Wading through the ashes of a dead love

 

 

 

 

 

Summer slides away and it darkens to autumn.
We’re still walking side by side, but not talking
as all that could be said has already been said.
We wades strained through drifts of ashes and
no bird Phoenix is in sight burning to be reborn
to rescue the love we once thought would last
forever. It brings a certain hostility between us,
when we could have warmed us at a peace fire
and transitioned to becoming friends. But all
there’s, is dark ashes under a gloomy low sky.

 

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Edwin Bodney “When a boy tells you he loves you”

 

When a boy tells you he loves you, it’ll be the first time you hear this.

It is late, and he isn’t even there to tell you this in person; but instead, from a car ride home from a bar in Chicago, he is there on business.

Of course, you will smile because he sounds like he means it, because you believe him, because a boy has never handed those words to you like crushed blackberries in the palms of his hands — firm, young, full, waiting to taste sweet with you.

His arms, creeping vines, begging to touch the sun in your face saying, “Here, take everything I have ever touched to be closer to you.” His breath, waiting to be folded into a love note passed in between the nape of your neck and his front teeth.

He will remember the time you told him you felt safe in his mouth, and he will never grow hungry. Just distant.

When a boy tells you he loves you, you will hear music, the voice of your past lovers dancing up your throat, your stomach, and after-hours cabaret still waiting on the last call.

That was when you learn that when a boy says “I love you”, he means “I am getting ready to be inconsistent with you now.”

This boy will tell you that he loves you not long after he had you waiting for two hours in front of a cocktail lounge. Patience is something you were working on, but no, not for him.

When he asked you to tell him that you love him back, you will be in a car in the parking lot of a late-night diner. You will watch the words fall into your lap like a spilled glass of white wine.

You will remember the day your courier pigeon heart got lost in the wind because that was a message you did not know how or where to carry. And one by one, the boys have fallen as silently as the birds do.

So eloquently, they used to speak until I asked the questions that broke them into ghosts, that bled me into a corpse with so many questions of my own for the soil, but their tongues do not know simple.

The things I should be hearing, the things that will make us living men in this time of insatiable, yet dying lovers.

When a boy tells you he loves you, only to become silent like a folded sheet of tissue paper, not wanting you to decrease him into the truth, do not crack your face into the fullest crescent moon at the tapered bottom of a blackened sky.

He never meant a single word of any of it. He is just a boy, remember? He is just another silly, sad boy, remember?

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A woman must always wear shoes she can run in

As I was reading web papers today I came to listen to a slam poet reading. I’m not that fond of slam poetry. As of course – I could certainly not do it myself, as I’m not that skilled! Yet, if a woman write a poem and call it, “I never wear shoes I can’t run in”, I find it so amazing – and I watched the videos on Youtube and BBCs webside… because I have always hated those kind of shoes you can’t run in and especially high heels.

And I see the girl read her poem covered head, but showing too much of her too much knees in short skirt and at the bottom she’s dressed in low boots with at least 5 inches heel. And I’m not that impressed anymore. But then I listen more to teach myself to overcome my spontaneous, uncensored, lowminded and mean reactions.

But it’s not getting better listen and listen her reading and reading, as I hear her head voice come into falsetto, upset of emotions. Because I hate that too, as I’m always in control of my emotions and get my spontaneous feelings thoroughly well analyzed and processed. In writing i.e.

Well I’m a poet yes, and I give the precedence to sentiments, but I flee “affects” in the meaning the word have in the Swedish language: react and talk instantly under the impression and overwhelmed of strong feelings and without firstly have reflect over them and their nature and justification. Because stressed and upset feelings of that kind are far from your true feelings and self.

But if I ever would come to read on a stage I guess my voice would occasionally tremble of the tension in the situation. I have to add that. And I hope the woman forgive me for not liking her boots. My reflections about her and her poetry do not mean I reject her mission or skill. Poetry should make you react. That is good. She’s good. So forgive me, I’m just a grumpy old woman. But grumpy old people got to have a voice as well.

The demonstrations and violence in Charlottesville recently is an example when upset feelings transcends to wild affects and degrade for the worse possible outcome. Such a difference from terrorist attacks, always planned long before and performed in cold blood! So the saying “keep the head cool and the heart warm”, may not be so useful for real life? What is? Love?

Hateful people! Loveless people! Having love in your heart? What a mystery hateful people actually can be nice and loving to their children and their dogs? How can that be? How can our hearts be selective in matters of hate and love? Can you trust your feelings?

Personally I hate high heels and I have hardly never more than a few minutes at a time in my long, long female life succeed to wear such shoes. And I’m 68 yo now and my feet still look 20. But it has not prevent my feet from age and hurt and refuse to carry me around as they did before. So always have had footwear shoes guarantee you nothing, I sadly have to admit!

And generally speaking for the women in our world: there is not a place, nor a country, nor an event there a woman can wear shoes she can’t run in! It counts for my highly expected country Sweden too and it counts of course especially at private and public parties when many (men) are around you, crowds you don’t know and control. And that’s when innocent girls and mature women stumble around in their high heels, the nice party shoes you can’t run having!

Whatever situation or event and whatever doing and wherever in the world a woman lives, she can’t wear shoes she can’t run in. That’s the lesson for the little girl to become a woman one day: know to never wear shoes you can’t run in. That is the sad world for women of today. If you want a change in this overall world, it starts with the liberation of women.

 

 

 

 

 

bbc.com/news/av/world-africa-40954588/south-sudan-conflict-poet-emi-mahmoud-on-uganda-refugee-landmark
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6R8EM4xiy70
I have earlier in life had relationships with male refugees who suffered from Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), so I do “understand” outrage of trauma (been there, never again). Maybe a red warning lamp started to blink in my brain, recognizing the symptoms. It’s possible. But it’s not my subject in this article. My subject is those torturing high-heel shoes and women’s social situation in the whole world. Nothing less, nothing more.
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The Rowan Berries (a sour-sweet love story)

In the month of August, when the berries
on rowan trees ripen bright reddish, love
tends to run off my life, likewise this year.

The days are still sunny and warm, but it
darkens earlier in the evening and nights
are chilly black, but the dark season isn’t
here yet and the Moon shines strong.

I have spent some time reading on my
balcony facing south. And it has been
quiet, not much and not any around.

When he was back from his holiday trips
he asked me smugly if I had missed him.

