förstamajtala
och talmansklubban slå, tittar på fåglarna som flyger…
Väntar i dunkla krisens dis på dem som ska födas:
tänker “må icke all världens Corona virus nå dem och
man ber om kraft att driva denna Satans pest bort …
Gömd i karantän! Endast hoppet lyser för oss!

Inspired by a song by J. M. Baule! The music sounds like Dylan – and I really like this singer Baule; yet he’s referring to Dylan’s views and although Baule’s interpretation of “It’s Not Dark Yet” is simply wonderful, I don’t experience Dylan in this text “Hidden in the shade” (Ocultos en la sombra). But I understand Baule during the years has lived long and close with Dylan’s lyrics and know him more than I do and that’s just my personal opinion. I appreciate Dylan, but I’m not a fan. Further about this lyrics, I don’t speak or read Spanish and cannot really say any about the lyrics, it was the music and the singing style that got me. Google is a help of course, used with care. Anyway, it was the mention of Moses in the song that gave me a vision to transfer this text to Swedish current conditions.  At the best I hope my transformed poem can be called a pastiche and if not, I hope no harm is done!

The Spanish original lyrics is to be find in below and so also a true translation into English: this is inserted in the post only to give you an idea of ​​what I have done with the original text, if you need such knowledge.

Hidden in the shade

They move in mists, never saw them coming
In jails without doors, we think we survive…
They direct the losses of the chess game
The imposed plays where everything can be…
Crying grief, cannot move them
Nations dominates by pure possessing, but
hidden in the shadow and in disguise
Your reward? Keep up the darkness!

Moses already took it on his part, with no fear
there was no opposition in his mandate …
Seven plagues inflicted on them who raised their voices
Deaths in thousand, in wars there’s always a winner
The sands are witnesses and the portals of stones
that fell from the skies, a signal was expected from
a transcended spirit, primary message of peace and
love! Another feeling of just love.

His blood cried, his consciousness was ripped
he knew the conflict was the separation
He showed the eternal source whom heard his voice
But only a few souls picked up their cry
I have searched in the mountains and the sea
and in full storm answers to questions that only
he could give. Now I’m back from a touching journey
The price of the doubts! I want to charge today!

In Rome, the emperor was as a God
The beginning of the stigma, blood and pain…
The Pope as a bridge between man and God
Sin was the excuse of domination
Soul-less kings painted their blood blue
But it is always red if you teared their “virtue”
Crusades was devastating, an excuse of faith
Hidden in the shade! The creed is power

Christianism and empires, like gold they will melt
The circus is ready, something new is going to start
Some controlling, others going to obey
Branded as cattle, sacrifices for faith
Bonfires are prepared, heretics will burn
The knowledge is hidden, they plot their plan well
Let the sheep retreat, while wolves will howl…
How difficult it is to wake up clearly

The graves were opened, their stench comes to
us today of the immolated children, pitiful cry …
Vanities behind cages, lambs for adoration
The swords cuts all the glimpses of truth
Certainty caged lies at the altar
Like gold from the Indies, madness and impiety

The temple is scattered, the sages will be reincarnated
Hidden in the shadow! Hidden behind the threshold

The slaves of the gods, they pray their prayers
Hidden in dollars, Armageddon hides
Sometimes I feel things that disappear tomorrow
I change direction with too much easiness
Don’t say we can, if you won’t fulfill…
In the sources of desire there is a beginning and an end
Nightly thoughts, no one can surpass
Hidden in the shade! They will always discover you!

Plague afflicted, wanderer dusty roads
Your soul beyond suffering despite for what I said
Whoever governs your creed, wants your will
Like a dark shadow in a Lovecraft’s novel
We fell into longing and storming when sleeping
We wake up with the weight of those who will suffer
Do not be afraid, go behind the veil, the truth hides there
The price you paid, gives you the right to perceive what is…

There are dogs barking, out there…
I sketched your face, just as my vision was
I ponder of in broad strokes what may come
The map I have broken, many pieces I’ve lost
The great Mind watches us, tracing direction
I’ve seen lost wills in the Maelstrom
Sermons not work, nor preaching peace and love
if you hide in your hand, in a Bowie knife

And, ask yourself, what time do you have left here?
Where will your longing go and your passion to exist?
How can you walk with shoes so hostile?
Has it been a while, since I didn’t warn you?
The tongue, thick and with no bones is forked
If you clench your teeth well, the wound reopens
Recalling constantly, yet the memory has an end
Hidden in the shade, they will not let you sleep

Now what do we do, with what is to come?
Laments are of no worth, nor complaints for suffering
Sitting in front of the lake, I see the universal spirit
with an ash stick, watching the birds fly
Waiting in the mist, loving those who will be born
that the weight of this world will not reach them
Pray for the force, that can set Satan apart…
Hidden in the shade! Only light will save us





Ocultos en la sombra, José Maria Baulenas


Se mueven entre brumas, nunca se les vio venir
En cárleses sin puertas, creemos sobrevivir…
Dirigen las perdidas, de juegos de ajedrez
Las jugadas impuestas donde todo puedo ser…
Llantos de desconsuelo, no los pueden conmover
Dominan las naciones con solo des de poseer
Ocultos en la sombra siempre tras de un disfraz
Su recompensa? Mantener la oscuridad!

Moisés ya lo tovo, a su lado, con temor
no cabía en su mandato ninguna oposición…
Siete plagas infringidas a quien alzó la voz…
Muertes en mil guerras simpre hay un vencedor
Las arenas son testigo, y las piedras el portal
Caída de los cielos, se esperó una señal
Espíritu trascendido, mensaje primordial…
De paz y amor! Otro sentir, solo amar.

Su llanto era de sangre, su consciencia
desgarró supo el conflicta, era la separación
Mostro la fuenta eterna, quien escuchó su voz
Pero solo pocas almas recogieron su clamor
He buscado en monte y mar, y en plena tempestad
Respuestas a preguntas que solo él podia dar
Ahora estoy de vuelta, de en viaje conmovedor
El precio de las dudas !Loquiero cobrar hoy!

En Roma, como un Dios, fue el emperadour
El principio de un estigma, de sangre y de dolor…
El Papa como puente, entre el hombre y Dios
El pecado fue la escusa de la dominación
Reyes sin alma, pintan su sangre de azul
Pero es siempre roja, si desgarras su “virtud”
Cruzadas devastando, con excusa de la fe
!Ocultos en la sombra! credo es el poder

Christianismo e imperio, como oro fundirán
El circo ésta dispuesto, algo nuevo va empezar
Unos controlando, otros van de obedecer
Marcados como reses sacrificios por la fe
Las hoguearas se preparan los herejes arderán
El saber queda escondido, ellos trazan bien su plan
Que las ovejas se recluyan, mientras lobos aullarán…
Qué difícil es, despertar, con claridad

Las tumbas se abrieron, su hedor nos llega hoy
de los niños inmolados, llanto conmovedor…
Vanidades tras las jaulas, corderos para adorer
Las espadas cortaron, todo atisbo de verdad
La certeza en un jaula las mentiras al altar
Como oro de las indias locura e impiedad

El templo se dispersa, los sabios se reencarnarán
!Ocultos el la sombra!Escondidos tras eumbral

Esclavos de los dioses, rogando en oración
Oculto en Dólar, se escondió Armagedón
A veces siento cosas, que manaña se esfumarán
Yo cambio de sentido con demesiada facilidad
No digas que podamos, si no los vas a cumplir…
En las fuentes del deseo, está el principio y el fin
Los pensamientos nocturnos, nadie puede burlar
!Ocultos en la sombra! Siempre te descubrirán

Apestados, polvorientos de caminos deambular
Que tu alma y no sufra, por lo que dije a mi pesar
Quien controle tu credo quiere tener tu volentad
Como una sombra oscura en un Libro de lovecraft
Caímos en anhelos, y tormentas al dormir…
Despertamos con el peso, de los que van a sufrir
No temas, ir tras el velo, la verdad se esconde allí
El precio que pagaste, te da derecho a percibir…

Hay perros ladrando, allí en el exterior…
Yo dijubé tu rostro, tal como era mi visión
Contemplo a grandes rasgos, lo que puede venir
El mapa tengo roto muchos, trozos les perdí
La gran Mente nos observa, trazando direccíon
He visto voluntades Perdidas en el Maelstrom
No sirven los sermones, ni predicar, paz y el amor
Si en tu mano escondes, en cuchillo de Jim Bowie

Y, pregúntate ?Qué tiempo, te queda por
aqui ?Adónde irá tu anhelo, y tu pasión de existir?
?Cómo puedes caminar, con calzado tan hostil?
?Acaso hase tiempo, que no te lo advertí?
La lengua no tiene huesos, y gruesos ha se partir
Si aprietas bien los dientes, la herida se vuelve a abrir
El recuerdo es constante, la memoria tiene fin
!Ocultos en la sombra, no te dejarán dormir

Ahora, ?Qué hacemos, con lo que ha de venir?
No valen los lamentos, ni los quejas por sufrir
Sentado frete al lago, veo al espíritu universal
Con una vara de fresno, viendo las aves volar
Esperas en la niebla, amo a los que nazerán
Que el peso de este mundo, no los llegue a alcanzar,
Ruega que la fuerza, a Satán pueda apartar…
!Ocultos en la sombra! Solo la luz, nos salvará

rose, whiterose, white




Two of the “immolated children” in  Scandinavian migrant countries, touching wept for…

Fadime Sahindal born 1975, murded by her father 2002

Danish poet Yahya Hassan born 1995, died April 2020







From the poetry collection “Yaya Hassan” (2013)

Father my unborn son

I spill two liters of darkness
and a childhood on the wall
A Stone Age hand a Paperback Coran
Maybe I had loved you
if I had been your father and not your son



Pappa min ofödda son

Jag spiller två liter mörker
och en barndom på väggen
En stenåldershand en paperback-Koran
Kanske hade jag älskat dig
om jag varit din far och inte din son

His books at Adlibris

one of many reviews :

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Chicken manure to prevent students crowding at Walpurgis Night

Not only does this Corona virus cause restricting effects on our free physical mobility, some people also bring us funny and creative solutions to solve the practical problems of living with this virus restrictions. The municipal mayor of Lund (Sweden)  decided to prevent students from the traditional crowding and partying in the City Park on Walpurgis Night by spreading chicken poop on all lawns.

The Chairman of the Municipal Board in Lund, Philip Sandberg, has spread chicken manure in the Stadsparken of Lund and poses before the national press. Photo: Sara Johari (Sydsvenskan)

Där öron inte kan höra, näsan får bestämma
om stanken av hönsbajs kan få studenterna
fly berusning rädda naiva vita balklänningen
smutsas av vad du inte vill veta, slippa spyor
vakna förgiftad på alkoholklinik eller dö ung?
Tonåring ännu barn, firar börja ett vuxenliv!

Where the ears cannot hear, the nose must decide
if the stench of chicken poop can get the students
flee drunkenness save virgin naive white ball dress
soiled with what you don’t want to know, vomiting
wake up poisoned at an alcohol clinic or die young?
Teenager still child, celebrates starting an adult life!

Posted in create life, creativity, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Corona apartheid

The Corona strategy  has created apartheid in Sweden of the elderly instead of a fair and equal lockdown of the whole society. After the Easter weekend, the voluntary restrictions no longer work among common people, some just going wildly at the collective traffic and at restaurants, crowding and shout “keep the distance” – to others! People are just bored of this pandemic era.

It may be time for mandatory and equal restrictions for all, the government to finally show its muscles – and not keep this meek and coward policy as even talk about to now ease the restrictions! Because indications may tell the disease figures tends to increase again.

Barbro Westerholm 86 years and Sweden’s oldest Member of Parliament, here in voluntary quarantine (though few old people have an island to flee to, and a surviving spouse to chat with and good health)













“Elderly people are at risk of becoming seriously ill, and health care has a hard time managing the situation when there are so many who get sick at the same time,” says state epidemiologist Anders Wallensten. “In the emergency situation, it is most important to make sure that the healthcare service fulfills its task.”

The thing is, several testimonials from relatives tells the media that some (many?) old people are denied hospital care. Further: elderly care staff are denied protective equipment and go from patient to patient in their private clothing. They testify that they have such a hard-pressed schedule that, for example, they do not have time to put old people in the toilet to do what they need. (Or neither to satisfy the own needs of rest, food and more, like travels to and fro!) The Swedish trade union wants to tone down the specific Swedish situation and points out that the same bad conditions apply in the most of the European countries: not enough money is given for the care of the elderly, care workers for elderly have poor pay and extremely pressed schedules, they often work per an hour without permanent employment and sometimes lack education and they cannot afford to stay at home if they are sick.

For the authorities, the spread of the corona virus at the elderly nursing homes and in the home services for those living in own apartments, is a “mystery” they “cannot explain”, they tell media. But then asked about the lack of protective equipment for the staff, they says it is all too “complex” and “not easy to explain”… this mystery! Swedish TV news has revealed that the same authorities have cooperated with the county employer in Stockholm behind the back of the union and the union’s “safety representatives” at working places, to then officially declare that protective clothing for elderly care staff is an irrelevant factor in the protection of elderly. Because, they say, the most important thing is still to isolate all old people over 70 from all social contacts.  And relatives to old people in public care are denied information with the reference to the “patient safety”. To protect “the old”! Apartheid, I call it. Smoothly and falsely inserted in the social picture.

In the same context the high school students feels they are discriminated as denied to party now ending school. They want to follow the traditional way to celebrate the graduation. (Yes understandable, but I guess it’s the same youngsters who has during the past seasons occupied the four seats on the bus intended for the elderly and disabled. Thank you, pals!)

There are 1.6 million retired in Sweden (plus those having vulnerability  for example with cancer treatment),  this in a population of 10.3 million people. And so easy was it to get the citizens to accept apartheid of an age group with the excuse of to “protect them”. So easy was it to create generation conflicts into the society and still claims it’s about “solidarity” and “duty”.

And a person like me 71 years old, not sick and fully capable of taking care of myself, who goes to the grocery to shop and do it twice a week instead of four times a week as before, is stared at by some adults: obviously, we over 70 are stigmatized outcasts.

“Ättestupan” in slow motion!

rose, white






rose, white



Posted in abuse, aging, alienation, become old, discourse by vonnely, distance, falsity, fears, human rights, living with others, living with sickness, loneliness, loners, politics, prose, separated, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", troubled life, welfare | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My new neighbor upstairs (Min nya granne)

Translated to English below


Jag har fått en ny granne en trappa upp. Min son
hemma på besök för några veckor sen, sa att det
hade varit mycket spring i trappan under dagen
(jag sov). Det var min nya granne som flyttade in.
Sedan hördes ett himla hamrande och spikande –
och ett mysko dunsande i mitt tak – som är hans
golv. ”Men vad gör han!” sa sonen. För att sedan
ta tåget till Stockholm där han bor (med grannar).

Senare hörde också jag dunsandet, “han lyfter
tyngder”, sa jag till sonen i telefon. “Jag hoppas
att han har hållare för sina tyngder”, sa sonen,
annars så blir det gropar i betongen!” “Åh nej!”
sa jag misslynt, ” han kanske kommer att dunsa
ned genom mitt tak efter ett tag!” Jag skämtade
förstås. Men det kändes ändå skönt att veta att
jag bor i ett hus där jag har människor nära intill.

Snart slut på hamrandet: blommor och gardiner
i hans fönster: det kunde jag se på mina nattliga
promenader! Nu inträdde en tid att relaxa vilket
innebar att misshandla en gitarr! “Okey!” tänkte
jag, skrivande på min laptop. Men så sedan efter
började han också att sjunga till gitarrspelandet!

Inte alls okay: den jäveln kan inte sjunga! Vilket
han tyvärr inte vet om. Jag sa till sonen i telefon
att “jag funderar på att ta trappan upp och ringa
på hans dörr bara för att få se hur denna mycket
illalåtande person ser ut!” Sonen bara skrattade:
det är förstås inte särskilt troligt att jag gör det!





I’ve got a new neighbor upstairs. My son on
a home visit a few weeks ago told me it had
had been a lot of running in the stair during
the day (I had slept). It turned up to be a new
neighbor moving in. Then, loudly hammering
and nailing, then mysterious thumping at my
ceiling: his floor. “What is he doing!” my son
said. Then he took a train back to Stockholm,
where he lives in a house (also with neighbors).

Later I too could hear those thumping sounds,
“I think he lifts weights” I told my son on phone.
“I hope he has holders for the weights”, my son
said “otherwise it will be pits in the concrete!”
“Oh no!” I said annoyed, ”then he might come
down through my ceiling after a while!” I was
only joking of course. It was yet a good feeling,
knowing I live in a house having people nearby.

Soon the hammering ended. I could see flowers
and curtains in his windows when I was out on
my nightly walks. Now it seemed to come a time
to relax, which meant to abuse a guitar. “Okay!”
I was thinking, while I was writing on my laptop.
But then he began to sing to his guitar playing!