Then the claw that had plagued my heart
the recent past weeks sudden stabbed me
again and sadness overwhelmed me and
I broke into tears and I left him without
a word, not to show I cried.

He’d only have questioned the validity
of my grief. And been perfectly right.

I really have common sense and I know
very well I can’t resent he left for relaxing
trips and nice friends during his vacation.
But still I did – and I’ve been jealous and
I’ve felt abandoned and forgotten.

Now he’s furious at me because I didn’t
answer what he call his perfectly normal
and common question and he accused me
for having created a conflict. And further
he told me I do that all the time: creates
conflicts between us.

He just don’t know what to do with me,
he told to me. “I’m helpless in front of
you”, he said.

Then he asked me to explain my “behavior”.
But it’s not much I can say, because I can’t
tell him he must be a very stupid person.

Then he said “can’t we just forget it and
move on” and I said “no, I can’t do that
this time because I haven’t done anything
wrong and further it’s not the same for
me anymore”. And angry again he left
our talk without a word to goodbye.

As I told you in the beginning of this poem:
love tends to leave my life in August when
the sour rowan berries blushes so sweetly!

For a time he was so close to me, living in
my mind and heart like a warm embrace.
But when he went away that closeness left
me little by little until I became all empty
inside. Since then every new morning is
nothing but dark ashes, love is all gone.

I still sit on my balcony facing south. I’m
now reading an autobiographical novel
written by a woman who’s been dead for
some years, but who loved and cried a lot
while she still was alive. She writes well.

And I have 630 pages to read! I’ll be fine.

 

 

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It’s not about being “right” or “wrong”

It’s not about right or wrong here! My
feelings are what they are and I react
like I react. “Right” or “wrong”, OMG!
Please! It is what is!

I’m unhappy because I strongly feel
you’ve not a clue how I experience
what is going on between us.

Then you ask me for explanations,
but when I try to give them to you,
you argue against them.

“So I’m a bad person”, is always your
standard response and conclusion.

Those talks we have make me feel even
worse. And I’ve come to think, I for my
own sake and self-confidence shouldn’t
reveal my true feelings for you anymore.

That’s the core: I’ve lost my trust in you.

It seems like the world for you is to be
either “wrong” and that is to be a “bad”
person or to be “right” and that is to be
a “good” person.

So if I’m not happy, it’s on me and I’m
no good. But if I’d refer it to “us” – well
that’s like claiming you’re a “bad” man.

And if I’d do that – then I’ve made you
unhappy! Oh oh oh, “bad me”!

I guess you just got to twist me to be
“wrong” so you can feel good about
yourself. But this seems not to be a
problem for you for even if you’ve
proved I’m wrong – it’s all good
because “you love me”! And
then it’s just fine then!

All I have to do is say “fine” when you
ask me “how are you” and then smile –
so you can feel good about yourself.

Thinking about it all, I just feel bad
about myself – and about you.

That is, precisely, why I’m not happy.

I still remember when I longed for to
get love in my life. But now I wonder
why people are so keen to get it?

 

My female calico cat with my black male cat on the balcony some years ago (he is dead now of age)

 

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Out of silence comes the music

 

Out of silence comes the music, rises from its
longing to itself. But there are silences between
people that make love die of lack of nutrition.

This, my being now, that what is related to you,
can’t be described with the word “missing”. It’s
more like a “nothingness” from your idle hand.
It’s the gift from a thoughtless lover, honored
by none. As it’s roughly done.

A constant refusal to problematize life’s issues
becomes a way of life and a way of oppression
of the other. Is it your choice or an is it your
incapacity? Too often I’ve come to that wall
in front of the other and to this confusion!

The self-centered man’s persistent insensitivity for
the beloved needs and feelings!  At worst, it creates
bitterness that goes inwards or rage going outwards.
Like Medea’s anger: “I will meet you with fire and
fury the world has never seen”.

But you got to hold the mad dogs in a doghouse and
put a leash your demons – to be free.

There’s always another horizon – another passion – to
detect, even if so seen within the frame of a window!
But it’s another window! You dance away on your own
rebellious feet.

(So you have missed me you tell me now, when you
finally show up – and you are who, you said?)

Dying Swan, Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ut ur tystnad kommer musiken, den uppstår av längtan till sig själv. Det finns dock tystnader och frånvaro mellan människor som får kärlek att dö av näringsbrist.

Detta som är mitt vara just nu, det som är relaterat till dig, kan inte beskrivas med ordet “saknad”. Det är mer som ett “ingentinghet”. Det är den tanklöse älskarens skänk och dylika skänker besjunges aldrig av någon, det låter sig liksom inte göras.

En konstant vägran att problematisera tillvaron blir en livshållning och ett sätt att förtrycka omgivningen. Är det ditt val, eller din oförmåga? Alltför ofta kommer jag fram till den muren mellan mig och den andre.

Den självupptagna människans ständiga stumhet inför den älskade! I värsta fall skapar den bitterhet som går inåt eller raseri som går utåt.

Som Medeas vrede: ”jag ska möta dig med rasande eld och förstörelse som världen aldrig förr har skådat”.

Man måste hålla de som är negativa utanför ens privata sfär och sätta koppel på sina inre demoner – för att vara fri.

Det finns alltid en annan horisont – en annan passion – att upptäcka. Om så sedd inom ramen för ett fönster! Det är dock ett annat fönster! Man kan dansa iväg på sina egna rebelliska fötter!

(Så du har saknat mig, säger du nu när du slutligen dyker upp – och du är “vem”, sa du?)

 

 

 

I recently watched on Swedish TV the documentary film “Rebels on Pointe” about “Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo” and became thrilled by those lovely dancers, thereof the illustrations to this writing. And I want to thank Donald Trump for the quote “we will meet them with fire and fury the world has never seen”. He’s a passioned poet! This time I have written in Swedish and translated to English – normally it’s the other way around.