And that was not at all okay! As that loser upstairs,
he can’t sing! But he doesn’t know about it, unlucky
(for me). “I ponder about”, I said to my son in phone
“to take the stair up to ring his doorbell, only to see
how this bad singing person looks like!” My son just
laughed: it’s not very likely I would do such a thing!

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in changes, create life, creativity, grannar, living with others, neighbors, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lady Corona: heaven can wait, we old don’t want to die!

“I wanted to live,” said a 92 years old Louise in a report on Swedish TV news and in an interview in the Swedish tabloid Expressen. She has survived both covid-19 and intensive care and has now been discharged from the hospital, blessing the treating doctor (in gloves) when she was about to leave.

Last I heard, about 80% of everyone who got this disease survive it and seven out of ten elderly-elderly survive covid-19 and become healthy again!

Yet worrying media reports tells that very old people, or people with kidney disease who need dialysis treatment are  patients who may not get intensifying life-sustaining measures, as decided by the medical care at place and time. This tendencies at hospitals in this stressed corona times has leaked to media by whistle-blowers at some hospitals in Stockholm.

An elaborated doctor with sleep deprivation and over-stressed can be tempted to think that someone who is about 92 years old “may die soon anyway. So why let this old person take a place a 22-year-old might need tomorrow?” It’s understandable but not acceptable.

Because we have a health care law that gives everyone the right to the same care regardless of age, nationality, gender or social status, that is why.

Because we over-aged, over-weighted people with diabetes and high blood pressure or having other underlying “weaknesses”, do not want to be sorted out as second-hand trash and low-class people, as believed to have  lower survival chance – according to physicians.

(Stephen Hawking greets you medicals from his black hole, doctors!)

And further, we old don’t want to “be protected” from the risk to get infected (just see how well society succeeded with that), but be helped through this crisis to the other side of it! We want to survive, but be human treated! We older were isolated in society before, now with this pandemic and the restrictions that have followed for us in particular, our isolation has escalated to a life in hell!

It has happened that primary care physicians have called elderly on phone or their relatives and “inform” them that the old one will not receive intensive care if they get ill in covid-19 – that is not information, it is to brutalize an old person’s last time in life! I hope these doctors who have done this are exceptions from all other doctors in this country, having better empathy for humans! It is humans you work with!

Another example of perverted care is told by the newspaper Svenska Dagbladet. In the Dalarna County a doctor at the primary care a doctor visited a home for elderly and asked people there if they would want to get life-sustaining care in a hospitals intense care, if they fall ill in covid-19 … AND then she wrote it in their medical records, this to have guidelines in the event of an illness in future…

This doctor who made this investigative visits at an elderly center, she said to the newspaper “it may seems surprising but some older don’t want to leave their elderly home to go to hospital and get intense care…

So her conclusion was oldies prefer to die rather than get arduous hospital care!

I don’t want to leave my home for hospital care either! It doesn’t mean I want to die. It means the thought to end up in intense care scares me!

Believe me, Doctor! I do not want it either because I am healthy now! And I have also had the same impulsive feeling that if I will get this disease, I will avoid a scary hospital treatment and stay at home without telling anyone that I am sick  – and just hope it will only go away!

But if I will become sick, to hell with that fear! Put me on a stretcher and drive me to the intensive care and don’t listen to my eventual protests, put a tube in my mouth to shut up and just take me there!

“To survive” is an instinct that is not rational and cannot be written off in an old person’s medical journal. When you get seriously ill, you will change your mind about this, if old or young, no matter!

At first, we got to read in media laconic comments, quoted from very old people asked if they were frighten for this epidemic, “if I die I die”they said… And we like to believe very much that is how it is: when we become very old we have settled with our factual mortality and accepts the thought of the personal death – and not one only the one for others. This pandemic has shown us who are younger than “elderly-elder” – about 90 or more, this is not the case at all! And this idealistic and vain hope has now fled, bye-bye!

“I just wanted to live”, said Louise 92 years old! Remember!

And this is Kjell Fransson, 92, from Jönköping (with his granddaughter) who has recovered after spending three days in hospital, infected by covid-19. His wife Gun got it a little worse with this sickness and was in respiratory care for four days. But she is home again too but not fully recovered yet, as still having a coughing and therefore sleeping in another room.

They have been married for 65 years. “It was very difficult when my wife was in the hospital”, says Kjell Fransson. Now he looks bright at the future and hopes that they will soon be able to sleep in the same bed again.

This is Lars-Erik Edwall becoming 90 soon. He lives in retirement home. Because of the Corona restrictions for elderly he has not seen his family for some weeks and miss them very much. But he’s thinking about the time after this crisis and he plan to start an orchestra when “all this corona” is over. He once played saxophone for 54 years in the band called “The lyre”. Now he has picked up his old guitar and he’s training for future and better times when it will be possible for elderly to entertain people as he once did before. And he’s blessed as he still can sing, he tells the reporter.

The retirement home there he live sometimes arrange concerts for the old, but that is not what Lars-Erik dream about, he want entertain his friends at the home, those he neither can see as often as before because of the restrictions. He want to gather people to sing with him.

About singing in traditional celebrating in Springtime in Sweden, all those events are canceled this year! Yet Swedish students want to disobey the ban and plan in social media to still celebrate their degrees in May and “to party the head off the authorities!”


Sjungom studentens lyckliga dag,
låtom oss fröjdas i ungdomens vår!
Än klappar hjärtat med friska slag,
och den ljusnande framtid är vår.
Inga stormar än
i våra sinnen bo,
hoppet är vår vän,
vi dess löften tro,
när vi knyta förbund i den lund,
där de härliga lagrarna gro,
där de härliga lagrarna gro!

Svea, vår moder, hugstor och skön,
manar till bragd som i fortida dagar.
Vinkar med segerns och ärans lön,
men den skörd utan strid man ej tar.
Aldrig slockne då
känslornas rena brand.
Aldrig brista må
vår trohets helga band,
så i gyllene frid som i strid:
Liv och blod för vårt fädernesland!
Liv och blod för vårt fädernesland!

I cannot hide the anger and frustration I deeply feel of the lack of solidarity some people shows at the city streets in our country. I’m thinking about those of the Swedish younger generations which disobey the recommendations of social distance and hygiene, gathering in parks and outdoor cafés.

And you who want to celebrate ending high school (educations that has been closed, by the way): If you cannot measure one and half meters you certainly don’t deserve to wear a graduation cap!

And further, if you are one of those disobedient ones, I say: do not then apply for a summer job at an elderly home or for home service for elderly. You’re the messenger of death!

The ban on student parties is not about an “unfair treatment” of young students by the local politicians. It’s about fighting a pandemic, lump-heads!


rose, white

Posted in aging, become old, changes, create life, creativity, culture values, diseases, dreamers, living with sickness, loneliness, old age, poems by vonnely, politics, reading, reading life, reading newspapers, reality, separated, short story, spring, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, Swedish souls | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

One hot day in April I went shopping…







It’s bloody hot today! It’s only April, but still a summer heat!

Well, I expected it to be hot when I dressed to go out to shop – but like a normal spring heat! And therefore no long underwear under my jeans, really not mittens but a thin jacket, a summer scarf and a long sleeve jumper, my usual boots. So I did leave my home:

Outside the gate door sits a girl and sunbathing in a bikini: true, very true – it’s really summer hot at the house wall! The scarf goes off and down in my bag when I walk to the bus stop. I’m certainly too warmly dressed!

An hour later, when I’m about to travel back from the city and wait for the bus, I also take off my jacket and put it in the bag. But I’m still too hot in my black jumper – and the boots!

People who waits for a bus the same as I do keep the distance well, all according to the recommendations of the Public Health Authority. Nice! But reduced bus tours makes it almost a bit crowded on the buses. I’m not happy for that!

An older Swedish man who has stared at me a while as we waited for the bus to come says as we enter the bus “Will you come or not?”. I don’t answer.

There are a sort of elderly Swedish men who seems to just hate me!! I don’t know why, but it makes me feel unsafe as nose my way in jungle of questions marks.

The few times in my life that kind of old guys and I have come into a conversation, they have never believed in my Swedish origin, but doubt me unfriendly in every way. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. But apparently, they think there is something wrong with me! Maybe because they lack intelligence but I certainly don’t and they cannot stand it? (I’m just asking!)

That greyish guy get off at the same bus stop as I do. Whoever he is, he goes in the opposite direction, thankfully. Next time I see him, I will remember him!

The girl outside the gate at the apartment house there I live has got company by a young man. They say “hello”. I have no idea who they are. I carry heavy after been shopping in town, but non of them helps me out by open the door for me.

No one living in the house has neither offered to shop for the old lady (that I am!), in spite neighbours in Sweden are asked by the authorities to help the old ones (me, again!). Youngsters today seems to think old people who want a seat on the bus or get a door opened or want help shopping, they should ask for it! But I would never ask for such!

I take the lift up to my floor, the key in the door: home! I check the blood sugar and the pink lipstick I bought. Both good enough. Now time to make dinner and then a nap!

This week I will be 71 years old. No doubt I am a 70 plus and as such recommended in these virus times to stay at  home and isolate me in quarantine. I live in Sweden and I am single and it is spring, please call me!

Summer dreams, Aldo Luongo

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Quoting the Swedish writer Theodor Kallifatides on Twitter 13 april
“Jag önskar att jag någon gång i livet fick gå ut ur huset med samma entusiasm, glädje och förväntan som min dotters två mopsar.”

In translation: “I wish that at some point in my life I was allowed to walk out of the house with the same enthusiasm, joy and anticipation as my daughter’s two pugs.”

Posted in joy, loneliness, melancholy, Poetry, Swedish "culture", Swedish artists | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Det finns en stad (There is a city)

Det finns en stad där ingen sover på natten.
Drömmarna är hemlösa där och härbärgen
saknas, då ingen vill vidkännas denna brist.
Jag bor i en annan stad. Jag inte är hemma
där. Min tillhörighet vilar i kontaktlösheten
och det förstulna och främmat annorlunda.
Det finns en stad där ingen sover på natten,
jag söker den staden men finner den aldrig.
rose, white



There is a city where no one sleeps at night.
The dreams are homeless there and there is
no shelters since no one can admit this fault.
I live in another city. I am not at home there.
rose, whiteMy belonging rests in what is not connected
but modest and strangely otherness. There’s
a city where no one sleeps at night. And I am
searching for that city, but I will never find it.

Nighthawks, oil painting on canvas, by Edward Jenkins 1942

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Medelklassens hastiga uppvaknande (What is “normal” and to whom?)

Read this post in English here below

Jag läser om morgonen en krönika i en morgontidning om att vi aldrig “efter detta” (pandemin!) kan gå tillbaka till det ”normala”. Det vill säga förgifta jorden. Äga förmågan att uppleva vad som vackert – naturen du vet, vitsippor och sånt. Och ”det normala” är ingen rättighet att återgå till! Så säger kolumnisten.

Herregud, denna försåtliga och mjäkiga medelklassretorik på kultursidorna!

Har livet någonsin varit “normalt”? För vem?

För vilka människor har livet någonsin varit normalt?

Ändå, vi är på väg tillbaka till det “normala” (i Sverige). Produktionen av personbilar startar upp igen. Gängkriminella som hållit sig lugna ett tag har nu efter några veckor i chockad karantän återgått det normala: det onormala skrämmande beteendet de uppvisade före Corona: att skjuta varandra dödligt i huvudet och till och med göra det på gatan på dagtid mitt ibland folk. Det händer nu igen. Tillbaka till det normala onormala!

I Stockholms förorter där folk från Somalia, Iran och Syrien lever är dödligheten högre i Corona än i orter där mest svenskar bor. Myndigheter skyller på trångboddhet och ”kulturfaktorer”, men har nu satt upp stora informationsskyltar på olika språk. Förutsättande att folk kan läsa!

Samtidigt, i kommunen Lidingö där mest medelklass svenskar bor, tilltalar föräldrar personalen på fritidscentra på engelska.

För att snobba med att verka “internationella”, trodde en anställd som aldrig upplevt 50-talet och aldrig hört talas om klassföraktet för sådana som betraktades som tjänstehjon. Vilket fritidsledare är i ett par medelklassögon.

Inget är normalt längre, sant! Nu måste alla tvätta händerna oavsett status och årsinkomst, ett godmorgon till den bortskämda medelklassen som bara vill leva “normalt. Ett hastigt uppvaknade till en brutal verklighet!

Men dylika insikter varar inte länge. Människan väljer bekvämlighet, oavsett klasstillhörighet. Oh, till och med oavsett art! Vi är bara djur med kultur! Normalt sett.

Världen i övrigt går också tillbaka till det ”normala”. Corona tömde Hongkongs gator. Myndigheterna vilade i veckor och tvättade sina händer (kan man förmoda). Nu tar man till hårdhandskarna och återgår till det “normala”. I en tidig morgonräd har cirka 7800 medlemmar i demokratirörelsen gripits. “Normalt” definieras de av myndigheter som terrorister och kan “normalt” räkna med många år i fängelse.

Fängelser, som antagligen inte har den standard som räknas som “normalt” i  svenska fängelser.

Men vitsipporna blommar normalt som de gör varje år, och om du inte kan glädjas åt det – skyll inte på ett virus!

It’s actually me April 24, 2011 Before becoming a 70+ and before the Corona virus the quarantine regulations



Read this post in English here below




In the morning I read a chronicle in a daily morning newspaper that we can never return to what’s  normal “after this” (the pandemic!). That is, to poison the earth. To own the ability to experience what’s beautiful – the nature you know, the wild anemones and such. And “the normal” is not a “righthood” to return to! So says the columnist.

My God, this insidious and mawkish middle class rhetoric at the culture pages!

Has life ever been “normal”? To whom?

For which people has life ever been normal?

Still, we are on our way back to “the normal” (in Sweden). Production of passenger cars starts up again. Gang criminals who have remained calm for a while have now returned to “normal” after a few weeks in shocked quarantine: the abnormal scary behavior they showed up before Corona: that they fatally shoot each other in the head and did it on the street in the daylight among common people. It’s happening now again. Back to the normal abnormal!

In Stockholm’s suburbs, where people from Somalia, Iran and Syria live, mortality is higher in COVID-19 than in places where most Swedes live. Authorities blames overcrowding housing and “cultural factors”, but have now set up large information signs in squares and shopping malls in different foreign languages. Assuming that people can read!

At the same time, in the municipality of Lidingö nearby Stockholm, where most middle-class Swedes lives, parents address the staff at leisure centers in English.

Being snobbish to appear as “international”, believed an employee who never experienced the 50s and never heard of class disdain of those who are considered to be low-class servants. Which school children’s leisure leader apparently are in a pair of parental middle class eyes.

Nothing is “normal” anymore, true! Now everyone has to wash their hands regardless of status and annual income, a brutal good morning to the spoiled middle class who just want to live “normally. A quick awakening to reality!

But such insights never last long. Humans chooses convenience, regardless of class affiliation. Oh, even whatever species! We are just animals with culture varnish! Normally.

The rest of the world also goes back to the “normal”. Corona virus emptied Hong Kong’s streets. The authorities have rested for weeks and washed their hands (I assume). Now they have returned taken strong measures and returned to the “normal”: now in an early morning raid about 7800 members of the democracy movement has been arrested. They are “normally” defined by authorities as terrorists and can “normally” count on many years in prison.

Prisons, which probably not have the standard that is considered “normal” in Swedish prisons.

But the white wood anemones bloom as they normally do every year here in Sweden, and if you live here and cannot experience happiness about this normal sight in springtime – don’t blame the virus!

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in courage, culture values, cultures, discourse by vonnely, diseases, fears, fragility, happiness, human rights, immigrants, living in the world, living with sickness, morality, nature, poems by vonnely, prose, reading newspapers, reality, sentimentality, Short prose, spring, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, troubled life, unhappiness, welfare | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

April 2020, fears and balcony dreams

Written in Swedish and then translated to English 

When I see the few people on the streets
nowadays, I see not only the people who
seems to ignore everything but their own
living: I can see fears in the others’ eyes.

The girl at the pharmacy who always use to be forward
and smiling and just a little too anxious to serve me, as
if she wanted something more than the pleasure of being
nice to people, she has changed to her opposite. The last
time I saw her she stood at the wall behind her colleagues,
hands behind her back, no smiling face, but scared eyes.

My thoughts the following days was
spinning on this: to be scared. Fear is

pure survival instinct and we know that it’s dangerously worse
to lack the ability to feel fear, not even so called splatter films

can compensate for this shortcoming.
But I think our fears say nothing about
the threats we experiences, factual or
imagined, but shows who we are and
how we are. I can see in people’s eyes
that they fears this epidemic, while I
see this, fears included, as something
I have to simply adapt to and act upon.

But no matter how, we have all changed:
Lady Corona reigns and rewrites our scripts.