Posted in create life, dancing feet, inspiring movies, love poem, love story, morality, poem in English and Swedish, poem in Swedish and English, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, rebellious lovers, relationships, repression and borders, walls | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Bottle post (så som jag saknar dig)

 

 

 

 

P.S. Krøyer: Summer Evening at Skagen 1892

The way I miss you
Fills me to the brim
Empty me to nothing
I’m lost, no belonging
I wanted to sing about
you and only you
But without you
I have no voice
I want to breathe you
now again and again
But you’re gone
I can no longer
sense your scent
The way I miss you
As much as I miss you
I want you to miss me

 

P.S. Krøyer: Summer Evening at Skagen 1892

så som jag saknar dig
fyller mig till brädden
tömmer mig till ingenting
jag är förlorad utan hemvist
jag ville sjunga om dig och
bara om dig, men utan dig
har jag ingen röst
jag vill andas dig igen
och igen, men din doft
försvann när du försvann
så som jag saknar dig
så mycket som jag saknar dig
så vill jag att du saknar mig

 

 

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Request for the last dance

“you should miss me”
I wrote to him

“I do”
I expect him
to answer me

“you forgot to tell”
I shall tell him then

 

I thought he would
be my last dance

and with him
I’ve done my do

but the quest of love
may not be over yet

I don’t want to fall
by the wayside

quit my desires to
become a granny,

knit for grandkids
I don’t have

I want sex again
for years more

it’s simple basic
to expect from life

youth is long gone
the future gone too

next up is end-station
I’m running out of time

you should miss me
I wrote him

the pale truth is he
hasn’t answered me

 

 

 

 

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Songbird

Summer dreams, Aldo Luongo

When I woke up last Sunday afternoon
from my daily nap I could vaguely hear
a melancholy voice singing in my head.
It happens to me at times I  can hear a
tiny tune like that for my inner ear just
in the moment I wake up. Those fairy
tunes dancing around in my mind are
certainly rarer than dreams. But like a
dream they mostly vanish before being
stored in my memory. This time I was
lucky to identify Tracy Chapman
singing her song “Spring”.

I know this time I won’t be able to forgive
and forget – even though I also know it was
nothing more than a blunder and nothing
to heed. Yet, it was an indifference shown,
stating (again) how life would be with you.

(I took a short afternoon nap mature in age,
yet a head filled with young and romantic
dreams. I woke shortly after and it was like
hundred years later and I was well-read
and wise and so very gray-haired – and
still unkissed!)

I who was so confident and happy yesterday!
And I’m a bit blue and scattered now, but my
distress is not deep. It rather feels like I fully
sinking down in my shoes. Not as if I’ve been
tiptoeing for you. No, but I’ve just the feeling
I’m now coming fully to myself.

(And a soothing songbird has sung for me in my
dreams, telling me it’s all ok and I will be fine.)

 

 

 

 

 

 The male singer on the video is Tony Rich.

In slang a beast of burden is someone who hangs around and screws everything up for their bf/gf; someone who really messes everything
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Bubbles

And again, all given me was soap bubbles.
But for a while I had felt you so close as if
I really had a warm nest in your heart and
we were like one and the same, belonging
to each other. Now I can’t even recall those
tender feelings, but I know for some days
I felt so happy and fulfilled. Now left with
me is me and only me – and not as it’s bad.
No, it’s not that! But it would have been so
nice if the fling with you had lasted longer
than like blowing shimmering soap bubbles
a beautiful and joyful day in July, now gone
autumn to come.

 

 

 

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Cruel love dance

To love or not to love
is not the question.
The question is: how
is your daily life?
Is it building you up,
giving you a confident
happy feeling to have
your feet on a solid
and safe foundation
or does it shatter you
to sand, making you
feel miserable?

Again you’ve made me cry.
But you never ask me why,
as you pretend not to know
you make my tears to flow.

You pretend you have no ties.
But it’s not like you tell me lies.
No, you just runs off from here,
gone for days not telling where.
And if you ever say any, you say
it’s just your normal way.

Then back you ask me arrogant,
(totally neglecting the elephant)
if I’ve been missing you? And
sadly, it is what I always do,
that’s why my tears flow.

And it’s so bad living so sad.

Your blind cruelty make our love doomed.
We never talk about the elephant in the room.
And I never ask you why you make me cry.
You tell me all the time you love me so much.
But to love or not to love is not the question.

 

 

 

 

 

(Amazing video to watch in full screen)

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Frankly, my dear!


The mysterious ways the drive of desire
and affection takes have tied me to you.
Though given my love, it will not give you
the right to act arrogant and neglecting.

But if you’ll mess it up you have violated
the greatest gift life ever can give to you:
you wanted love and got it you’ll created
a desert dump and tears of bitterness?

Yet – I want you to know to be consoled,
life will always give you a second chance.
Although it may not be with me.

Barbara Lynn born 1942 still active

 

The amazing Barbara Lynn born 1942, here 2015 performing  “You’ll lose a good thing” – a song written by Curtis Mayfild and first performed by Barbara Lynn 1962

 

The title of my poem is of course borrowed from the classical line in  the movie “Gone with the Wind”  from 1939 

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When cherries ripen

Juli dalar när som körsbären mognar                                                 In English below
Grenar dignar under den tunga sötman
Tillförsiktens lugna längtan efter dig
Kärlekens gåta

Naken vilar du i mig alla dagar
Förblir likväl främlingen fjärran bortom
Tillförsikten håller oss ändå samman
Kärlekens gåta

Tids nog flyktar kärleken eller mognar
Alla mina vanor du inte vet om
När augusti drömmer dig strålar månen
Vardagens magi

 

 

July’s fading all while the cherries ripen
Branches drooping under the heavy sweetness
Being safe and tranquil in desiring you
Mystery called love

Nude you’re resting inside me every moment
Still you stay the stranger from distant country
Trust though keeps us together softly embraced
Mystery called love

As time passes our love will grow to mature
All my habits you don’t know yet but will hate
August wistful dreams make the moonlight mighty
Everyday magic

 

 

 

 

Fresco showing Sappho, from Pompeii, Naples National Archaeological Museum

Δέδυκε μεν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληΐαδες‧ μέσαι δὲ
νύκτες‧ πάρα δ᾽ ἔρχετ᾽ ὤρα,
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.

Well, the moon has set
And the Pleiades. It is the middle
Of the night. And the hour passes by,
But I sleep alone …….

Fragment 168 b

Plejaderna sjunkit och månen
gått ner, och midnatt är inne.
Vår mötestimma har kommit
Men ännu ligger jag ensam.

 

källor till Saphho’s dikter:
svenska123.se
classicalanthology.theclassicslibrary.com/2013/03/30/sappho-and-the-moon/
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Modern Times (life and love in texting)

 

Hello!
I’m good!
I’m in a bus.
I’m traveling now to a new place.
Tomorrow I will be home.
Our journey will end today.
This is my last place to visit.