Outside the windows the sun is shining hysterically
every day, but the nights are still cold. The Yellow
Star of Bethlehem and short-stemmed dandelions
bloom rebelliously at the leanest and most barren
roadsides as well as well-nourished hyacinths and
crocuses in flower-beds. Even one and another tulip
opens its eye to meet the sun’s provocatively heat.
One thinks about to plan a summer on the balcony:
to the left a corner for sun bath and morning coffee
and a shady place for work at the laptop just outside
the living room door, plants and privacy protection
against the windows across the street. But nothing
will protect me against neighbors’ smelly and smoky
barbecues or the news reports. And news now tells
a well-known Broadcast Profile liked by everyone has
died and he wasn’t old either! And in a small country
everyone gets stricken: suddenly, death is not only a
figure in the public statistic, but is given a name and
a friendly smiling face, now extinguished. And it can
happen to anyone at any time with no distinctions of
age or belonging or gender! So how will it go for my
green balcony dream with plants, a view and privacy?






När jag ser en del folk på gatan
ser jag inte bara de som verkar
strunta i allt utom sitt eget vara:
jag ser rädslan i de andras ögon.

Flickan på apoteket, som alltid brukar vara framåt och leende,
lite för angelägen att expediera som om hon ville ha något mer
än glädjen att få vara trevlig, hon har förändrats till sin motsats.
Senast jag såg henne stod hon tryckt mot väggen bakom sina
kollegor, händerna bakom ryggen, inget leende men rädda ögon.

De nästföljande dagarna snurrade
mina tankar om detta: att vara rädd.

Rädslan är ren överlevnadsinstinkt, det vet vi ju och att det är
farligt värre att sakna förmågan att bli rädd, inga splatterfilmer

kan kompensera den bristen. Men
jag tänker att vår rädsla inte säger
något om de hot som vi upplever,
faktiska eller imaginära, men visar
oss vilka vi är och hur vi är. Jag kan
se i folks ögon att de nu skräms av
denna pandemi. Medan jag ser det,
andras rädsla inräknad, som något
att anpassa sig till och agera utifrån.

Oavsett hur, har vi alla förändrats.
Lady Corona nyskriver våra manus.

Utanför fönstren skiner solen hysteriskt dag
efter dag, men nätterna är kalla. Vårlökar och
kortstjälkade maskrosor blommar trotsigt på
de magraste och ovänligaste vägrenarna och
välnärda hyacinter och krokusar i rabatterna.
Även en och annan tulpan öppnar sitt öga att
se solens pockande böner. Man tänker på att
planera sommaren på balkongen, solhörnan
till vänster, skrivhörnan strax utanför dörren,
växter och insynsskydd mot alla fönster tvärs
över gatan. Men inget kommer att skydda mig
mot grannarnas stinkande, rykande utegrillar
eller nyhetsrapporterna. En välkänd “Profil”
från radio och TV och gillad av alla har dött.
Inte var han så gammal heller, men i ett litet
blir vi liksom alla drabbade. Plötsligt är döden
inte bara en siffra i den offentliga statistiken,
men har fått ett namn och ett vänligt leende
ansikte, det som nu har slocknat och det kan
hända vem som helst när som helst och utan
åtskillnad av ålder eller tillhörighet eller kön.
Så hur ska det  gå för min gröna balkongdröm
med plantor i blom och en utsikt utan insyn?

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in changes, fears, images, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading life, reality, Sweden view, Swedish conditions, Swedish poem to English, threatened, to die, vår | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Extra Everything!





P.S. Krøyer: Summer Evening at Skagen 1892

I don’t ask for much, but more than I can get!
I want a big pizza, with Extra Everything and
a pension that would last for a whole month.
I don’t ask for much, not like to cross oceans
to see you! But to see Amsterdam, Berlin and
Frankfurt! Yet as my time left is short I’m still
glad for a summer day in nearby Norrköping.
I took many photos of bridges and water, but
my camera broke down and all the pics in my
memories are also gone. But I still remember
how my feet hurt and how I hardly could walk
to the station to take the train back to my city.
It was good then to get back home to my own
abandonment! I think of you at times but not
often. It could have been love, but it was not!


rose, whiterose, white


Posted in alienation, dreaming, heartache, Living with chronic pains, loneliness, loners, longing, loss, love story, maturity, past, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, remembering, sentimentality, single-handed voyage | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Botten, Linköping stad och dess nonchalanta ungdom i Corona-tider!

Staden: kollade häromveckan kommunens webbsida för att söka efter hjälp att få handlat. Mycket information om hur bli volontär hittade jag, ingen information alls hur att få hjälp! Det är så rart att staden och organisationer som Röda Korset har webbsidor där volontärer kan anmäla sig för att hjälpa oss stackars gamla jävlar! Men jag tänkte: hur vore det att lämna tydliga adresser och telefonnummer där vi som är 70+ och saknar anhöriga i stan kan anmäla sig för att få hjälp med att handla i affär och apotek? Botten!

(obs, att detta gällde till förra veckan. Denna vecka har kommunens  webbsida uppdaterats och bra och tydliga anvisningar finns, se länkar nedan.)

Apotek: Vad menar ni med att vi äldre som forna tiders fattighjon och luffare ska stå utanför butikerna och knacka på fönstret för att bli expedierade, när yngre är välkomna in i lokalerna? “Omtanke”, my ass! Notera att det inte är vi äldre som är de smittbärande, utan ska skyddas från smitta! Låt oss gå in i lokalen och de yngre generationerna stå utanför och knacka på! Botten!


Linköpings ungdomar: era skolor stängdes inte för att ni ska dra omkring på stan mitt på dagen. Håll er hemma dagtid eller håll avståndet: i bussar och vid av och påstigning, på gator, torg och i affärer. Botten!

Ica Gyllentorget: varför sätta upp avståndsmarkeringar vid kassorna när er (yngre) personal och era unga daglediga kunder springer emellan de köande som håller avståndsmarkeringarna? (De verkade befinna sig  i butiken, inte för att handla men för att ta en motionsrunda inomhus!) Ungdomar, anställda och kunder, passerade mig tätt inpå inte en eller två gånger under en fem-minuters kötid, utan det var minst 20 pers som sprang fram och tillbaka mellan avståndsmarkeringarna). (Besökte butiken 7 april, hoppas lite disciplin införts sedan dess!) Botten!

Att ta buss 1 från city och till Berga är pest för oss äldre med balansproblem och kronisk värk, inte bara nu men året runt: skolbarn, ungdomar och medelålders medeklasstanter ockuperar platserna för rörelsehindrade med arslet på ett säte + väskan på ett andra säte + fötterna på det tredje sätet. Ett klart och utstuderat beteende kallat ageism! Och ”people!”, sluta tränga er på in i bussen, innan vi gamla tanter och gubbar klivit av: håll avståndet! Botten!

Busschaufförer, tydligen griniga för att ni måste jobba i Corona-tider! Era passagerare måste stiga på därbak för att skydda er från virus, men det betyder inte att det är okay att med ett ryck rivstarta när äldre kliver på. Vänta 20 sekunder och tillåt oss att skanna busskortet och sätta oss ned: äldre  betyder att vi har taskig rörlighet och dåliga balans! Detta är förbanne mig inte tider att bryta lårbenshalsen och tvingas söka sjukvård för onödiga fallolyckor! Och man ska inte behöva känna rädsla för att ta bussen ner till stan och hem igen! Botten!

Och du unga tjej som satte dig på platsen tätt bakom mig till Berga i tisdags (7:e april) och intensivt salivslaskande smackade på ett bubbelgum och blåste bubblor hela vägen till Berga, helt fördjupad i din mobil, låtsandes att inte se mig: jag tempade och hostade i torsdags. Bara så du vet…

Tillägg: kommunen har överlåtit MATHJÄLPEN på svenska kyrkan! (?) (Jag har noterat att kyrkan verkar ha en bra social verksamhet. Men jag är inte medlem i kyrkan och jag vill inte ha kontakt med kristna – om det inte gäller att leva eller dö. Jag skulle t o m kunna överge min vegetariska kost om det gällde ren överlevnad. Men skicka inte en präst på mig om jag behöver krishantering! Det skulle verkligen ge mig en kris!)


Hälsningar från en 70-plussare!

Glad virusfri påsk tillönskas alla hens – och ät inte ägg!

Posted in aging, old age, vulnerability | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Det svåraste / The Hardest

(translated from Swedish)

There will be days we will never forget, but
will want to forget, there have been days we
thought we could never live on with, but still
we did and it is like a silencing shame and an
insult we carry with bitter faces, because so
it shall be! The hardest is not the hard days,
but simple absent days afterwards. To let go,
be happy without any sensible reason, all the
luggage you carry! Nevertheless, you will still
have like a child’s hand in yours, a trust that
holds all the way. The hardest: to dare again!

rose, whiteDet kommer dagar vi aldrig ska glömma
men vill och det har funnits dagar som vi
en gång trodde att vi aldrig skulle kunna
leva med men det gjorde vi ändå och det
är som en tigande skam en förolämpning
som vi bär med bittra ansikten, för att så
ska det vara! Det svåraste är inte de svåra
dagarna men enkla glömska dagar efteråt.
Släppa taget, vara lycklig utan någon enda
rose, whitevettig orsak: allt bagage du har! Och ändå
har du som barnets hand i din en tillit som
håller hela vägen. Det svåra: att våga igen!

Posted in courage, create life, faith, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, spring, trust, vårvinter, walk of life | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A “But?” poem

My son buys books online and got an offer to get three books for the prize of two and he offered me this “free” book, which I’m very thankful for. I wanted Rainer Maria Rilke “The Book of Hours Das Stunden-Buch Timmarnas bok”, but this book was “temporarily out of stock”. I checked out the biographical book “Unorthodox The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots” by Deborah Feldman, but it was also “temporarily out of stock”.  Now I have a third book in mind which actually is available to buy. It’s a new poetry collection by a well-established and very skilled Swedish author. And very old. I have read a few poems in the book online a couple of times – a reading that makes me feel so split: because I can see with my intellect and understanding of poetry it is a fantastic writing, but! BUT!

So I wrote a “but!” poem! 






I read you, skillful poet! Well-written poetry,
a testimony of the non-personal! Old man,
you have learned your craft so well and got
your fame, well deserved and now as you’re
very old you’ll soon die, to be remembered
for your skillful words. But where were your
tears? Where the shards of your heart those
broken to be glued and scarred? I’m craving
to see your shirt unbuttoned, exposing your
nude chest and you, resting on a bed of red
roses: a lover with a bleeding heart that was
your ink, burning words into papered poetry!

man on a bed of red roses





(But you write like if undercover a poem about
the three men in the burning oven generalizing
passions and personal experienced pains into
bloodless abstractions – finally the bodily and
the personal is cremated, universality claimed!
It’s so very well written, but do I really want to
have this poetry book in my shelf, I ask myself?)

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in about writing, books, poems, poems by vonnely, reading, writing | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Keeping the distance

Don’t shake my hand
and don’t stand too close!
No cheek kisses and no hugs –
don’t make your moves too soon!
We fear the other and stay at home,
no matter believers or non-believers,
Lady Corona is equally infectious to all.
Dealing with a virus, you better go viral,
waving on a screen, blink flirty, sending
smileys kisses, it is safe love to hold on:
online romances will be hard currency!
Knowing, there’s a time for everything:
make no moves to others – too soon!

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in create life, distance, online friends, online romance, opportunities, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, repression and borders | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The end of a high flying romance (quarantine)

I have nothing to say to you that could be of any comfort
to you. For once, the saying “you reap what you sow” fits
good when about you! I don’t feel anything yet, no anger
or bitterness or sadness. I am of course disappointed but
honestly, you are a real asshole. What you used to say, if
you lost me, then you would seek a forsaken place to live
in solitude sadness for the rest of your life, I surely don’t
believe in that. But it is a good idea as a shield for women
nearby you. You are truly best suited held in a quarantine!




“Ord och inga visor”

Jag har inget att säga till dig som kunde vara
dig till någon tröst – för en gång skull passar
talesättet att “du skördar det du sådde”! Jag
känner inget ännu – ingen bitterhet eller ilska
eller sorg. Naturligtvis är jag besviken på dig
men ärligt talat är du inte riktigt arsel. Det du
sa att om du förlorade mig skulle du söka dig
till en enslig plats att leva i sorgsen ensamhet
för resten av ditt liv – tror jag inte ett dugg på.
Men annars är det en god idé som skulle vara
till fromma för kvinnor som finns i din närhet:
för du passar ju bäst att hållas i en karantän!

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in heartache, life and love, loss, lost romance, lost trust, love story, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading life, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I have decided to be happy!

I turn 71 in April and I may reach 75 – or 74,
but that would be too sad short to imagine.
I hope to be at least 85 and still be movable.
Let’s say I’ll have 15 years left, do you really
think I want to spend these years with listen
to your laments and daily deal with your sad-
ness and yearnings? Life can be weighty, yes
but you certainly don’t raise it. The luxury of
being gloomy, I can’t afford it anymore! You
deny it, but 70 + is to have a death sentence –
in sight! So please, do not ruin my remaining
lifetime by pouring your sad desires over my
head! I simply have decided to spend my last
years being happy. Finally!

rose, whiterose, white




And I can give you up for it!

Posted in aging, authenticity, become old, create life, free, leaving, love story, maturity, morality, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


Inspired by Francesco Petrarca’s courtly love poems to Laura de Sade

And ever since the day you died, my Laura,
my heart is an empty deserted grieving tomb.
I dreamed about you in lonely bachelor nights,
my feverish body pained by roses’ thorns.

It was in Church Good Friday Midnight Mass,
your face in dimly light, my heart forever lost.
At seventeen already another man’s wife!
I was and would remain a chaste church-man!

I followed you for three years, then transferred
as Pope’s adapted Canon for many long years.
I wrote about you hundreds courtly love poems.

Meanwhile, you gave birth to eleven children.
At age thirty-eight, Black Death took you away.
I wanted you and all I got was mourning you.

The after-world calls me the first modern man,
I was an absent scholar, serious Latin author.
My fame which rest on my pure love to Laura
was only idle poems about sinful desires.

A worldly man in deeds, a church-man in faith.
My daily life one, my soul another and thirdly,
my weak flesh: two out-of-wedlock children.
And Laura’s tragic death eased my longing pain.

I dedicated you, Laura, to coming readers.
Life could never deprive you of your beauty
or your virtue, nor my love: “pure literature”.

When Lady Corona or Black Death creates fear,
as given scholars’ rhymes, insulation and strangers,
then nothing will ease but loved one’s presence care!

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in about writing, absence, Attraction, authenticity, closeness, create life, desirers, dreamers, gloom, heartache, inspiring writer, life and love, living in the world, loneliness, longing, loss, love poem, love story, morality, obstacles, past, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics, reading, reality, rebellious lovers, relationships, romance, satire, sentimentality, sexuality, vulnerability, with or without you, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Three weeks today

Three weeks today, right!
And it’s hard, hard, hard!
It’s right hard, right now!
A love like a picture book
we awhile leafed through?
rose, white




Posted in heartache, love poem, memories, poem in English to Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, separated, unhappines | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A low-priced life // Fattigpensionär







In my universe it’s rather empty, even
the cat rejects the low-price tuna fish
from supermarket to then run around
in fury in my two-room flat when I tell
her it’s what you get take it or leave it.
But we both are without on inside and
outside, everything and everyone, yet
within our own life we reject all that is
to enjoy our time with low-price buys.
Still  a hundred dollars in supplement
to the minimal pensions would water
my withered dreams as it is never too
late we are told all the lies we are fed
with the jars with low-priced tuna fish,
a toothless chewing of steel. Once my
heart belonged to the left, but now it
needs an exercise bike, out of dreams
I am free from everyone but with 100
dollars more in month I could buy me
dentures, teeth to smile enlightening
the whole northern Scandinavia and
I would be able to offer coffee and be
someone, if you understand me right.
And that’s all I had to say. The cat ate
lastly the fish now to sleep like a rock.






I mitt universum är det ganska folktomt
även katten nobbar lågpristonfisken från
Ica och rusar rasande runt i tvåan när jag
säger det här är vad du får ta det eller bli
utan vi blir båda utan och utanför allt och
alla men innanför i detta egna liv ratar vi
allt men njuter vårt otium med lågprisköp
en tusenlapp i tillägg till pensionen skulle
vattna mina vissnade drömmar. Det är ju
aldrig för sent sägs det alla de lögner man
matas med, burkarna med lågpris-tonfisk
tandlöst tuggande plåt. En gång tillhörde
mitt hjärta vänstern men behöver numer
en motionscykel, utan drömmar är jag fri
från alla men tusen spänn mer i pension
i månaden skulle skaffa mig tänder att le
och då minsann skulle alla där ute få se
ett leende så stort upplysande Norrland
och jag skulle få bjuda på kaffe och vara
någon jag med om du fattar min mening.
Och det var allt jag hade att säga, kattan
tog fisken till slut och sover nu stenhårt.


rose, whiterose, white

Posted in loneliness, loners, loss, lost, old age, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, poverty, unhappiness, with or without you | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Do I really dare to leave home?


It’s evening and I want to go out for a short walk. But do I really dare to leave home?