I love you so much
I love your smile
Your voice and
everything’s about you

Sweetheart,
I will go out
Now
We will talk later in night
Ok

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I discovered yesterday myself being happy!

 

I discovered yesterday myself being happy.
Therefore I woke up today worried in mind
as every experienced human having a heart
knows romantic love is such a tricky thing –
as the lover sending you to heaven today,
you might wish to curse to hell tomorrow!

It’s always such hard for me to open my
hands and embrace my good feelings –
because as soon I’m happy, my intellect
instantly recalls the sad times that once
was and then it forecast miseries that
may come around the very next corner!

Thus wisdom for me is to be able to enjoy
the beauty and fragrances of roses though
I know of the thorns on the stem carrying
the flowers – and to fully appreciate those
happy moments life offer, even if they’re
volatile and even if they precedes withering
and death. I haven’t learn that art – yet.

 

 

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While life seem to happens somewhere else

 

 

 

 

While life seems to happen
somewhere else but not here
where I am this sleepy July 17,
2017 I play solitaire on my laptop,
waiting for something or nothing
to occur and I wonder what you
are doing and if you are thinking
about me now at 3 pm – this short
moment that’ll pass with no grip
to create a memory (yet caught).
It’s a sunny day today but quite
windy and cloudy and my door
is opened to the greenery.

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I am what’s true for you

Summer dreams, Aldo Luongo

I wake up at 7.03 am and
still half asleep I wonder
“am I living a dream”. But
soon clear in mind I think –

“What does it matter if it is
a dream I’m living? I pay my
bills and take my pills, I check
the TV news and eat healthy
every day, I waste sorting my
garbage and I read my books,
I don’t trouble anyone and I
have no opinions that would
hurt any, so what if I’m living
a dream that is just a fantasy
made up in my head and not
true in what people call real
world? If so, no harm done!
It can be. Yes – I can have it.”

Maybe you think the same
about what’s me, where you
are far away in this morning
in July, dog days. All what’s
in your world, is misplaced
in my world and all around
me is not right for you. But
you are what’s right for me –
your essence and smile, your
body and pure loving heart.
And I am what’s true for you.

 

 

 

 

 

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I’m jealous of your day

I’m jealous of the day that has you
without me 3600 kilometers far away.
But I don’t care what you set eyes on
as I know you have me on your mind
almost all of your time. Fate has tied
us tight together and that you’re not
here makes me lost and I get jealous
on this day that has you without me.

Jag är svartsjuk på dagen som
har dig utan mig, 3600 kilometer
långt bort. Jag bryr mig inte om
vad du ser omkring dig, eftersom
jag vet att du tänker på mig nästan
hela tiden. Ödet har flätat oss tätt
samman och att du inte är här gör
mig vilsen och jag blir svartsjuk på
denna dag som har dig, utan mig.

 

 

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Your eyes smile no more


You still send me selfies to tell me
you miss me as much as I miss you
and to assure me you love me and
I’m not alone and your lips smile so
big on your photos. Suddenly I see
now your eyes smiles no more – yet
I know if I’d ask you about it, you’d
tell me I just imagining. But even if
I can see your smiles not reach your
eyes, I  surely don’t know the cause.
So I’ll wait to see what’ll be with us.

 


 

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“Hello! Hello!”

 

 

 

 

We had a chat,
just like every night
about this and that

I don’t know what didn’t go right

but I said something aimless and
she left saying “Hello! Hello!”
Like crazy!
She left me!
Where did she go?

I’ve called and called
but mutely she dumped
me in the cold.

Simple said, she had got me pumped

and I said something aimless and
she left saying “Hello! Hello!”
Like crazy!
She left me!

Where did you go?

 

 

 

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After the summer vacations

photo-by-julia-lindemalm-gp-sweden

 
When you’re left there and
everyone has traveled back
to their own and your rooms
fills you to the brim with their
silence and emptiness and all
the new things you bought for
yourself – shopping in gaiety
community with your visiting
dears at summer vacation, all
to make you feel nice and cosy
when left behind again – seems
to mock you with their shiny
and unused cruelty, reminding
you of your inutility and you
ask yourself “what’s the point”
and then pain and cold slowly
creeps into your heart and soul
for no reason at all, then –
what will you do with yourself?

Sunbathing at Pueto Valla

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“You’ll be President”, Swedish rock music in the 1980s

“Imperiet” (in translation = the Empire) was a Swedish rockband during the years 1981 – 1988. The leader was sing and songwriter Joakim Thåström, born 1957. Thåström has after the time in rockband and earlier in punkband worked as a solo artist. He is still active.

In a song called “Du ska va President” (You’ll be President) there are references to a movie called Metropolis by Fritz Lang from 1927.

I have for the purpose of this entry translated Thåström’s lyrics for the benefit to my English  readers. My translation is not to be copied and spread.

Joakim Thåström

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imperiet and Joakim Thåström to English:
You’ll be President

Somewhere down below the ground at the bottom of a hole
In the mines of Hell City aching muscles turns to steel
Worries and wounds, lullabies will soothe and heal
While the big eye straights the crooked, keeping things whole

Everyone is born naked without stitches or guilt
Ten thousand tons of stones where the cities were built
The walls of Megatropolis breathe with pain of hope gilt
Under ground, under ground

But you know that

You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire

Below the dark black heaven it’s party all the night more
While your bills collects in packs and aging on your floor
But life drain away faster than a sale in a thrift store
So tell your children happy tales they can adore

Somewhere down below in the bunker sings the hammer beat.
About how after winter the sun will the bodies heat.
Let it echo in your brain, you must as you’re a star.
Under ground, under ground

But you know that

You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire

Under ground
Under ground
Under ground

But you know, but you know that

You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire
You will be President, you will be millionaire

Under ground
Under ground
Under ground

 

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Music across borders

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(This entry is dedicated to a bearded man close to me)

Pablo Picasso

 

 

Sweden has not only a big export music industry. We have also many great singers and song writers, influenced from all parts of the world – not at least US and jazz and blues music. Totta Näslund (1945- 2005) was a great Swedish blues singer. Ulf Dageby is one of our great song writers.