I read on some website that about 46 % of us over 65 who falls cannot get up on our feet without help. Therefore elderly should train to regain some of their bodily loss of strength, flexibility and balance with exercises. This we are advised. To prevent it from happening.

But if you anyway would fall, you’re told to use an armchair or a stool to get up on feet again. I’ve tried this advice with a stool in the bathroom and it actually works well. I tried it with an armchair in my living room too. But the cat sleeping there didn’t appreciate my strange crawling. So I went back to the bathroom to train there.

Yet my problem is I rarely would fall at home but I do it when I’m out and walk on a sidewalk. And so far I have never taken a walk with a chair or a stool. Maybe I should, but it feels odd to do. How would it look if I (aged!) lady would come walking passing all neighbor windows, carrying a stool or an armchair?

“Oh, there she goes again, that odd lonely woman from the corner house on her night walks. Now she got really odd or senile, walking out with a kitchen chair under the arm.” Embarrassment, only at the thought.

But facts are facts. I can’t get up if I fall because I weigh 220 lb., have weakened wrists and ankles, hurting feet and a worn hip and lower back problems. Everything in my body aches more or less. When I fall I can get back up on my hurting hands and knees, but then I’m stuck and totally helpless to get up on my feet again, lost.

And I recognize myself: here I am again on the ground, in despair…

Not for long, though. So far someone has turned around and helped me. So far! But I say, poor those short and tiny but helpful men rushing for to help me up! I believe they afterwards regret their good impulses, when there with me on the ground and they got my body weight on them to lift up. I think they asked God to give them strength to help them out of the situation and not go home with a lumbago!

Actually, we all should train how to get an older and heavy person on her or his feet. No one seems to know how to do it.  From those who helped me on different occasions, I’ve learned that to reach out one simple hand is not of any help. To then from the same position offer the whole arm and drag me up works but it was heavy for the helping person. To stand behind my back and put the arms around me to lift me is not good either. Well, it is good if you want to drag a person out of a burning house, but not easy to get someone on the feet. Lifting a 220 lb. person that way probably doubled my weight and harm the back of my good helper.

I have google on this and I can’t find no other advices than those how to avoid to fall and then if anyone does, do it indoors with a chair nearby. In reality, people fall on a street as I do – and unfortunately you may be the only one there willing to help.

And if you are a little man of 5.7 feet and 145 lb. (1.70 m + 66 kg), poor you what to do?

I will give a few suggestions: now with the situation with me on my knees and not able to get further:

1. You stand beside me and stick your arm under my armpit and hold your hand on my chest and put the other arm around my back to hold me by my waist. Then you bend down your knees and breathe in and when breathe out you stretch your legs and lift me. It’s less heavy.

2. Or you can stand in front of me and hold me under my arms, bend your knees and take a step back while you straight your legs.

3. Or, stand in front me my knees, reach out your arms and let me take them in a firmly grip and then you back off from me, with that drag me up.

Now you may silently think: why I don’t use a stick or a walker for support, having this problems. But I don’t need a walker and a crutch more than you do. Yes, I limp a little when my sore hip aches at its worst and a stick is of a certain support on such an unhappy day. Otherwise it’s better training for the body not to lean on such supports. And walk with a crutch and a stick is not easy if you not need it it’s all in the way all the time and you fear it will tripping you, I’ve been there. Lose weight would do it you think? Yes, and I wish that, but have you’ve tried it? Then you know: easy said, harder to implement.

I train on regain the balance to keep me on my feet. That’s for to prevent a fall. Good. But  that is of no use for me, as I have a tricky brain who simply order the right leg to fold away and not support the body. No use with training the balance then! And there is never such moment when I can experience that I loose the balance to straighten me to get back upright. My leg is off duty  but I can’t feel it and I take a step further – and I fall rapidly to the ground, uncontrolled.

It’s scary.

After such an event and happily back home again,  I feel mentally bad (read = sad) and shaken. But the bodily shock comes hours after to plant out pains in every muscle in every limb during the following night. Soon the body is better, yes. But the fear is still there: do I dare to go outdoors leaving home? What if I fall again?

No, I don’t dare but still I will: now I leave this writing to resume my habit with night walks. And I will bring with me a stool, hidden in an IKEA blue bag!


rose, white

Posted in aging, fragile, lost, old age, poems by vonnely, reality, sadness | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Married to the blues

Married and buried in longing for you,
my loneliness singing a blues forever.
I wonder who’s kissing you now and if
you eat properly? Is it any raining out?
Do you still go to the mall on Saturday
to then watch football on TV? Do you
pray five times a day? Living body and
the hole in your heart, buried longing
to me, one woman you never married.

Vigd och begravd i min längtan till dig,
sjunger ensamheten en blues för alltid.
Jag undrar vem kysser dig nu och om du
äter ordentligt? Regnar det ute hos dig?
Går du ännu till marknaden på lördagar
för att sen kolla fotbollen på TV? Ber du
dina fem böner var dag? Levande kropp
hålet i ditt hjärta; begravd längtan efter
mig, enda kvinna du aldrig gifte dig med.

rose, whiterose, white




Posted in heartache, inspiring songs, life and love, loneliness, longing, loss, love story, melancholy, memories, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, rebellious lovers | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment


The right of asylum (sometimes called right of political asylum, from the Ancient Greek word ἄσυλον) Quote from en.wikipedia

Sweden’s politicians and the EU: We protect the right of asylum, we only make it impossible for people to come to our borders to get their rights tested.

nytimes Febr 29 20: About 4,000 migrants of various nationalities were pressed against the Turkish side of the border and an additional 500 or so people were trapped between two border posts, but still on the Turkish side.Credit…Bulent Kilic

When politics fails us, journalists are needed to tell us what is happening. And we readers who view the events from helpless afar, we must protect our own humanity and not let us be fooled into “rational” explanations, created for to escape our own deeply felt disgust of what happens to individual innocent people. Tear gas and rubber bullets against unarmed adults and infant children, not any political explanations are adequate to this suffering of humans, although we all know who the crooks are, causing this.


The quote below from the Swedish newspaper Sydsvenskan, Olle Lönnaeus, 2 March 2020

Nu strömmar alltså tiotusentals, kanske hundratusentals migranter som vistats i Turkiet mot EU:s gräns. Män, kvinnor och barn.

De möts av hårdhänta grekiska gränsvakter. Det finns vittnesmål om tårgas och gummikulor. Ofta tvingas migranterna vända tillbaka. Hur man än tolkar FN:s flyktingkonvention så torde grekerna därmed bryta mot asylrätten.

Samtidigt samlas EU:s regeringar i Bryssel för krismöte.

Inte ett 2015 till, lyder migrationsminister Morgan Johanssons (S) mantra. Det tål inte den svenska välfärden. Kommunerna går redan på knäna. De borgerliga partierna håller med. Det finns inga enkla lösningar. Ingen förespråkar helt öppna gränser.
Sverige är redo att skicka mer resurser till EU:s gränsstyrka Frontex. Långsiktigt hoppas alla på “ett rättvisare system” för fördelning av asylsökande inom EU.

Och så länge inte Sverige nekar de asylsökande som når vårt land möjligheten att få sin sak prövad så kan politikerna säga: ”Vi värnar asylrätten.”

Greece Police, refugees

Posted in betrayal, courage, living in the world, poems by vonnely, politics, reading newspapers, reality, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Cleaning old data

Jag låter datorn rensa bort onödiga filer.
Om bara min hjärna vore lika hygglig och
rensade bort alla onödiga filer i alla dess
vindlande vrår! Plågor, vrede och skam
som en gång var! Det är sen natt och jag
avslutar Windows för tandborstning och
säng. Faller djupt i sömn med hjärnan i
vilda språng, hjälplöst fångad i en rodeo
av filer; alla de redlösa minnena sparade.


I let the computer clean unnecessary files.
I only wish my brain would be just as able
to clean up all the unnecessary files in all
its wrinkled windings! Plagues, anger and
shame which once was! Yet it’s late night
and I turn off my laptop to brush my teeth
and go to bed, fall into deep sleep and my
brain is out of order in wild leaps, helpless
trapped in a tumult of files, with all those
unmanageable memories forever saved.

Posted in memories, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Excuse me!

pic 1 teargas against refugees, pic 2 Sweden’s Migration Minister Morgan Johansson

Mr Johansson tell Swedish media “We consider that the risk of a new refugee crisis like 2015 is considerably less this year. The situation in the EU and Sweden looks different. Sweden has different legislation and it is harder for people to get through Europe today. At many border crossings in Europe, there are now border controls and since 2015 Sweden also has internal border controls. Since 2016, the Migration Board has an increased preparedness responsibility and the government has a close dialogue with the Migration Board.

”Vi bedömer att risken för en ny flyktingkris likt 2015 är avsevärt mindre i år. Situationen i EU och Sverige ser annorlunda ut. Sverige har en annan lagstiftning och det är svårare för människor att ta sig genom Europa idag. Vid många gränsövergångar i Europa finns det nu gränskontroller och även Sverige har sedan 2015 inre gränskontroller. Migrations-verket har sedan 2016 ett utökat beredskapsansvar och regeringen har en nära dialog med Migrationsverket.” 29-2-2020

And that was all he had to say  about those ongoing tragedies in front of our eyes.

Excuse me (Swedish) Migration Minister Morgan Johansson, but these are innocent fleeing humans you talk about: unarmed men, women and small children exposed to tear gas and batons, fences and riot police, it is not grasshopper invasions in Africa, not Corona virus from China! It is people like yourself and your family! To my opinion the politicians in the EU and Sweden dealing with the Syria crisis are no better than Trump dealing with refugees from Latin America, no better than the Nazis once were. Become a (hu-)man, Morgan! This is absolutely disgusting!

And better listen you and your fellows in the government: Don’t forget that Sweden is up for election next year. It becomes more and more obvious to me, there is no party to vote for – so I won’t do it either.

refugees from Turkey Syria

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In your absence




It’s three AM and too late to say good night
as you must be already sleeping. If you are
okay, are you? I also need sleep, but I want
to stay awake a little more to think lovingly
of you in this silent, peaceful night. I hated
you when we were in touch, as you kept on
saying things that made me annoyed, never
facing what you caused by doing so. But in
your silent absence, I love you very much.


rose, whiterose, white

Posted in absence, listen more talk less, loners, loss, love story, memories, missing, obstacles, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, secret love, single-handed voyage, with or without you | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Disguised Poetry (Samtida diktkonst)


Under ytterrockar, bakom ansiktsmasker
framträder dagens svenska poeter, såsom
saudiska kvinnor går på en gata, förklädda.
Hellre beläst skriva om Ovidius eller Sapfo
än som ett ”jag” skriva om en trång förhud.
Endast romanförfattare jagar sin jagiskhet
i avsaknad förmåga att fabulera. Fånge i en
tid, där lärd är en synonym för kunskap att
saluföra sig på den litterära fiskmarknaden.
Jag försöker sannerligen att läsa samtidens
sålda texter, men hejdas av mitt råa skratt.
Diktare i recensioner varsamt dissekerade.

Covered in overcoats, behind face masks,
Swedish poets of today shows themselves
alike the Saudi women walking on a street,
disguised. Prominent poets talk about Ovid
or Sappho rather than as an “I” write about
their narrowed foreskin. Only the novelists
chase their shadowed “I”, lacking ability to
fabulate. Them, as prisoners in the present
there knowledge is synonymous for a know-
how to sell oneself on a literary fish market.
I try verily to read what’s salable poetry but
yet I get caught and lost by my rough laugh.
Poets in the hands of critics softly dissected.


rose, whiterose, white

Posted in about writing, alienation, creativity, culture values, gloom, inspiring literature, inspiring speech, maturity, morality, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, satire, Swedish "culture", Swedish souls, walls, words | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sharing same heart

I am fine and everything works well
don’t worry about me, but take care
of yourself. I miss you too of course:
two far-off continents and two souls
apart, still we share one same heart.


Jag mår bra och allt funkar finemang
oroa dig inte för mig men ta hand om
dig själv. Jag saknar dig självklart: två
fjärran kontinenter, två åtskilda själar
likafullt delar vi ett och samma hjärta.

Posted in connecting, life and love, love story, missing, online friends, online romance, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, remembering | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Her best friend (republished)

From July 2014, the original in Swedish on 17 July, the translation  now rewritten.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and he had
rose, whitea wife, Lena, and three children
and one cat and he built a house
to them and he made everything
in himself, because he wanted to
know that every little detail in his
house came from his hand. So he
told her, because between them
there were no secrets. He said.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and they had
rose, whiteknown each other for some years.
He was her confidant and idol and
an ideal for how to get life to work
successfully and she was happy for
the love for him and between them
there were no secrets. She thought.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name. But one day
he told her he couldn’t go on like
rose, whitethat anymore, meet with her and
have a coffee and talks and see
how she laughed and smiled to
him. “If I can’t have sex with you,
you will never see me anymore”,
no never more. He said.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and he was
the only friend she had. But with
a knife in her heart she told him
“no” and he said she could think
rose, whiteabout it to next time he visited
her. But she knew now how it
was and what he had told her,
so he said. And he left.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and they
had sex for the first time in his
wife’s discarded youth bed, it
was the same bed the wife once
had given her. And he was very
rose, whitenervous and came at once and
blushing he apologized for his
disgrace and he promised her
that next time would be better.
As if she wanted a next time.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and he built
a house, everything on his own,
because he wanted to know all
in his life came from his hands.
rose, whiteSo he told her when they met in
secret, now when friendship and
the talks about “art and life” was
paid by her with being naked and
let him have sex with her.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and he told
her about all women he had sex
with and then he insistently told
her not to reveal him to his wife,
because without her his life would
rose, whitebe over, he said. “Isn’t that on you
and not on me”, she asked him and
upset he said she did not love him
the way she should do.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name, and when
his house was finished she went
to see it, but just one time never
more and he more rarely visit her.
But when a woman friend to his
rose, whitewife began to gossip about them,
she denied it all to his wife, as he
had asked her to do. ”There are
no secrets”, she said.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and he came
and she undressed and went to
her bed, but he just looked dark
and angry at her. Then sudden he
got up on top of her and sat down
heavily on her chest, holding her
rose, whitehead in a vise between his thighs,
and her arms down with his hands,
and pressed his erect penis to her

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and he forced
her to look at him while he pushed
and held her down at the same time,
weighty moving his heavy body and
his gender over her and in her face,
while he angrily asked and asked
rose, whiteagain and again and again, why
and why and why she didn’t want
him and then he accused her of
thinking that he was disgusting.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name. If he had
struck her in the face, then her
mouth would probably had
automatically opened up, but
that was apparently over what
rose, whitehe was capable of and she kept
her mouth tightly closed, and
continue to refuse to accept him,
how much he ever pushed and
held her down and talked and
talked. He smelled so badly.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name, and after
a heinous forever and ever, he
finally left and released her. He
rose, whitedressed, still angry and insulted
and before he left her he said
bitterly “You never wanted me,
right?” That was true, she had
loved him. But never in that way.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and that night
she dreamed he had died and she
woke up crying. The dream was so
real she thought it was true, until
rose, whiteshe one day a few weeks later met
him on the street with his wife. They
asked her to soon come and visit
them again. She promised to, but
she never went.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name, but after him
she had no best friend any more.
Alone, then out of a job and money
she hit the wall and at a point his
wife sent him to talk her to senses
rose, whiteand to deal with her life before it
went straight to hell. “We are very
worried about you”, he told. But she
didn’t listen and he left. That was
the last time he visited her.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name. And now she
didn’t have friends, but she had
a job, a dog and a flat. When
loneliness became too hard, she
began to date a man she didn’t
rose, whitelike, but quickly she realized her
mistake and ended it. But still he
came to visit her and put a pill in
her coffee and raped her on her
kitchen floor and in weeks after
he phoned to his countrymen to
come and end the show.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph, that was his name. They
lived quite close to each other,
but never saw each other again.
rose, whiteShe married and divorced, hastily
and devastating and lost her little
life, and fled town and lived then
on welfare until she got disability
pension. She was a failure in life,
unlike that friend she once had.
She still remembered with shame
how he had showed her what a
flop she was, not at least in bed.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name. More than
rose, white3 decades later in the library with
a collection of poems by Rilke in
her hand, then from nowhere she
remembered her best friend in
the past and that bad dream she
thought she once had had. And
after those many years that had
passed, she realizes what really
happened to her that day.

She once had a best friend and
Ralph was his name and she had
rose, whiteadmired him for his determined
way to acquire what he wanted.
But time went on and 36 years
later a man told her he wanted
to be her best friend. “No, it’s
not a good idea”, she said. “But
there are no secrets between
us”, he said. “Is it not?” She said.

rose, whiterose, white





Hennes bästa vän
posted in Swedish 17 July, 2014

Posted in abuse, aging, copied lyrics, create life, falsehood, falsity, friendship, heartbreaker, hjärtekrossare, loneliness, loss, lost trust, memories, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, sadness, surviving, vulnerability | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Elderly balance (single-leg stance)

When 18 people read my texts I exist. Otherwise it is not much with that, unless I not wake up in the night with cramps in one lower leg, then I surely know I’m alive. I hear on the TV news how youngsters and oldies get robbed on the street but when I go outdoors I am never afraid. But I became very scared one late black night when a big monster machine came driving towards me in high speed with flashing lights, wide sweeping away the new thin layer of snow with its front part and salting the street with its behind. I lost my foot grip, lost my balance and fell like a rock and ungainly with weakened wrists and ankles I couldn’t get up again but got help from a slightly drunk young man.