I have many music favourites following me over time and this is one of them, sang by Totta and with lyrics  by Ulf Dageby:

 

När du kommer hem till mig (When you’re coming home to me)
Swedish lyrics & music: Ulf Dageby (the English translation on this entry  is by me)

When you’re coming home to me
I can see you from my window
On the rainy road you’re visible now
through my water patterned window

It has been silent and empty here,
but a radio’s music filter sound
consoled me when it hurt too much,
and I’d walked too many yards around

All memories knocked on the door today,
and ghosts have gone through my rooms.
But when you’re coming home to me
The anxiety will never blooms.

I see you on the street so close now
and the curtain sews golden seams,
the rain becomes a silver wine
that quenches all bad dreams.
—-
All memories knocked on the door today,
and ghosts have gone through my rooms.
But when you’re coming home to me
The anxiety will never blooms.

I see you on the street so close now
and the curtain sews golden seams,
the rain becomes a silver wine
that quenches all bad dreams.
——
When you’re coming home to me
I can see you from my window
On the rainy road your’e visible now
through water patterned window

 

 

 

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Not quite dark in US

(Has he lost his mind?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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1967 or 2017 – it’s the same lonely story

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1967 or 2017 – it’s the same story now
as in the past. I’m left on my own alone
with my books and my poetry and love
is still a fallacy. But I’m not a rejecting
island or a rugged rock – if I ever were.
You played so beautifully on the strings
of my heart and you can do it again, if
it’s your desire. But you better sing out
now, because I’m not going to do it for
you. It’s up to you if this is a goodbye.

youtube.com/watch?v=jK_9ppta_M0

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Walking along the wall

Walking along the wall
Trying to see the light
Don’t want to dig the devil’s ditch
But living is hard
Once a dreamer
Now aged and scarred
Yet every heart is a bird
Who yearns to use its wings and sing
Walking along the wall
Love is like balloons flying in the sky

Posted in create life, living in the world, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politics, relationships, repression and borders, walk of life, walls | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A rainy day in late June (the rag rugs of life)

It rained heavily when I woke up this morning,
But as I had my first coffee for the day, the sun
broke through and the clouds were scattered
and those left whitening to pretty angel faces.

I’ve been thinking lately a lot about domestic stuff,
as I need to renew a little in my home, like buying
new carpets. I actually bought a new carpet to my
living room the other day at the local IKEA store.

Carried home by my son home on vacation and
after hanging some days on the balcony to air
the smell of chemicals, the new carpet was finally
placed at the floor in my living room. I looked at it
and realized I hated it – the color and the pattern!

Now the carpet is banished to my bedroom floor.
And as I woke up this morning the first thing I put
my feet on this carpet. And I found I still dislike it.

Make it cosy at home seems to be an issue of both
taste and money assets! And I don’t have enough
of either one or the other. Yet a part of my brain is
(still) occupied with these trivial household matters.

I’ve decided to give it up and get some traditional
Swedish rug rag carpets, fabric made of course but
similar to the ones my grannie once wove.

Note – I live in Sweden and we Swedes are obsessed
with coziness and diets and fitness. Some believe it’s
because we live in a secular society without religious
faith and habits – but I believe people choose what’s
easy and convenient and flattering for them, avoiding
to broaden their minds and confront what’s complex.

Now eating my simple cheese sandwich I look at my
lover at the computer screen. He has log in only for
to have a chat with me, but my constantly working
brain wonder…

… if I keep myself to what’s real or if I live in
a fantasy world – about love and him and life
and if I do enough –  such difficult questions.
I don’t know if he thinks the same – what’s
real and possible and worth the effort?

But being caught in breakfast I try to chew
my crispbread as discreet as possible, it all
while we talk about nothing at all.

It was still raining when I made my breakfast
and I was then thinking about a certain denying
president (I don’t want to ruin the day recalling
his name) and about the environment changes,
which are so obvious – in my part of the earth.

The climate change giving higher temperature has
changed the seasons. Now latest we’re dealing with
serious water shortage, the level of groundwater i.e.

Well, it certainly has rained a lot lately. But only
to the grasses benefit. All the water coming from
the sky doesn’t go deep enough down into the soil
to increase the ground water level.

On the surface the grass flourish green and lovely.
Yes yes  – but I can’t cope more with lovey-dovey
so early in my day. I end the chat to take a shower
and start the day…

The future starts where you stand, it’s said. And
I really shower less often and quicker than before.

I intend to later go down town and I know I’ll
still deal my three simultaneous and brooding
brain issues: nesting, environment issues and
the purpose of (my) life…

This day in late June, so similar to other humble
days coming and passing by in the lovely and lazy
Swedish summer, yet not quite the same as before.

Typical Swedish rag rug like the ones my grandmother wove

weaving woman, photo of an oil painting by Olle Olsson (Östergötlands Arkivförbund) ostergotlandsarkivforbund.se/garamalningar/vavande-kvinna-a-lundby/

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The story of the man at the pier

The first version of this poem was published August 2015. The story is   inspired by the picture, that I liked and want to create something around.

I’m a man of fire and ashes. Every
day is new, I know – but it all feels
like repeats. I try to walk straight,
but constantly stumbles on my feet.

Time and time again and all my life
I’ve walked this pier there my future
and its end seemed to be same: just
dead ends. I’ve at times been stuck
in my own anger and fear, because I
couldn’t reach out for the closeness
and love that was wanted and offered
me. There were other times when all
that expected lovey-dovey made me
feel like I was going to be choked.

I’ve avoided it all and I walked alone –
but then came all the self-loathing and
self-pity; I felt so small and lonely and
abandoned and I was ashamed for all
what I couldn’t provide; longing – but
I was used to the old tracks and I didn’t
believe I could create better for myself –
I was simply a sad and lonely mess and
I thought I wasn’t worth anything.

Oh, but you woman – can you see me now?
All fear I carry in me? Your love demand
me to fly when all I can is crawl! But if you
let me – I’ll crawl all the way to your heart,
because it’s my hidden desire to love you!
But yet, it’s much I want and little I can!

Oh, some of my days I’m filled with hope, but
others are nothing but despair. But no matter
how the day is, I’ll take my walk along the pier;
I walk my walks to see the sea and the horizon.