I became scared the other day too when I left the Supermarket to the street and an ambulance came driving fast with howling sirens and blue lights. I wouldn’t want to die like that in that one noisy speedy transport, but probably I’ll die falling like a rock in the street while I’m thinking about what on TV later or what for dinner, instant black screen no signal ever more, and that was that.


Woman with a cat, Pablo Picasso

But so far I still think of men, while I more vital lack having supportive friends. Yet I don’t strive for to be liked nor loved. My bright brain and intellectual integrity comes from the fact that I am not governed by any narrow group affiliation for mutual admiration and confirmation. I avoid such. Love, well I would of course wish to have that again before I die, it would be sad to never again have a sex life. And it’s scientifically proven that touch is health promoting. But what of the opposite, the forced togetherness, the forced touch? In that regard I only accept my cat’s affectionate approaches. But still I wonder what it is with cat animals that always have to touch and be cuddled. I’m okay with that but yet I don’t trust cats, affection and reflections I can see in that animal I own, but cat animals are totally controlled by their reflexes, acts instantly without foresight reflections, unpredictable. A slightly too quick and unexpected move with the hand and it gets an instant stroke by a paw as if it the hand was a prey.

Occasionally it has happened that I got my words explained to me, their meaning. Absurd, that’s all I can say. It’s my text sure, but I’m not the user. I’m certainly responsible for what I have written, but not for others’ interpretations of what is written. Yet the fact that there are those who want to read me impresses me a lot, but it also perplexes me. When 18 people, or two or 89 for that matter, read my words, then I exist. When someone I share a lift with stand beside me and yet pretends not to see me, I tell myself that it’s a pity for her, this not to get an unpleasant feeling in my body. But it is as it has always been, some consider themselves to be superior to others. But I have not yet been afraid “out there” in the street, “in these times”. But heaven knows that once there was so much I was afraid of!

I was born in a poor isolated and dysfunctional farm-worker family who always moved to new farms in hope for a better life. I was bullied in schools and I had hardly any friends. I never got the social training other children gains and  it seems to have followed me the whole life like a curse.

I left home when I was 18 and after long times with sicknesses I finally got high school qualifications at an alternative school for adults. I wanted to go to university but my deep shyness and underclass complex and no “know-how” held me back. I didn’t dare to try but worked for a while as a cleaner, but lost the job. Then my earlier principal at the school intervened and helped me with the application. At the same time, he was flirting roughly behind his wife’s back and asked me to tell him about my sex life. It amused him to see my fear.

I had no money and was formally unemployed and applied for social welfare but when the social worker found out my study plans he told me I couldn’t do it. When I ignored his demands, he turned down my application for money and called my handler at the employment office and they had a long and apparently nice conversation with many laughs at my expense and for me to listen to. People like me should not go to a university, that was just ridiculous, that was what said. Apparently it was also fun to humiliate me in that way, sitting there listening.

I didn’t change my plans but I took the train and left. I rented a room in my new city and paid the rent. Then I had no money for food and course books. The ones I borrowed at the library were in German. Of course, I had never learned German. I was told at the university that all literature for this course was in German and that they didn’t need to inform about this, one should just understand it.

It certainly didn’t go well and I had to quit the studies. After a time of crises of despair, I went back to studies and I began study literature science. All I wanted was to be a poet, so I was far from reality in never-never land. The others students became librarians.

My problems came up again when I moved to a higher level in my studies and had to work independently with researching and writing essays and dissertations. I was just too shy for the social part of researching and too ignorant of how to plan and write dissertations. Of course I had a supervisor Head, but he never helped the female students and was in general an unfriendly man, never giving me any information. It was that lack of “know-how” again in the academic world, working class heroes dropping out. I was lost again.

August Strindberg (1849 – 1912), one of the giants of Sweden’s literary history

Another teacher I thought was my friend listened patiently to my complaints for many and long hours. Then he told me that not everyone is suitable for university studies. Nor Strindberg, he said as like a consolation. It took me several decades to one day sudden realize that he had not been a friend to me. All hours he spent talking to me, he could had given me information how I could learn to finish my studies and get a BA . “Strindberg”, such unattainable! Never in my head.

I still feel hurt remembering my years between age 18 to 33. Once so young and uninitiated, vulnerable fragility, haunted with anxiety problems and considered as nothing. Frail. Surely, the surroundings, such as teachers and principals and peers, could see my difficulties as a young student in mingling and positioning me. The cliques. The slander behind the back. My upbringing that had never taught me the rules for a young to cope the mingling with others. The isolation and the devastating feelings of loneliness. And there were not such things as society duties to support youngsters at that time in practice, instead one often got criticism instead without explanations. One was in  limbo.

An employee counselor at the university whom I in desperation went to for help said scornfully to me and in disgust “look at yourself”. It was a chock as I had never met her before and her reaction was not understandable to me. Thus, I was not even qualified as a help-seeker, not at any time that I tried and I certainly tried. I was not a welcome among the comrades and not a chosen by middle-aged rulers. Invisible and excluded but evidently with a bad reputation behind my back. It was incomprehensible but undeniable. I was lost again.


Could it be worse in the coming years after my age 33? Unfortunately it could. But much of what I went through I forgot as the years went by. I got used to always being alone and unkindly treated. To then become a senior pensioner was to be liberated, finally.

But what has been, it comes back to you when you enter old age. You remember your young years shortcomings and defeats, but in a different light and suddenly you realize that you have repeatedly been distorted and badly offended by a number of people and even exposed to slander, violence and sexual injustices from those who took on the role of mentors or male friends, some married to that fantastic or publicly well-known woman, me given a speech ban not to tell what I had been exposed to. But I survived, surprisingly.

You get old and re-evaluate your history, give yourself rehabilitation. I remember and remember more and more, battles I had and some I trusted and who could have done better. Bitterly, they simply didn’t like me and my talents. The more I remember, the less I forgive.

In fact, I never forgive and about myself,  if I don’t do well I never ask for forgiveness, but I can say “I’m sorry” and feel regret and shame and I can explain what happened, to then flush it all. What has been said and done is said and done and it has already passed away. No human is flawless, but people must talk to each other.

You had no “rights” just a few decades ago because such “thinking” was not yet invented. So you were therefore not a “victim” either, but of course you suffered but you didn’t realize that you were offended – and either one become “someone” in society in spite it all, to nowadays brag about it – or you ended up like me, a lonely poor pensioner with multiple health problems, “shamy”. Nowadays it is called “lifestyle problems”, as if it were a choice to get chronic illnesses. Basically it’s the same narrowed moralizing. You still have to blame yourself for once being marginalized and still are. But nowadays I despise all such collective lies. I am rather alone than a fool among fools.

But as you age, you understand less and less of today’s modern society and the use of the language ​​and you avoid to ask the younger ones, not to risk a patronizing grin. Society has become somewhat alien and hostile to those who are old today. There is another “thinking” now, yes certainly, but the Swedish institution-based society systems have not changed. There are even indications that individuals are minced down in the society’s meat grinders more relentlessly now than before. Especially old people who need assistance with their daily life becomes more neglected. And they even have to take their small pension and pay for to be badly cared for. So more shortcomings coming even now, then it best to regain the bodily and mentally  balance one once had (single-leg stance).

Not chosen once , I opt out. On a personal level when it comes to meetings in rooms without windows and doors, I have unfortunately become a misanthrope. But among people in the streets and squares, I am without fear and curious, it amuses me to look at people in town.

As become an older person you notice that your body has become drier everywhere, from eyes and nostrils to feet and in what’s between. But some of us older people still declare that still feeling “young”. It just means that you have not yet integrated your own aging into your consciousness.

But I have realized that I need to recreate my physical balance which I have somehow lost the latest years. This, after falling on the street not one but several times and then needing help to get back on my feet. I now train to stand on one foot at a time. I practice in front of the bathroom sink when I brush my teeth or in the kitchen by the sink or stove, cooking and even before going out with my boots on. I can now (sometimes) handle 20 seconds with standing on one foot each and want to extend my skill in this. I plan to come back to some of those yoga exercises that I practiced about 37 years ago. A little less advanced though.

Although this experience living in a new age is also difficult, not to say impossible to talk to others about. Nowadays, the actual physical processes of aging are just as taboo as menstrual art in a right-wing ruled community. Intellectually and mentally you have with age matured advantageously and you shudder when thinking of how naive you still were in age of 30 – to 35. But although you experience you now as an older person knows more and understand more than you did as younger, you are considered by those in now the younger middle age to be somewhat of an idiot and you are patronizing called “boomer”. It means old people should shut up and go to Bingo and preferably be invisible.

Being 35 and a woman nowadays is obviously to be dissatisfied with everything (with all you imaging you have been promised!) and especially with yourself and you hate everyone in your mother’s age.

After 60 all that nonsense you were occupied with in younger years, runs out the drain. After 60 you are happy and life is better than ever before, but you mourn that the world around you look at you with a compassionate kind of smile as if the race has been run and it’s all over for you. In everything! It is either naive ignorance or jealousy, because it is just the opposite in all respects, except in the labor market of course.

But where did all the years go, one wonders. Now I am 70, soon to be 71, I fall but learn how to keep my balance again, single-leg stance. I wrote poems already as young, but tried the traditional ways of being published and it failed as not good enough and not profitable. But on the Internet everything is possible and free, also to exist and to be read. I still have demons that haunt me at times, but when 18 (also sometimes a few or more) read me, they melt like snow in the spring, like a troll in the sunrise. I am someone and not just in my own eyes, and it is a gladness. (To exist!)

rose, white




Written in Swedish and translated to English, the Swedish text below.

Äldre och sinnet för balans

När 18 människor läser mina texter finns jag till annars är det inte mycket bevänt med den saken om jag inte vaknar en natt med kramp i vaden. Då vet man att man minsann lever. Jag hör på Tv-nyheterna hur ungdomar eller gamla blir rånade på gatan men när jag går ut på gatan är jag aldrig rädd för människor. Men jag blev väldigt rädd en svart natt på promenad när en enorm monstermaskin i hög fart kom körande mot mig med blinkande ljus, bredborstat sopande undan nyfallen snö där fram och saltande gatan därbak. Jag tappade fotgreppet, tappade balansen, och föll som en sten och otymplig med veka handleder och vrister kunde jag inte komma upp igen men fick hjälp av en ung något berusad kille.

Jag blev rädd häromdagen när jag kom ut från Supermarket och en ambulans kom körande förbi på gatan med tjutande sirener och blåljus. Jag skulle inte vilja dö sådär inne i den där, men antagligen kommer jag att dö fallande som en sten på gatan medan jag tänker på vad på TV eller vad till middag, ögonblicklig svart bildruta ingen mer signal och det var det.

Men ännu så länge tänker jag fortfarande på karlar fastän jag mer angeläget är i avsaknad av vänner. Ändå eftersträvar jag inte att bli gillad eller älskad. Mitt klara förnuft och intellektuella integritet kommer sig av att jag inte är styrd av några trånga gruppkrav på ömsesidig beundran och bekräftelse. Jag skyr sånt. Kärlek önskar jag mig förstås igen innan jag dör. Det vore för trist att aldrig mer ha ett sexliv. Det är vetenskapligt bevisat att beröring är hälsofrämjande men vad om motsatsen, den påtvingade gemenskapen, den påtvingade beröringen? Jag accepterar därvidlag bara min katts kärvänligheter, men jag undrar vad det är med kattdjur som alltid måste bli kelade med. Det är okay men jag litar inte på katter. Tillgivenhet och ett reflekterande ser jag när katten betraktar mig. Men ett kattdjur, också mitt kattdjur i hanterbart format, styr inte över sina egna reflexer. Rörelse utan reflektion, en något för snabb oväntad handrörelse och min hand får ett slag av en blixtsnabb tass som om den vore ett bytesdjur.

Någon enstaka gång har det hänt att jag fått mina ord förklarade för mig, vad de betyder. Absurt, det är allt jag kan säga. Dock, jag äger texten, men jag brukar den inte. Jag är förvisso ansvarig för vad jag skrivit, men inte för andras tolkningar av det skrivna. Att det finns de som vill läsa mig imponerar stort på mig, men det förbryllar också. När 18 människor, eller två eller 89 för den delen, läser mina ord då finns jag till. När någon jag delar hiss med står bredvid mig och låtsas att hon inte ser mig säger jag till mig själv att det var ju synd för henne det, detta för att inte få en obehagliga känsla i min kropp. Men det är som det alltid har varit, somliga anser sig vara förmer andra. Men jag har ännu inte i dessa tider blivit rädd ”därutanför”, på gatan. Men gudarna ska veta att en gång fanns det så mycket som jag var rädd för!

Jag föddes i en fattig isolerad och dysfunktionell lantbrukarfamilj som alltid flyttade till nya gårdar i hopp om ett bättre liv. Jag blev mobbad i skolor och fick knappast vänner och aldrig den sociala träning som andra barn får och det verkar ha följt mig hela livet som en förbannelse.

Jag lämnade hemmet när jag var 18 år och fick så småningom efter tider av sjukdom gymnasiekompetens i en alternativ skolutbildning för vuxna. Jag ville fortsätta till universitet men med min enorma blyghet och mitt underklasskomplex och avsaknad av ett ”know-how” vågade jag inte försöka utan jobbade ett tag som städare, men slutade av hälsoskäl. Då ingrep min gamla rektor och hjälpte mig med studieansökan. Samtidigt flörtande han grovt bakom fruns rygg och ville få mig att berätta om mitt sexliv. Det roade honom att se min rädsla.

Jag hade inga pengar och var formellt arbetslös och sökte socialbidrag men när handläggaren fick reda på mina studieplaner, sa han att jag inte kunde göra det. När jag ignorerade hans krav avslog han min ansökan om pengar och ringde min handläggare på arbetsförmedlingen och de hade ett långt och trevligt samtal med många skratt på min bekostnad – som jag fick lyssna på. Såna som jag skulle inte gå på universitet, det var ju bara löjligt hela idén, det var som sades. Tydligen var det också roligt att förnedra mig på det sättet, att låta mig sitta där och lyssna.

Jag tåg tåget till den filial och stad jag hade sökt till och hyrde ett rum och betalade hyran. Sedan hade jag inga pengar till pengar till mat och kursböcker och de jag lyckades låna på biblioteket var på tyska. Jag hade naturligtvis aldrig lärt mig tyska. Jag fick veta att litteraturen var på tyska på den sökta kursen och det behövde universitetet inte informera om, det skulle man bara begripa. Det gick ju inte så bra, jag måste hoppa av studierna.

Efter en tid i kris återupptog jag studierna och började jag läsa litteraturvetenskap. Allt jag ville var att bli var poet, så jag var fjärran verkligheten i ett drömland. De andra på utbildningen blev bibliotekarier.

Mina problem dök upp igen när det kom till att börja forska och skriva uppsatser och avhandlingar. Jag var alldeles för blyg för den sociala delen av arbetet med forskning och okunnig om hur man skriver en vetenskaplig avhandling. Dessutom avskydde jag det sterila akademiska språkbruket. Naturligtvis hade jag en handledare men han hjälpte aldrig sina kvinnliga studenter och var en allmänt otrevlig man. Det var detta “know-how” igen i den akademiska världen, som folk från arbetarklassen inte har någon träning i. Jag var förlorad igen.

En annan lärare som jag trodde var min vän lyssnade tålmodigt på mina klagomål under många och långa samtal, men sa sedan sammanfattande att alla passar inte på universitet. Så gjorde inte heller Strindberg, sa han förklarande, liksom en tröst. Det tog mig flera decennier att plötsligt en dag få insikten om att han inte hade varit en vän. Han kunde ha ägnat de där timmarna han pratade med mig med att istället ge mig tips att skaffa information hur jag skulle klara mina studieuppgifter, men det undvek han. “Strindberg”, det var ju liksom bara ouppnåeligt! Aldrig i tanken.

Jag minns ännu med smärta mina första år som vuxen mellan 18 till 33. En gång ung och oinitierad, sårbar bräcklighet, ångestriden och ansedd ringa. Skör. Nog kunde omgivningen, såna som lärare och rektorer och jämnåriga, se mina svårigheter att mingla och att positionera mig när jag var ung studentska. Kotterier. Bakdanterier. Min taskiga uppväxt hade inte lärt mig reglerna att som ung vuxen hantera minglet. Isolering och förödande ensamhetskänslor. Och inte att man som ung och ensam fick någon faktisk support på den tiden men ofta kritik, dock utan förklaringar, man var i limbo.