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Wanting you is like trying to catch the wind

Summer dreams, Aldo Luongo

 

Yes, my pure-hearted lover
and sweetest thing in the world!
I was thinking of you too the past
sleepless night and when I finally
fell asleep, I woke less than three
hours later just before 6 AM and
I was thinking what a fruitless try
this is, yes you and me, it’ll never
be. But I had felt so close to you
in the night, as if we knew each
other well, heart to heart and skin
to skin. But how can it be, it can’t,
it simply can’t… And still I felt
what I felt, so near to you and
at the same time so out of faith
and hope. And then I thought
you have to carry the faith for us
both, because I just simply can’t,
as I’m so full of mature-minded,
overripe common sense…

 

 

 

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As if I tried to catch the wind

I held out my hands for love, but it
seems to me all I caught was wind.
My years have run away like sand
through my fingers and I now face
my last life years and I’m still alone.

Oh, I’ve surely been told more than
once I’m wonderful and lovable and
so worthy to get someone to love!

But look at people who are married
and have so been for decades – some
of them look or behave so ugly, that
you wonder how they ever could get
married? It’s a true life enigma, I say!

So what do we aged single people do
with life? Oh, we have a home of our
own, maybe with a nice garden, which
gives us something to do and care for.
Maybe we have friends and hobbies
and listen to music or chat with a cat.
Maybe we have a room with a view.

From my window I can see the ocean
and the horizon far away. Some days
a striking rainbow reminds me about
Mr. Goodman. He once said to me he
wanted to put my name on a rainbow 
everyone to see how much he loved me.

I said “all I want is you to be real and
coloring my life with your love”. But it
was back then. I guess it wasn’t meant
to be and I guess that he’s married and
has forgot all about me.

I held out my hands for love, but all
I caught was wind and now my years
have run away like sand through my
fingers. But time dry tears and I try to
be happy with what was given to me
and live my life as well as I can and –
I never want to cry again.

But honestly, deep down in my heart
I wished more for me. I wanted love
and to hold a lover’s warm body in my
arms. I wanted to feel his heartbeats
and breathe his warm breath…

And – now I’m standing at my window,
looking at the rainbow far over the sea.
I know it’s a light thing after rain. I also
know it’s now and not connected to any
memory. But I feel so old and furrowed
and very silly to even look. I’ve lost my
courage and my faith and my hope is
like a newly hatched chicken…
vulnerable! I would be scared if I tried!

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Once I looked for Mr. Goodman

Once I looked for Mr. Goodman.
He was a good Christian man, but
he never made it and I went on alone.
And then the American people elected
Donald Trump as Mr. Goodman, well
“fuck you”: Mayor of London, Pakistani
and Muslim. “Fuck you” Mexican poverty
people, defenseless women and children.
Good bless Saudi Arabia buying weapons:
jobs, jobs, jobs said that “fucking” president
of United States of America, the most stupid,
ignorant and rude person in the world: “fuck”
the world, making China look like a society
of human rights,  democratic values, good
environment policy and common sense.
But what can you expect of a culture
having “fuck” as swear word. In
Sweden we say “fy fan!” and
that’s what I say: “fy fan”!

 

Jim Bennett: I’ve been up two and a half million dollars.
Frank: What you got on you?
Jim Bennett: Nothing.
Frank: What you put away?
Jim Bennett: Nothing.
Frank: You get up two and a half million dollars, any asshole in the world knows what to do: you get a house with a 25 year roof, an indestructible Jap-economy shitbox, you put the rest into the system at three to five percent to pay your taxes and that’s your base, get me? That’s your fortress of fucking solitude. That puts you, for the rest of your life, at a level of fuck you. Somebody wants you to do something, fuck you. Boss pisses you off, fuck you! Own your house. Have a couple bucks in the bank. Don’t drink. That’s all I have to say to anybody on any social level. Did your grandfather take risks?
Jim Bennett: Yes.
Frank: I guarantee he did it from a position of fuck you. A wise man’s life is based around fuck you. The United States of America is based on fuck you. You’re a king? You have an army? Greatest navy in the history of the world? Fuck you! Blow me. We’ll fuck it up ourselves.

the quote from:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2039393/quotes

Good Bless James Brien Comey Jr., staying 2,03 m tall and holding his head up for America and for self respect and decency. People like him is my hope for Mr. Goodman these devil’s days of  ignorant darkness and terror violence.

Posted in "culture", antagonists, borders, living in the world, morality, poems by vonnely, politcs, Sweden view | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

What to do when the thrill is gone?

 

She once had a crush on him.
He hadn’t a clue but went after
some blonde called Emma or
Ruth or something, treating him
like shit. She forgot him but she
was still searching for something
to hang on to. Then he saw her
pic in a paper and called her up,
saying he had loved her all time.
They walked the same road, all
by the schedule: desire, passion
and jealousy, passion, desire and
jealousy and so on. At same time,
they got to know each other well,
certainly a risky trap for attraction
and lust. A word was said by one
and the other’s feelings went with
no warning from fire to ashes and
passionate love to deep friendship.
What to say and what to do when
you still care but the love track has
become a daily life driving in deep
wheel-tracks, the thrill is gone but
the other wants you as before?

 

 

 

 

I very much like Eagles’ lyrics in the song “After the Thrill is gone”. If you want to, you can check it up on youtube.com/watch?v=sYi4vYBIh1k&list=RDsYi4vYBIh1k
But nothing beats B B King! I read in an interview with B B King there he said something like the secret to keep the thrill in his performances is to play a song as it was the first and last time he played it. And it works with me, I certainly have kept the thrill for this great blues man! 🙂
Posted in Attraction, create life, fictional story, inspiring music, morality, poems, Poetry, relationships, sexuality | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Nitty Gritty

Now ladies and gentlemen, may I please present your dancers with their interpretation of the nitty-gritty

Posted in living in the world, poems by vonnely, politcs, satire | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Love you as you are

The movie “She-Devil” from 1989 (Roseanne Barr)

I’ve gained 6 kilos and you’ve
lost 2 kilo. I’m too fat and you
are too skinny. I’m too old and
you’re too young. I intends to
improve your thinking, I said.
It’s nothing wrong with that if
you in a nice way show me I’m
wrong, you said. Not nice at all,
I’ll use violence, I said playfully.
I want to explore you from top
to toe with my tongue. My body
is too skinny, you then said. It
doesn’t matter if you’re skinny
or fat, I said, I’m gonna take you
as you are, because I love you.