En kurator på ett universitet som jag i desperat förtvivlan uppsökte sa föraktfullt till mig i avsky ”titta på dig själv”. Jag blev chockad, jag hade aldrig träffat henne förut så hennes reaktion var obegriplig för mig. Sålunda, jag var inte ens kvalificerad som hjälpsökande alla de gånger jag försökte och jag försökte verkligen. Jag var inte en välkommen bland jämnåriga och inte en utvald av den härskande medelåldern. Osynlig och utfrusen men stundtals med ett rykte bakom ryggen, det var obegripligt men obestridligt. Jag var förlorad igen.

Kunde det bli värre, åren efter mina 33 år? Det kunde det, tyvärr. Mycket av det jag gått igenom glömde jag bort efter år som gick. Jag blev van vid att alltid vara ensam och taskigt bemött. Att sedan bli pensionär var att bli befriad, äntligen.

Men det som varit, det kommer tillbaka när man går in i ålderdomen. Man minns sin ungdoms tillkortakommanden och nederlag men i ett annat ljus och plötsligt fattar man att man har upprepande gånger blivit förfördelad och taskigt behandlad av ett antal personer och till och med utsatt för förtal, våld och sexuella otillbörligheter från sådana som tog sig rollen som mentorer eller manliga vänner, somliga gifta med den eller den fantastiska eller välkända kvinnan och därför givande mig talförbud, att inte berätta vad jag blivit utsatt för. Men jag överlevde, förvånansvärt.

Och man blir gammal och omvärderar sin historia, ger sig själv upprättelse. Jag minns och erinrar mig mer och mer, ojämna strider jag hade och vilka jag litade på och som kunde ha gjort bättre. Bitterligen, de tyckte helt enkelt inte om mig och mina talanger. Ju mer jag minns ju mindre förlåter jag.

Faktum är att jag förlåter aldrig och om jag bär mig illa åt, ber jag inte om förlåtelse men jag kan säga “jag är ledsen” och känna ånger och skam och jag kan förklara vad som hände för att sedan spola det. Det som har sagts och gjorts sägs och görs, det är redan passerat. Ingen människa är felfri, men människor måste prata med varandra.

Man hade inte någon ”rätt” för endast några få decennier sedan eftersom ett sådant “tänk” ännu inte var uppfunnet. Så man var följaktligen heller inget ”offer”, man led naturligtvis men man insåg sig inte vara förfördelad och antingen blev det ändå något av en i samhället, trots allt; att yvas över numera – eller så blev man i slutändan vad jag är nu, en ensam fattigpensionär med multipla hälsoproblem, ”skämmigt”. Numera kallat det för livsstilsproblem, som om det vore ett val att få kroniska sjukdomar. I grunden samma inskränkta moraliserande. Man ska fortfarande skylla sig själv för att man blev marginaliserad och fortfarande är det. Men jag föraktar numera alla såna kollektiva lögner. Jag är hellre ensam än ett fån bland fånar.

Men när man åldras förstår man mindre av dagens moderna samhälle och språkbruk och man undviker att fråga yngre för att inte riskera ett nedlåtande flin. Samhället har blivit något främmande och fientligt för de som är gamla idag. Det är ett annat ”tänk” nu, visst! Men det svenska institutionsbaserade systemsamhället har inte förändrats. Det finns till och med indikationer på att individer mals ned i samhällets köttkvarn mer obarmhärtigt nu än förr. Särskilt gamla människor som inte klarar sig själv blir rakt av vanvårdade. Och de måste till och med ta sin lilla pension och betala för att bli brutalt försummade. Fler tillkortakommanden sålunda, då är det bäst att se till att man återfår den kroppsliga och mentala balansen man hade förr (single-leg stance).

En gång inte vald, väljer jag bort. På ett personligt plan och ifråga om möten i rum utan fönster och dörrar, därvidlag har jag nog tyvärr blivit en misantrop. Men bland människor på gator och torg är jag obekymrat orädd och nyfiken, det roar mig att betrakta människor på stan.

När man blir en äldre människa märker man att kroppen har blivit torrare överallt, från ögon och näsborrar till fötter och däremellan, men en del av oss äldre deklarerar ändå att man känner sig ”ung”. Det betyder bara att man inte har integrerat det egna åldrandet i medvetandet. Men nu med nödvändighet har jag insett mitt behov av en kroppslig balans, den som jag inser har gått förlorad – detta efter att ha fallit på gatan inte en men ett flertal gånger, och behövt hjälp med att komma på fötter igen. Och jag tränar nu på att stå på en fot i taget, jag gör det framför handfatet i badrummet eller spisen eller diskbänken, sysslor där eller t o m på väg ut med stövlarna på. Jag kan (ibland) klara 20 sekunder med varje ben. Jag planerar att få till någon av de där yoga-övningarna som jag praktiserade för sådär 36 år sedan. Lite mindre avancerat dock.

Fast också den här sortens erfarenheter av en ny ålder är svåra för att inte säga omöjliga att tala med andra om. Nuförtiden är tydligen åldrandets faktiska fysiska processer lika tabu som menskonst i Sjöbo. Intellektuellt och mentalt har man mognat fördelaktigt med åren och man ryser hur naiv man fortfarande var runt de 30 – 35. Men fastän man som äldre upplever sig veta mer och förstå mer än man gjorde i 30-årsåldern, blir man blir ändå betraktad av densamma nu yngre medelåldern som något av en idiot och kallas nedlåtande för ”boomer”. Det betyder att gamla ska hålla käften och gå på Bingo och helst vara osynliga.

Att vara 35 och kvinna numera är uppenbarligen att vara missnöjd med allting (som man anser sig ha blivit lovad!) och i synnerhet med sig själv och man hatar alla i mammaåldern. Men efter 60 rinner allt trams man fajtades med i yngre år ned i avloppet. Efter 60 blir man lycklig och livet är bättre än någonsin förr, men man sörjer dock att världen betraktar en med ett medlidsamt snålt leende som om loppet är kört och allt är över för en. I alla avseenden! Det är väl naiv okunskap eller avundsjuka för det är ju precis tvärtom i alla avseenden, förutom på arbetsmarknaden förstås.

Men vart tog alla år vägen, undrar man. Nu är jag 70 snart 71, jag faller lätt men lär mig på nytt att hålla balansen, single-leg stance. Jag skrev dikter redan som ung, men försökte traditionella sätt att bli publicerad på och det misslyckades som inte bra nog och inte lönsam. Men på Internet är allt möjligt och gratis, också att existera och att läsas. Jag har ännu demoner som rider mig stundtals, men när 18 (också ibland några färre eller fler) läser mig smälter de som snö på våren, som troll i soluppgången. Jag är någon och inte bara i mina egna ögon, och det är en glädje. (Att finnas till!)

Posted in about writing, aging, alienation, armed loneliness, authenticity, become old, body image, courage, create life, creativity, culture values, dreamers, fate, fears, fragile, grief, happiness, human cruelty, left aside, living with chronic diseases, loneliness, loners, loss, lost, lost trust, maturity, melancholy, memories, morality, obstacles, old age, opportunities, past, poems by vonnely, politics, poverty, reading life, reality, repression and borders, Short prose, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, unhappiness, visionaries, vulnerability, walk of life, walls, with or without you, words, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Slowly slowly whispering wind


Slowly slowly whispering wind
cradles serene, silent stillness.
Like Mose shrouded in braided
basket hidden in reed, we rest
in the lap of an unknown fate.


Sakta sakta vaggande vindrose, whiterose, white
Talande tigande tystnader
Som Moses i vassen, höljd
i en gräsflätad korg, gömd,
vilar vi i okänt ödes famn

Posted in fate, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

The current historylessness (Dysterkvistar)

Here my bumpy thighs and unnoticed life
which still is in progress, yet declining.
All I have ever accomplished is aging,
now I’m not 30 and depressed anymore,
but read the literary reviews: such gloom
and pretensions! It get me think about my
parent generation, their parent generation.
Is this the future which they lived meagerly
and suffered for? The current historylessness?

Winter outdoor swimming in Sweden and Finland







Här är mina gropiga lår och mitt obemärkta liv
som fortfarande pågår, men ändå i avtagande.
Allt jag någonsin har åstadkommit är att åldras.
Nu är jag inte 30 år och deprimerad längre, men
läser litteraturrecensioner: ack sådan dysterhet,
och vilka pretentioner! Det får mig att erinra mig
min föräldrageneration, deras föräldrageneration.
Är detta den framtid som de levde så påvert och
led för? Den unga generationens historielöshet?

Statare Sweden 1938, serf farm-workers

Posted in aging, alienation, cultures, past, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics, reading life, reading newspapers, reality, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, Swedish souls, visionaries, web papers, welfare, words, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The day after the storm

It’s the morning after the storm,
rose, whiteI make my tea and give the cat tuna.
I start my laptop and leave for the web,
having tea and cheese sandwiches. I note
with relief I don’t miss him as I feared I would.
The first day after the storm, all clean and clear.

Det är morgonen efter stormen,
jag gör the och ger katten tonfisk.
Jag startar datorn och lämnar för
webben med the och ostsmörgåsar.
Jag noterar med lättnad att jag inte
alls saknar honom som jag fruktade.
Morgonen efter stormen, ren och klar.

Posted in courage, create life, faith, life and love, poem in English and Swedish, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reality, surviving | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The dismantling of a writer: Patricia Highsmith

Highsmith at age 21

Few writers have been written about over time as much as Patricia Highsmith. She cannot be overlooked but yet looked down on. Writers and journalists who probably got the assignment to write about her and accept it to be able to buy lobsters for the evening dinners with their outward literary friends, fulfills the task by familiarly call her “Pat” even though they never met her and for to accomplish the writing task, they read what others before have wrote about Highsmith, to then belches the same derogatory description of her as a person and about her privat life.

I’ll give you an example:

“Patricia Highsmith was an accretion of oddities — a woman who doted on her pet snails and carried a selection of them in her handbag, who abandoned her native America for a restless life in Europe, and who turned a habitual paranoia into literature.” Andrew Taylor, The Spectator (2016/05/crime-pursues-the-crime-writer)

On of the most negative and all trough undocumented information  I’ve have so far read about Highsmith is to find of in  Jeanette Winterson’s review in New York Times of Joan Shenkar’s biography of Highsmith. Well, maybe it is Shenkar who is Winterson’s source for slandering Highsmith? If so, it certainly not gives me a desire to read Shenkar!

Even not read all there is about Highsmith, what I have read give me disgust and reluctance to read anymore about her.  I’ll stick to her novels! But if to believe Winterson, Highsmith was not only a person impregnated by character flaws and bad behavior, she was not much of a writer either! But Shenker writing about her is a according to Winterson a brilliant writer “Schenkar’s writing is witty, sharp and light-handed, a considerable achievement given the immense detail of this ­biography.”

by Francis Goodman, 2 1/4 inch square film negative, June 1957

It drains the soul, be slandered… She’s dead alright, not bother her any more – true! But it bothers me, admiring her.

The best I’ve read about her – and as said, I’ve surely not read all but enough – I did found at the site who with praise refuses to repeat the slander over Highsmith but writes: “Her personal life is not portrayed in a good way.”

You can say that again!

True is, she was nice to people and other writers, so tells those who knew her, although she was not meek. She wrote constantly every day and about 8 to 10 pages a day. This she told in an interview in a newly published video on Youtube: Patricia Highsmith | American Author | Good Afternoon | 1978

She was a member of Amnesty International and strongly engaged in the Palestinian issue and she hated Israel’s constant discrimination and ongoing extermination of the Palestinian people. She had a strong sympathy for animals, though never becoming a vegetarian. She was a homosexual in a time when it was criminalized and consider to be a mental illness that should be cured. And sadly for her, she did try to cure herself!

Further what is true fact, she left her estate worth an estimated $3 million and the promise of any future royalties to the Yaddo colony, an artists’ community located on a estate in Saratoga Springs, New York.

Highsmith 1988 at age 67

She was controversial and not politically correct, but I really cannot understand what (parts of) the English-speaking established literary society have and had against her? Moving abroad even being an American and having critical opinions, drinking and smoking too much and never liked food and cooking even being a woman, having had countless of love affairs, losing her beauty and getting old and grumpy, so what? So what?! It is hardly a cause for this ingrained slander.

Writing is a lonely job and need to be and apparently she abhorred the social compulsion surrounding the publication of her books. She is hardly the only one who hates forced formal socially dinner parties and noisy talking around any book publications. It’s actually a torture for every introvert individual, who thrives best at home at her typewriter.

So honor given if so narrow for  her impressive literary production but no empathy för Highsmith as a human, the woman who created Tom Ripley – to see her work distort in movies. After death dismembered, her old once worn worn-out jeans hanging on a clothes-hanger behind the lecturer, the audience staring as if they were attending an exhibition of a forensic technician. Nasty!

Phyllis Nagy wrote “People say: “Don’t meet your heroes”, but I was not disappointed. She was complex in exactly the way that real human beings are complex.”

The Phyllis Nagy quote from:

Joan Schenker lecturing on Highsmith’s once worn and worn-out jeans

Posted in about writing, aging, become old, books, creativity, culture values, human cruelty, inspiring literature, living in the world, morality, poems by vonnely, politics, rebellious lovers, repression and borders, sexuality, single-handed voyage, web papers, words, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Visiting the local library









(Friday, February 7)

It is a Friday noon and I’ll wash my hair and when it has dried, I intend to take the bus to city and walk from there to the local library. Unfortunately, it takes at least 15 minutes for me to walk the inner city side roads with no bus stops close, but with uncomfortable old-time cobblestones to stumble upon and nowadays constantly blocked streets for road work for cable laying to walk around, me carry my overweight and aching feet.

I call it my Via Dolorosa, as nowadays oldish and somewhat disabled caused of chronic pains, this walk once a month to return and borrow books. Yet, a library is an amazing asset, a way out of the physical and social limitations out of where you are. Wherever places that I have lived in this country, my steady path always goes to the library, it’s my watering hole.

I grew up in a farmworker family in the 50’s and in the early 60’s. It was very few books in the home and certainly not any reading habits but an overprotecting mother’s prejudice against reading and fighting resistance for me not to become a bibliophile, which in her mind as she told posed an obvious risk to get mental ill in future.

I think it was a quite common prejudice during these past times of the older generation in working classes all over the world – and even now for that matter. So nothing special about that. But for children in such poor marginalized families, the school libraries were eye openers, showing alternate realities. Thus both an escape from a narrow reality and creation of realities with other spaces to dream about to be able to realize.

I “met” my first school library at age nine, and this room with bookshelves did not only offer an escape into the book world but the room was in itself a shelter from the schoolyards merciless bullying. (You were allowed to stay indoors during the breaks if to visit the library. At first it was just a hide-away. I was mostly the only visitor there and for any reason, bullies have no interest of such rooms.) That hate from schoolmates was also new to me too and sadly this harmful exposure came to follow me for life, even as an adult. Well, as well as my love for libraries, of course.

Why one get ostracized by others, I haven’t a clue. One who has got the soul raped repeatedly never heals. But those perpetrators once walks free among us now, established in society and never punished.

I never told at home about the bullying, because it was hell at home at that time as well and telling would had made my life even worse. I literally walked every day between two poles of hell, helpless and devastated, it was more than a child could cope with. And extended over time a never ending violence, you get your natural born trust in others thoroughly eradicated. In one way or another you become a loner, visible or hidden in the soul.

There are many spaces in a library to compensate for what you once lost but what you can get. New spectra to get to know – knowledge, insights, people and their lives comes to you from the dry dusty paper pages of the opened book in your hands. It’s magic. It’s wonderful.

But in today’s society, some municipal politicians want to save money by closing or restricting school libraries and further and even worse controlling the activities and services of local libraries. These opportunities and democratic rights for everyone in this country since about 150 years back, whatever if poor or rich, Swedes or foreigners, are now threatened by short-term thinking and petty-minded folly – and it really makes me upset. Because fact is: the city libraries everywhere there I have lived have been my real universities and freedom creators and given me the intellectual capacity I have today! Yes, I certainly take it personal!

I’ve heard people with tough past romanticize their lives with saying they would not want it differently as all that bad that once was, created them to the person they are today. And they like what they are now and don’t want it differently. That’s bullshit. You become the good you are now by have had assets to establishments like libraries or a sport clubs or similar and by have met some significant others that became a life changer for you by telling you something that gave you courage and love, a light of hope that made you bloom.

I have recently read some reviews about the Swedish poet Lennart Sjögren’s latest poetry collection and my goal with this days visit on the library is not only to return books and borrow some new to read but to checkup if this poetry collection is available to borrow. If it’s not I will certainly order the book.

I read a lot of this poet when I still was in young age and he was already middle-aged. Now he’s 89 and still fluently writing. That’s thrilling and you know – with a bit of luck I may have at least 19 years of writing skill and brain fitness.

I read online one of the poems in this his latest poetry collection about a water drop that was somewhat an amazing reading. And he has a kind of a preface to this latest collection.