 

 

 

 

 

Jag har gått upp 6 kilo och du
har tappat 2 kilo, jag är för fet
och du är för mager. Jag är för
gammal och du är för ung. Jag
vill ändra ditt tänkande, sa jag.
Det inget fel med det, om du
snällt kan visa mig att jag har
fel, sa du. Inte snällt alls, sa jag
retsamt. Jag nyttjar våld! Jag
vill utforska dig från huvud till
fot med min tunga. Min kropp
är för mager, klagade du. Det
spelar ingen roll om du är fet
eller mager, sa jag. Jag tar dig
som du är, för jag älskar dig.

Gothenburg 2015 Swedish winter bath

 

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Callow mind

the photo belongs to Erica Cole erikacolephotography.com/

Know that I can feel your pain now.
Know that I cannot do any for you.
Know that you have a callow mind.
Your words were too often ignorant
and lacked empathy and insight in
others emotional lives. I don’t think
you know how you hurt me, it only
insulted you when I told you. I know
you miss me now, I can feel the pain
in your heart. But I know I cannot do
any for you. Life and time maybe can.
I know tomorrow may seem far away
but you know very well,  you have a
lot of time left to live and I have not.

 

 

 

 

also listen to this young man cover “You’re The One That I Want”, it’s amazing… 🙂

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And the lilacs bloom another year

 

 

 

 

The first of June and summer at last.
But my back aches after a bad night.
Two painkillers and then the bus to
the supermarket to buy cat food. To
feed the cat is my merely obligation,
(you shan’t think anything else). I’m
back at 2 PM at the rental area and
yard where I live my life. Lilacs blooms
all over between the houses. I’ve seen
lilacs bloom for now 69 times and for
68 years and many years gone I’ve acid
the view of lilacs with seeing them as
symbols of romance (probably not to
come true). When I now pass the yard
to my front door, I decide to give up all
such thinking, let lilacs bloom and give
their fragrances for nothing and me not
expecting anything, summer just lovely
and mere that. But I’m still not well and
back home I go straight to bed and then
I sleep till 7 PM, the window ajar. If you
want me any, you know where to find me.

 

 

 

Posted in aging, love story, nature, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships, summertime, Sweden view, with or without you | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

On May 31 1941 it was too late for Margot

Gas flame from gas stove

Karin Boye Oct 26, 1900 – April 24 1941
Margot Edman born Hanel, April 12, 1912 – May 30, 1941

Margot Hanel

Karin Boye

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day after it’s too late to regret neglect,
to regret ostracism. Margot Hanel’s dead
body, blue of gas poisoning was found on May
31, 1941 by her coworker as she hadn’t come
to work that day. Karin Boye, her life partner
had once saved her from Hitler’s gas chambers.
But the intolerance of time in the safe Swedish
society killed her. Margot died in the kitchen
in her and Karin’s home with a portrait of Karin
beside her and one of Karin’s poetry collections
resting on her chest. She was undervalued and
rejected by Karin’s social sphere. But Margot’s
friends described her as a jolly girl who liked to
whistle. There seems to be not much more left
after her than a photo and a letter. She was only
29 years old when she died. And this is how it is:
the day after a suicide everything is so terribly
too late. But love that once was can’t be extinct.
Karin and Margot still had seven years together.

 

Margot Hanel

Dagen efter är det för sent att ångra vad som försummats,
för sent att ångra utfrysning. Margots Hanels döda kropp,
blå av gasförgiftning hittades den 31 maj 1941 av en arbets-
kamrat som undrade varför Margot inte hade kommit till
jobbet den dagen. Hennes livspartner Karin Boye hade
räddat henne från Hitlers gaskamrar, men samtidens brist
på tolerans i det trygga svenska folkhemmet dödade henne.
Margot dog på golvet i köket i hennes och Karins hem med
ett porträtt av Karin bredvid sig och en av Karins diktböcker
vilande på sitt bröst. Hon dog underskattad och förnekad av
Karins sociala sfär. Men Margots vänner beskrev henne som
en gladlynt och busig tjej som tyckte om att vissla. Det verkar inte finnas mer än ett foto och ett brev kvar efter henne. Och hon blev bara 29 år. Det är så det är – dagen efter är allting försent. Men kärleken som en gång var låter sig inte dödas!
De fick sju år tillsammans.

 

Tre år efter deras död avkriminaliserades homosexualitet i
Sverige. Men fram till 1979 räknades homosexualitet som
en mentalsjukdom att behandlas som en sådan. Men i dag
i Sverige kan homosexuella ingå äktenskap och har rätt att
adoptera barn. Det betyder inte att enskildas fördomar mot
homosexuella är utrotade. Men det är möjligt att leva fri!

 

 

 

 

Karin Boye is a well-known Swedish author and cultural personality, famous already during her life time. She froze to death during a nightly walk in April 24, 1941 after taking an overdose of sleeping pills. Her death was assumed to be a suicide. She lived for seven years with the German woman Margot Hanel. They met for the first time in Berlin in 1932. After Karin’s death, the family (mother and brothers) destroyed all poems Karin wrote to Margot and the correspondence between them. They also denied Margot as Karin’s mistress and life partner. Margot committed suicide on May 30, 1941. She died of gas poisoning. In 1944 homosexuality was decriminalized in Sweden. However, until 1979, homosexuality was considered as a mental illness to be treated, some people was even castrated. Today in Sweden, homosexuals can get married and adopt children. This does not mean that all prejudices are gone – but in Sweden, politics and legislation have secured the gay rights. It’s possible to live free!

But as known, in many parts of the world homosexuals are still harassed, tortured, persecuted, imprisonment and even killed. Politics and legislation are then used as means of oppression of individuals. Lately, there has been much talk about the horrifying events in Chechnya where homosexual men have been abducted and tortured, sometimes also killed.

“But it’s impossible those data to be correct,” Alvi Karimov claims, the spokesman for Chechnya’s President Ramzan Kadyrov, “You cannot arrest or oppress people who do not exist in the Republic,” he says.

 

 

Posted in create life, love story, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politcs, prose poem, rebellious lovers, relationships, sexuality, Swedish conditions, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My bearded bird

I need wings, he said,
to come to you! Well,
that would be a sight
in the sky, I smiled, a
flying bearded bird!

Years have passed and
things have been said,
thoughts been thought,
hot dreams no oxygen,
yet invincible – we are
still here for each other!
Yes, I am still listening
to the enchanting song
from my bearded bird,
my lover in cyberspace!

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The Road

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I guess everyone has their own
tragedy to live with. It’s always
trivial and personal and hardly
visible to others. But it’s utterly
sore if any by mistake touch it.
(Must know it about the other!)

When I awoke the last mornings
I didn’t see joy or what’s possible.
Lost in pains, I’ve been zeroed to
let the day come forward to leave
for the next, better days to come.

But yesterday morning I saw so
clearly in my mind the big straight
road that’s my life. I surely know it
from before, walking it since early
years. But I avoid to be confronted
with the image daily or think too
much and deeply on it: because it’s
a hard road without mercy!

This straight and seemingly endless
road runs through a wide and empty
moor. It lack grace, but it is honest.
I don’t believe he is who should be.

When everyone’s gone, him too –
left with me will be my road only.
My Misery Road is all I have and
I would never deny its reality or
try to adorn it. But he tried to.

My road is truly not a walkway for
hypocrites who despises you with
lies and bias. It grows thistles from
bitter losses on the roadsides, true!
But the hard road is Blessing Road.

The insensitive and blindness from
loved ones – such hurts! I’d thought
knowledge of the other’s soul would
come with love. But it doesn’t!

I wake up in my morning to another
lonely day and I call it my only road!

 

 

 

Posted in armed loneliness, borders, create life, Living with chronic pains, lost, love story, morality, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sentimentality

Youth is an awful and painful time in life – an enlightened eternal now without memories and shadows. Only sentimentality can provide relief, shadings and distance and create sweetness to life and to what was back then – make the thefts into gifts and treasures. Being sentimental you are never alone and your love last forever, life can be beautiful and a tomorrow possible. But there must be memories to create sentimentality and memories require age and experiences. When you notice you becoming sentimental you know you’re becoming old and then you know too your days are numbered. For the music listener, sentimental lyrics are a reconciliation balm for the wounds of the soul. But for the poet, sentimentality is a tightrope walking between banality and originality.

Arthur Rackham THE-FAIRIES-ARE-EXQUISITE-DANCERS (cropped image)

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Yet “sentimentality” is the dog for wise men and women to spit on. You hardly find one single admiring quote  made by famous people online about being sentimental or sentimentality. Sentimentality is set as opposed such as true feelings, love and humanity. I think that is a gross misconception. After all, it was when our ancestors became sentimental enough to bury their dead, raise stones over them and create memory ceremonies, as we took the step from animals to humans, from instincts creatures to cultural beings.)

Ales stenar, Sweden

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About relationships

 

 

 

 

 

He always thought it was all about him
and for a sensitive ego that’s surely hard.
He meant she caused them the conflicts
and he responded by refuse to talk to her
and go to sleep. She raged, tortured of his
silence, feeling being in a desert and she
feared that one day when he wanted her
again she would be gone – because she
couldn’t take it anymore.

 

 

Han trodde alltid att allt var om honom
och för ett känsligt ego är det givet hårt.
Han menade att det var hon som vållade
konflikterna och han bemötte dem med
att vägra prata med henne och att sova.
Hon rasade torterad av ensamheten och
hon fruktade att en dag, när han skulle
vilja ha henne igen – då skulle hon vara
borta för att hon inte kunde ta det längre.

 

 

 

 

Posted in armed loneliness, love story, poem in Swedish and English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, relationships | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

About happiness

The thing is my dearest,
some people may not have
talent for happiness and
maybe I’m one of them.
But that doesn’t allow
you to make me cry.

 

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Hon gillade aldrig min förortstvåa

(A song about lost love) (Francis Cabrel “Si tu la croises un jour”) (to Swedish by me)

Hon gilla’ aldri’ min förortstvåa
men du som färdas, om du träffar henne
kom tillbaka och berätta, berätta

Berätta om hennes hår ännu doftar
av vår kärlek, om hennes läppar ännu
talar om alla mina drömmar

Men lova mig
att inte gå för nära
om du lägger handen
på hennes solbrända hud
du förvillas och förblindas
jag var oförsiktig
och höll henne nära
och till denna dag
brinner mina ögon tusende eldar

Hon har åldern av kursen: långa resor,
arabiska prinsar och kärleksäktenskap,
slavar fria, berättelser att följa …

Jag kanske var hemma en kväll av två
och vänner och andra var nyfikna
svårt att följa upp, men säg dem jag lär mig leva igen

Hon gilla’ aldri’ min förortstvåa
men du som färdas, om du träffar henne
kom tillbaka och berätta, berätta

Säg henne att för henne skulle jag ge
mitt sista andetag och även efter, efter…

 

Translation to English by Gavier, website lyricstranslate.com

If you meet her one day
She didn’t like my two room abode
You who travel, if you meet her one day
Come back and tell me, come back and tell me
Tell me a little if she still carries
In her hair her essences of love
And all my dreams on her lips
Chorus:
But promise me
Don’t get too close
If you lay your fingers
On the bronze of her skin
You’re crazy, you’re crazy
Without being careful
I held her very tightly
Today
My eyes still burn from it, still burn
She, she’s at the age of long voyages
Of Arabian princes and marriages of love
Of free slaves, of serials…
Me I would often only return every other day
And my friends were curious guys
Difficult to follow-up, but tell her, I’m learning to live again
(Refrain)
She didn’t like my two room abode
You who travel, if you meet her one day
Come back and tell me, come back and tell me
Tell her that for her I would give
My last breath and even the one after
Posted in Attraction, love poem, past, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, sexuality, translations by vonnely | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Linguistic confusion? (Papa Oom Mow Mow!)

artnegro.com/?p=3926

No, I did not see it coming!!!
My son would (of course) say
it was there all the time! Well,
true! You can’t always blame
it on linguistic confusion. So,
if you believe my words hide
negative thoughts about you
and that is what you actually
thinks about me, then I can’t
understand what kind of love
for me you carry in your heart?

 

 

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In the silence bubble

I woke up late today at lunchtime and
now it’ll soon be evening and I sit here
moved by a French song I’ve translated
to Swedish. It was released 37 years ago
and I don’t understand French except for
“je’taime”. Out there a bird sings sleepy
for rain and I think a little about you –
you who always thinks of me. So you’ve
told me and I believe you. But still, I am
on my own here like in a bubble of “me
and silence