Undvik inte extasen
nu när torkan
alltmer breder ut sig över de inre fälten.

Don’t avoid the ecstasy
now when the drought
increasingly extends over the inner fields.


But I really don’t remember why I fancy his poetry as young. He had (have?) a kind of animistic or nature grounded life space, but without spiritual or romantic overtones. It was and is more about death and slaughter and all kind of decays in nature and in bodies. It’s kind of strange obsession and nothing for anyone with sensitive stomach and not really either for an easily touched and compassionate mind like mine. Yet as said, he was one of my favorite poets at the time.

I experienced his poems as very good writing, of course. But I think it also was because I participated in some events there he and other poets read their poems. I noticed he was not like the other poets, i.e. outgoing and talkative or calmly swimming in an elegant and literary superior blazer, therein the 70s corral.

No, he seemed to be at the side of the others. And perhaps he was a withdrawn person, but I don’t know if he really was as I never talked to him. But he read his texts, taking the place in the room for his poetry, undisturbed of others pretentious chatter. It might have been the attraction for me, as I’m a kind of the same character, though not with that self-confidence he seemed to have and in this it maybe was something for the young girl I was to fish for.

(But now know, I’m pretty useless to describe another real living person, so if anyone who knows him would read this, he or she would maybe be surprised of my description of the poet. However, it is about my image of him back then – as far as I remember it.)


Now home again and it’s Friday night 8th. I had to order the book, yes. Though my brain may not be that fit as the requested poet’s. The librarian who served me said the book could be available on February 8 and slow in mind I got it to be one month later from now – I was still in the month of January! But during the evening phone call with my son and talking about the wanted book, I finally got it right and landed in the right month.

We are in February, yes!

So I don’t have to wait a month for the book but shortly again take that walk of tribulation. But my feet or rather my front insteps needs a couple of days to recover from a walk to visit the library. (Sure, I would take a taxi if I could afford it!)


My son (35 y.o.) has his own distracting battles confusing his mind and makes him forget things, like he told me he had called me earlier at 5ish PM. But I checked my cell phone for missed calls, none recorded. It’s his stressful job and his longtime fucked up health issues increasing more and more that makes him mixed up and absent-minded. We talked about it. Then again he said “I thought you said at first you would get the book on the 28th coming”. “Did I?”I said “no?”.

When you are 35 you fear you have “personality disorder” when you become overtired and disoriented, when it is actually your work situation that’s all fucked up. At 70 and mix up and forget about things, you fear that you are becoming senile.

People today begin the day by check their smartphones to later stand at the bus stop doing the same, in the 70s people began the day by light a cigarette and then the same at the bus stop and everywhere.

Cigarettes is certainly poison but nicotine is better than smart phones to make your brain focused and bright. I miss smoking. But I don’t miss that time although it was easy to get a job and there was faith in the future. It was another society.


St Valentine’s Day will soon be and I paused this essay with writing a love poem. That “you” subject for my poem turned it down IRL when he had read it with telling me, for him love was not one day only but all days and further he tried every day to make our love possible… Yeah, it was a rejection truly – and as I think that day is to be for positive poems and nice greetings only, I have now no poem for the day to share on my blog!

A lover should know that a poetry talent as mine is irreplaceable, but there are many men in this world and he is surely replaceable. If I had to choose between to be able to write and him, I would never choose him. Writing is life.

I borrowed the last previous poetry collection by Sjögren from 2017. And  from my bookshelf at home the three I own, them all published in the 70s.

I can’t find any love poems by him. That’s strange. In his collection from 2017 there is one poem I can imaging to maybe be about a more personal relationship. Maybe!

Trodde inget mer fanns att vänta på
här längst ut på livets udde
inget annat än det sista steget från markens fasta.
Då vände sig livet plötsligt om
och visade sina rovdjurständer:

Jag klöser dig, du klöser mig
jag äter dig, du äter mig
uppätna smeker vi varandra en stund
som man gör i Paradiset.

Thought nothing more was to wait for
here at the end of life’s headland
nothing but the last step from the solid of ground.
Then life suddenly turned around
and showed its predator teeth:

I scratch you, you scratch me
I eat you, you eat me
eaten we caress each other for a while
as one does in Paradise

(my translation only for this blog, not to be spread)

That’s a terrible poem and hardly for soft Valentine greetings. Why did I like him once?


It has now come to night to Wednesday (12th) and my reading the last few days of this poet from past reading life has made me remember some others of the writers I read in the 70s, poets, novelists and short story writers. To say it shortly, I don’t read them anymore and maybe I would not like them anymore if I tried. Why did I not read Tomas Tranströmer in those day, for example? His “Collected poems” is nowadays like a bible resting at my bedside table.

What did my eyes see then, that I now reject?


And so I found that specific poem by Sjögren that I once fell for me and which still makes me thrilled when I read it. I think it’s an absolutely fantastic poem.

It’s from a poetry collection published 1972 with the title “Människans fot” (= The Human Foot), the book is hardly available any longer and I don’t think the poem is translated in English.

So I will translate it now for you. Yes, but note that my translation is only for this my blog, not to be spread. Also be aware before the reading that it is a very long poem, 5 pages actually in the book – so if you want to follow me to the end reading it, you may want to take a break now first to pee and make a pot of tea… You will need it!

Ready? Okay!


(from the poetry collection Människans fot by Lennart Sjögren; published in Sweden 1972)

With my eye
I’m on my way through the world. It is the beginning
of the 70s, soon it will be a forgotten date.
I walk and walk through the days
one evening I stood in a landscape
and saw a large wagon roll by
– it was almost transcendental –
I saw wide paintings in clear colors
I saw that which bubbling over.
I was in Stockholm one evening
it was a sooty evening with black ice shine
here are many lying outdoors in winter
they have no benefit of my poems.

Nature pictures – rowanberry bright.
The protected images
And more difficult images from life – hateful, hurtful.

Images between what seen and that only through hearsays
that from the own living and the allegories.

I chop and chop me forward
it grows up again.
I meet friends and enemies, at times they gets premixed.
Go against the wind, throw up sand in the eyes of others
get sand back
best would be to simply and straightforwardly
with an ax chop through the brushwood
show where one walked. Get a direction.
It grows up again.

And life keeps on doing its own at the side
it does not care about others
it is always ongoing. A life that is bubbling over.

I like the clear, the green, red, blue
with strong sunshine
but rarely is life and clarity the same.

I leave the beautiful for the ugly
for the shaky I abandon what’s static
and step down from the sidewalks
thereunder, where it flows, where the tin cans,
the cigarette butts, the subsidence, where
the asphalt never really dries, where
the electrical systems, the short circuits,
the floods in the sewers.

I’m looking for a randomly furnished room
preferably at Bubbling Street
with views to strict windows to a backyard
– I’ll stay there for a few days.

A certain kind of consolation is there.

The excavated little figurines with inward smiles
from archaic times
I distrust them more and more.
I think they brood over a void
and make something special about it.
Truer images can then be found in life:
The big rodent-pictures.
But who can handle see them!

Yet – parenthetically – it is so
that people who have tasted death
in its way resembles the statuettes.
We avoid them. Do we avoid a knowing?

The difficult truth and the difficult bright-eyed views
the difficult loneliness and the difficult life together.
I’m just telling about myself
just by get to view oneself can a certain
measure of truth be reached. Sudden one day – free.
Touched certain things, met people,
had a conversation, felt taste and smell.

The sharp and the unsharp.
The difficult ages: Children, Young, Middle Ages, Old
who is lying.
The Children about its innocence
Young who disguises in straightforwardness
middle age with all its about the doable
old up to eighty who believe in its humility.
I reckon kinships with them all.
The rhythmic shakes of life
the certain and the uncertain.

The rural paintings as resting places for that overexcited.
The pleasant bark in the trunks.
But to stay there is not possible. The broad. And the green.
– This with the small accidents and the big ones
this with the world
and the people in the world.
Living together, the prickly in the eyes, the queues
the noddings, the bowings, the bettors.
Those exposed.
The newspaper reports that massacre us.

I have my eye
the colors are intended for furnished rooms
they cannot withstand no major heat.
A part of the world is burning up – I make a picture of it
and it is a cynicism.
Those who die, die without color.
To give a clear yes, a clear no!
Most people come sometimes in situations
which is not covered by either.

To learn to realize the incompatible
to not to talk too much about the brave and the cowardly
to nor mention too much
color connoisseurs, wise heads.
To live with the pain.

I walk and walk, life is it what walks in me
I really don’t know any more if I look for a landmark
I am practicing in walking
– scared as I am to grow old
I fantasize to walk to catch up with the Impossible.

I give up today the thought on the world’s center
I am provincial
as an old-fashioned outdoor painter I walk
through parishes, painting landscapes, genre images
– and it’s not a consolation, not even an excuse –
it happened, it is an event
it is a way of walking move forward.
We who flee into the global maps
and we who flee into the private kitchen
the fleeing that surrounds us all.

The poem of the eye.
But also in the eye there is a thought, a foundation.
There grows eye, ear, mouth
To in the eye catch a beach
and the moth gray in a snowstorm, to feel in the ear
the footsteps towards a gravel path
to taste saliva, the spices for the palate and the soul.
The human testimony.

But senses are vulnerable, they are easily ripped up.
I’m just the eye. I have no defense.

To choose the sharp before the unsharp
to test, experience with the hand
– to let my hand become my conscience.
I carry my pen with me, it is my only weapon.
I make notes.
To finally move freely
– but “free” is a net like an eel trap –
believe itself moving freely
one day in one life
feel the hours changing
and the people moving around there.


And the weekend passed, I read the poetry collections I had at home and wrote on this post. And on Wednesday I received an email that the ordered book was available to pick up. Another walk the same day with my sore feet and worn-out hips. The lady who once was a promise – me – who just has grown old.

It has been a long journey this – back to my 70s. It made me to recall the prose writers I read a lot in those times. But never now! Why is that, I ask myself again?

And back at the library to get the ordered book, I also looked up one of those writers I was then admiring reading. I found all his books down the stairs in the archive! Maybe the books were moved to there because of space reasons, or because he has been forgotten in the today literary noise. I don’t know.

But I have a weird feeling that the young woman who moved in the 70’s landscape was someone other than me. And that I really don’t know her now. So am I somebody else now? Whatever if, that was the humus then. And the flower that was meant be, grew to a tree. And I write you through the branches.


This about a library visit and a journey in my mind back to my reading past, in a search for the Swedish poet Lennart Sjögren and his latest book “I grenverket” 2019. A week passed by.

Lennart Sjögren, Borgholms bibliotek 2017

Lennart Sjögren: born 1930, poet, painter and partly farmer (a time). His first poetry collection 1958. And he married 1958 and is still married to the same woman, who’s also a painter and illustrate his book covers. Both lives on the farm there he once was born.


The Swedish original of the poem by Lennart Sjögren

ÖGAT (ur diktsamlingen Människans fot, 1972

Med mitt öga
är jag på väg genom världen. Det är i början av
70-talet, snart ska det vara ett glömt datum.
Jag går och går genom dagarna
en kväll stod jag i ett landskap
och såg en stor vagn rulla förbi
– den var nästan översinnlig –
jag såg breda tavlor i klara färger
jag såg det som bubblade över.
Jag var en kväll i Stockholm
det var en sotig kväll med svarta isblänk
här ligger många utomhus på vintern
de har ingen glädje av mina dikter.

Naturbilder – rönnbärsklara.
De skyddade bilderna
Och svårare bilder ur livet – hätska, sårfulla.

Bilder mellan det sedda och det bara genom hörsägner
det ur den egna levnaden och allegorierna.

Jag hugger och hugger mig fram
det växer upp igen.
Jag möter vänner och ovänner, ibland förblandar de sig.
Gå mot vinden, sprätta upp sand i ögonen på andra
få sand tillbaka
bäst vore att helt enkelt och rakt på sak
med en yxa hugga sig genom snårskogen
visa var man gått. Skaffa sig riktning.
Det växer upp igen.

Och livet som håller på med sitt vid sidan om
det bryr sig inte om andra
det håller alltid på. Ett liv som bubblar över.

Jag tycker om det klara, det gröna, röda, blå
med starkt solsken
men sällan är liv och klarhet detsamma.

Jag lämnar det sköna för det osköna
för det ryckiga överger jag det statiska
och stiger ner från trottoarerna
därunder, där det rinner, där bleckburkarna, fimparna
där sättningarna, där asfalten aldrig riktigt torkar,
där elektiska systemen, kortslutningarna
översvämningarna i avloppen.
Jag söker ett slumpvis möblerat rum
gärna vid Bubblande gatan
med utsikt mot stränga fönster på en bakgård
– jag stannar där några dygn.

En viss slags tröst finns där.

De uppgrävda små statyetterna med inåtvända leenden
från arkaiska tider
dem misstror jag alltmera.
Jag tror de ruvar över ett tomrum
och gör något märkvärdig av det.
Sannare bilder finns då ur livet:
De stora gnagarebilderna.
Men orkar se dem!

Ändå –parentetiskt – är det ju så
att människorna som smakat döden
på sitt sätt liknar statyetterna.
Vi undviker dem. Undviker vi ett vetande?

Den svåra sanningen och de svåra klarögdheterna
den svåra ensamheten och den svåra samlevnaden.
Jag bara berättar om mig själv
bara genom att få syn på sig själv
kan ett visst mått av sanning nås. Plötsligt en dag – fri.
Tog på vissa saker, mötte folk,
hade ett samtal, kände smak och lukt.

Det skarpa och det oskarpa.
De svåra åldrarna: Barn, Unga, Medelålders, Gamla
som ljuger.
Barnen om sin oskuld
Unga som förställer sig i rättframhet
medelålders med allt sitt om det genomförbara
gamla uppåt åttio som tror på sin ödmjukhet.
Jag räknar släktskap med dem alla.
De rytmiska skakningarna i livet
säkerheten och det osäkra.

Folklivstavlorna som viloplatser för det uppskärrade.
Den sköna barken i stammarna.
Men stanna där går inte. Det breda. Och det gröna.
– Det här med de små olyckorna och de stora
det här med världen
och människorna i världen.
Leva ihop, det stickiga i ögonen, köerna
nickningarna, bugningarna, vadhållarna.
De utpekade.
Tidningsnyheterna som massakrerar oss.

Jag har mitt öga
färgerna är avsedda för möblerade rum
de tål ingen större hetta.
En del av världen brinner upp – jag gör en bild av det
och det är en cynism.
De som dör dör utan färger.
Att ge ett blankt ja, ett blankt nej!
De flesta människor kommer någon gång i situationer
som inte täcks av någondera.

Att lära sig inse det oförenliga
att inte för mycket tala om de modiga och de fega
att inte heller för mycket nämna
färgkännare, klokhuvuden.
Att dras med plågan.

Jag går och går, livet är det som går i mig
jag vet egentligen inte längre om jag söker en hållpunkt
jag övar mig i gående
– rädd som jag är för att bli gammal
fantiserar jag om att gående hinna upp det Omöjliga.

Jag uppger idag tanken på världens centrum
jag är provinsiell
som en gammaldags friluftsmålare går jag
genom socknar, målar landskap, genrebilder
– och det är inte en tröst, inte ens en undanflykt –
det blev så, det är en händelse
det är ett sätt att gående ta sig fram.
Vi som flyr in i de globala kartorna
och vi som flyr in i det privata köket
flyendet som omger oss alla.

Ögats dikt.
Men också i ögat finns en tanke, ett fundament.
Där växer ögas, öras, muns
Att i ögat fånga en badstrand
och det malgrå i en snöstorm, att i örat känna
fotstegen mot en grusgång
att smaka saliv, kryddorna för gommen och själen.
Det mänskligas vittnesbörd.

Men sinnena är sårbara, de fläks lätt sönder.
Jag är bara ögat. Jag har inget försvar.

Att välja det skarpa före det oskarpa
att pröva, känna med handen
– att låta handen bli mitt samvete.
Jag bär min penna med mig, den är mitt enda vapen.
Jag gör anteckningar.
Att äntligen röra sig fritt
– men ”fritt” är ett nät som en ålryssja –
tro sig röra sig fritt
en dag i ett liv
känna timmarna förändras
och människorna som rör sig där.


And it is now night until Friday the 14th of February when I publish this post. Not a love poem but about a love for a poem from the 70s – and to library books. Then as well as now.

The 70s was a different society than today. There were welfare and equality times alright, but you could still be discriminated and insulted in a way that is not allowed nowadays.

I was also someone else, different.

Posted in about writing, aging, create life, creativity, cultures, door openers, dreamers, faith, inspiring literature, Living with chronic pains, loners, lost trust, memories, nature, old age, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading, reality, roots, Sweden view, Swedish artists, Swedish conditions, Swedish poem to English, transformation, translations by vonnely, vulnerability, walk of life, welfare, words, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Left over, me!


I don’t know what was true and not true with him. He always said he was not a liar and I should trust in him and I believe he honestly believed in that. More I will never know. That’s hard to take, never know!

At the same he drove me crazy with his nagging about what he called his needs. I never figured out what that really was about but I know he took advantage of one year of my life and then he called it a waste of time! That gives me at times thoughts, faint notions that losing him was not a loss but my luck.

But what will I do now with the leftovers of me? Well, unfortunately sorrows seldom kills us but we have to limp on with our life, proud or sprained, with the acquired eggs in our basket, some we asked for and some not, some good and some rotten. And even if I would read all the wellness blogs there are on net (and they are many!), I would still not found a smart recipe how to make a good and tasty omelet out of someone like him.

There are no insurance policies for the mistakes made in life though it’s hard to swallow this fact, loss is loss. It’s obvious he was one of those wrong investments one cannot forget to regret. I’m an intelligent woman and I do my best to use my good brain to cope with this, but my emotional life is a lowbrow, bubbling and disobedient messy stew, which doesn’t allow let the lid be put on.

I could change myself surely, like never more give some people who are approaching me a chance to proof if they’re good or not, even if the odds tells me: no! But at the same I try to be openminded and not have prejudices. An impossible equation?

I read sometimes in magazines about famous couples that have split up, declaring they still are best friends and do separate in peace, such bullshit. There are no happy separations but they all comes with pains, move on alone living with this failure and feeling as to be the big loser. Until past is past and something else comes along for you to deal with.

It’s hard, but I tell myself to try to have patience with the process, let the time flow day by day and let this lousy and gloomy “now” to become a pale past to seldom come to mind. It means for me giving up the imagination he was a part of my life, forever to be. And that is not coming easy!

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in changes, images, left aside, loss, love story, melancholy, poems by vonnely, Poetry, prose poem, reading life, reality, relationships, sadness, secret love, Short prose, single-handed voyage, unhappiness | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lost love, gloom forever to be





I never got to know you in this all real world,
where one breathe, eat, shit and pay the rent.
But still, it was meant to be, you and me. Yet
your demanding impatience (as I saw it) and
my lack of understanding (as you saw it) has
stifled which grew to now entombed desires.
A question mark is placed alike a grave cross
over our buried and lost hope: a realized love.

Now I’ve to move on once again, yet it’s hard
as I feel miserable over myself, believing I’ve
for the most got into love affairs to flee from
loneliness and failed with both loving and to
bond with others. Placed in the world, no one
around to talk to: loser from youth to old age,
a gloom now ever to be until my lonely death.

rose, whiterose, white

Posted in aging, gloom, grief, life and love, loneliness, loners, loss, lost, love story, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reality, relationships, vulnerability | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A sunny day in February

Such a lovely day, strong blue sky and chirping little birds,
a bleach half-moon above waits for the night. Snowdrops
blooms before any snow, no winter this year and it might
never be. I’m walking to the mall and I look at the shaded
moon and I’m thinking that is your moon too. Yes we have
everything together you and I, the sun and sky and moon
and maybe even the chirping birds. The sun warms but as
I walk on an icy wind comes dancing from uphill north and
it reminds me of the Arctic silences between you and me.
It’s true we have everything together you and I, except for
that love we wanted. We have everything but each other.

Posted in alienation, apart, life and love, loss, missing, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, secret love, vårvinter, winter, with or without you | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Woman on the first day of February

about the site



Journalist Masih Alinejad – founder of the My Stealthy Freedom movement


Joumana Haddad


A column in a Swedish tabloid “Aftonbladet” 2011

note: the text in Swedish

Joumana Haddad




Posted in inspiring picture, living in the world, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Love torn apart






I wanted your love to be my shelter,
a comfort zone, a mine for golden joy
to give strength as I’m struggling every
month to keep my head above the water
having hard times. You never understood,
but always nagged about your “needs”, put
a burden of demands on me what you called
“to be romantic”. Now split up we suffer apart.


rose, whiterose, white

Posted in desirers, dreamers, life and love, loneliness, love story, morality, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, unhappiness | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A lonely blues around the corner

The whole fucking me is like an emergency
Hole in the heart, the claw of abandonment
Easily forgotten, lone blues around a corner
He told I’ll love you forever true forever was
short like a little star afar that twinkle to fall


Hela jävla jag är som en orosanmälan,rose, whiterose, white
hål i hjärtat och en klo av övergivenhet
lätt glömd, en ensam blues runt hörnet
Älskar dig för evigt sa han sant att evigt
är kort en fjärran stjärnas glimt och fall

Posted in blues, dreamers, gloom, heartache, left aside, loneliness, loners, loss, love poem, missing, poem in Swedish and English, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, romance, sadness | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

To whom will the spring bring joy?

(translated from Swedish)

The light returns to the North in January!
Ten minutes more in morning and evening
makes a world of difference. You raise your
gaze, take a deep breath, sees a snowdrop!

Frost in the ground and snowflakes on its
virgin white and humbly bowed head. But
the flower never give up its right of living!

More snow will fall and everyone knows it,
only last year’s leaves as warming blankets,
yet it will bloom: the snowdrop!
One and another on its own, many together
each one is its own light and that of others.

To whom will the spring bring joy?
For whom is there heart and space?

You, who still are a living, who are you?
Whose are the calls you never respond to?

Tell, do you welcome the light, or do you hide
to stay in your stuffy winter den, dark but cosy?

See the snowdrops!





I januari återvänder ljuset till Norden
tio minuter mer morgon och kväll är
en värld i skillnad, du lyfter din blick,
andas djupt och du ser snödroppen!

Tjäle i marken snö och frost på dess
jungfruligt vita ödmjukt böjda huvud.
Den ger aldrig upp sitt levandes rätt!

Mer snö ska falla det vet alla, endast
fjolårslöv värmer, likväl den blommar:
En och en allena, många tillsammans
var och en är sitt eget ljus och andras.

Till vem vill våren bringa glädje?
För vem finns hjärta och plats?

Du som ännu är en levande, vem är du?
Vems samtal är det som du inte besvarar?

Säg, välkomnar du ljuset eller gömmer du
dig kvar i idets unkna men gosiga mörker?

Se snödroppen!

Posted in courage, hope, light, poem in Swedish and English, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, spring, vår | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

“If the people go hungry, they will eat their rulers”

Your destiny
in the orange



I want something new, I need something new, I want something else. And I surely don’t want the living conditions I have.


Lack of freedom and poverty is to not have the means to change the personal life because of a society’s limitations for common people. Certainly “poverty” is not the same in Africa or India as for example, as in Sweden. Certainly not! But the same is: you have not the money and the means to your change life and do something meaningful of it. You are stuck there you are. You are not happy. Hopelessness is all you get.


I’m so bored to all the time watch how TV media interviews national economics to interpret events and movements in the society, those “experts” gathering individuals in random society groups and make statements out of their own assumptions – that really say nothing about nothing. The science of economics is not a sciences in that sense asNnatural Science, but social doctrines of faith shifting over time and view.

Understand this, social sciences are not sciences but just different beliefs in a secularized society, replacing religious dogmas. Don’t think they are telling objective truths about anything but themselves having legitimation during a certain time in history. Of course they have  knowledges to be heard about. But we others have too.


The exploitation of nature and poor people and countries have depleted and poisoned our earth causing expanding disasters one follow the other to an expected fearsome end. And scientists speculate in another planet that can be habitable! Thanks geniuses, you certainly give the common man and woman hope and faith in the future!

Those of them serious scientists (withing the Natural Sciences) who demands  changes are quoted in media all the time nowadays. But politicians are too coward and tied having another views what is to collapse = their power, i.e. the systems pools they are swimming in.


At the same, the extensive deregulations of community service institutions that have been going on for the past 25 years (in Sweden), such as the electricity market, schools, healthcare and postal services have caused society to capsize. We can point fingers at so called “haters” online and different kind of “dissatisfaction groups” and parties. Yes, they are disgusting, but what they change is our minds and views, but it is NOT them causing the dismantling of our society!

We can make a fuss over a Swedish racist party and its politicians, sure! But the most dangerous woman in Sweden is the social liberal leader Annie Lööf having Margaret Thatcher as a role model and the master of the outsourcing of society services in Sweden.

She has for decades drilled her liberal market ideology holes in the Swedish welfare row-boat. And it’s sinking steady and the present government tries to plug the leaks and row he boat for her at the same. Yet losing the grip.

And in Sweden as in the rest of the world the poor get poorer and the rich richer.


It’s the sick, the unemployed, the foreign born, the EU beggars and the low income pensioners that are the witches to be burned in today’s political climate.

I personally belong to the category that is often called “poverty-pensioners” in public contexts, and the journalists and politicians who commonly use the word are obviously not aware that the term is degrading and stigmatizing.


There are 2,2 million pensioners in Sweden of an population of 10 million. Of those 2,2 millions are about 300 00 thousands forced to live far under the poverty line calculated by the EU (about 1330 dollars per month).

This year I reach up to the roof of the poverty limit ceiling, that including having housing support of 600 dollars. But note that housing benefit is not a (taxed) income but a government charity. Without it I would not have a housing at all, but live on the street.

But it’s “the benefits systems” that is the hate object for liberals and conservative political parties who want to limited it down to under the cellar floor –  as we who are depending on the benefits are accused for be parasites of the society!


“The pensioners’ living conditions” are of course visible on the political parties’ polemic debates, news magazines writes about it now and then – and so it has been for years and years. And the outcome? Really nothing, 25 dollars more in month I’ll get this year in raised income and 35 dollars if I count with the benefit for housing. It doesn’t even compensate for the higher cost of living.

Of those 300 00 pensioners living below the border of calculated poverty, four of five are women. The guarentte is depending on civil status, living with someone or being single. To get fully guarentee pension you must to have lived in Sweden for 40 years. If you not have a Swedish citizenship and not have relatives with incomes calculated by the state be enough to support you, you will expelled from the country.


There are riots in many countries in all continents, people demands a decent life. There is a try in Sweden among pensioners. One group call themselves “Tantpatrullen” (Auntie Patrol) with the signum wearing read hats.

“tantpatrullen” (aunt-patrol) protesting

But the most vulnerable are neither seen nor heard in any group context. They will never be seen on a tourist bus, travelling to visit Prague. Retired people are not a homogeneous group in any sense.

And I don’t demonstrate  and I’m not screaming and I don’t thrives in “groups” and I would rather die than call myself an “auntie”. And I won’t wear a red hat.

I would rather suggest we all ladies take our orange envelops, gather at our town squares and put some gasoline on us and the orange envelopes and set us on fire and burn ourselves similar to witches. That would all for once solve the society problem we represents for the politicians, solve the prime minister’s oh so visible headache. This a pinch for those headless national economists, grouping people!

So what are the orange envelopes?



Every year in January the Swedes gets the Orange Envelope  from the Pension Agency telling about the pensions. For us already retired  we can see what we will get every month the coming year for living.

As said above I get a raise of my pension this year with 25 dollars or about 23 Euro. At the same the Prime Minister and the other Ministers got a raise of 422 dollars or 379 Euro having a income in one month what I have for one and half year.


I can hardly walk of chronic joint pains, but the health care doesn’t care. I have chronic periodontitis and broken fillings in two teeth, but I can’t afford to both food to eat and pay for dental care. I suffer mentally and bodily,  but in Sweden “teeth” is not part of “body” but a disgrace.

My dentist said a decade ago about my lack of front teeth “In Africa people around don’t bother so much if you lack some theets.” But I don’t live in Africa!

People in Africa are impressed of the incomes in Europe, but people in Europe do not pay rent and buy food in Africa. Those migrants risk their lives overseas and survives has no legal rights to our welfare system. No “milk and honey” here but under ground living and same misery or worse as before.

And but what is the headache of European politicians, whatever party. “The migrants”! Hello there!

yasp photo private Maja

I have a 15 years old cat, she is my only my only companion around.  Now old she’s suffering of bad hips and cataract and glaucoma. Lately  her stomach don’t accept common dried cat food and she vomit all the time, even when drinking water.

So far I have with support of my son paid about 6000 SEK or more for health care (about 600 dollars)at an animal hospital. And the animal hospital expects me now to go there  to get consultations by a specialist once a month and pay 240 dollars every time. I have not been able to give the cat medical care since November. It haunts me every day.

Last time I was there I heard how another client was told to pay about 750 dollar for the the recieved treatment. And I could see how his knees half ways fold down while he with a voice forced calm and unemotional asked of the different post giving what could give that sum to pay.

What is Swedish values? That is! We don’t show emotions at public scenes,  but keep us upright with holding the arms on the cash counter  and talk calmy and sensible  to go home with heart heavy as a stone  – and shut the door. And don’t talk about it.

I’m talking about it. Breaking a Scandinavian taboo.

At the same last visit at the animal centre I  tried to explain to the vets my economic situation; that it would mean no food for me and the cat for the rest of the month to go there every month and pay those fees. So I said it would be good if an ordinary vet could check the cat and subscribe medication as it would cost me half the sum. But no! They pretended not the listen as to tell about your poverty is like having lepra.

Swedish moral: if you can’t afford to have a pet you should not have it, but rather die!

Animal hospitals are not at first for animal health care but for gain money, it’s for profit all.


Of course the cat is insured! We have sent the bills to the insurance company four (4!) times, but the postal services taking 8 multiplied with 4 in stamps do not deliver mail as they should. It’s not profitable. Though really, even four letters is not as bad as the postal service has become. So may the insurance company neglects my compensation claims?

In that case I maybe should stop the monthly payment on the insurance? It’s 18 dollars a month. The profits are all good in those insurance companies too, “so Iv’e heard”.

But we live on, day by day. As the cat now also got digestion problems, I have now the task to meet the meat need for a cat animal make her food of fresh made food.  As being a vegetarian, the thought to touch meat make me to want to start vomit too! So far we have the last days coped with the food issue with canned tuna. And the whole kitchen stinks tuna!

Yes, but that’s life and life has its own problems you have to deal with and some are not so nice . It’s the same for us all, coping life. Cats can’t be vegetarians.


Yes, life gives challenges but some you could do better without. Those of us who are sick and poor and old and depending on others assistance, drowns under outer limited conditions that lead to  unnecessary tragedies and unhappiness, further giving chronic sicknesses and shortened life time.

That last is the tasks for politicians: the welfare of a countries citizens – and not as today when our current government acts errand boys and cleaning ladies to the private market and supporting their owners, the exploiting millionaires.

Much want more, as the adults in my childhood said laconic but with a sparkle of bitterness about the rich ones.

But what are politicians arguing about?”Migrants”. And the poor gypsies from Romania begging on Swedish streets! As it disturbs the street scene and “we” don’t want see it “here”; not being “our” responsibilty. So be poor, but be it invisible. Preferably outside the Swedish borders.


Maybe I should not fight more but save me from the struggles, kill the cat? Maybe I should put her to death, saving money for her food and litter and other care? As if you are poor you should not have pets at all! And more:

“They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”

Of course, I will not!


At first I got so depressed the week before when reading this yearly orange envelop from the state telling me about my pension; feeling “I’ll never able to have a life”. And while reading it I could hear the cat puke again in the kitchen… And all I can do is go and clean it up. And on

I am not a part among parts in a random group, created by National Economists. I am a person. I still breath. I want something new, I need something new, I want something else. And I surely don’t want the living conditions I have.

Tomorrow, on January 20th… (Well, Monday is today actually, it takes many hours to finish a blog entry done) I’ll have the first payment of my pension for this year. The first thing I will do this day is to go to the grocery store. It’s my life. But first I will sleep.


The headline is taken from what is said in media was written on a big banner during the riots in Beirut latest days. “If the people go hungry, they will eat their rulers”

“They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” is the title of a drama film from 1969

Posted in become old, create life, culture values, living with chronic diseases, loss, morality, obstacles, old age, paradigms, poems by vonnely, politics, poverty, sadness, Sweden view, Swedish "culture", Swedish conditions, to die, unhappiness | Tagged , | Leave a comment

The desires of the beloved

man on rose bedI imagining having you here with me, touching your naked body unlimited. This even though I, also in the mere thought, shy away from same intimacy from you. Why is obscure, but clearly I cannot talk with you about my reservations. When I tried, you told me you do not want to know what is beyond your dreams about what is me and what I am. You have given me your soul; all its despair and desires and demands. Some days that is more than I can bear; carry your dreams.

Nude Woman Standing In Front Of A Mirror by Henri de Toulouse Lautrec

You and I are like two bodily illustrations of the well-known poem quote “East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet”. But face to face we have to meet naked without armor, all disguises to fall and no masks to cover naked truths; that is the path of two lovers coming together.

It is the public bravery shown on the common battlefields of love and honor, in centuries the same. But mostly it fails and each battle is its own drama – a sword straight into a single bleeding heart, a single individual’s harmed soul thrown out in a ditch; scars forever in short mortal life; demotion and loneliness and flowering feelings of humilation. But you told me you do not want to know.

rose, whiterose, white




The quote is from Rudyard Kipling “The Ballad of East and West” (1889)

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!

Posted in alienation, armed loneliness, Attraction, authenticity, dreamers, images, life and love, morality, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, prose poem, rebellious lovers | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment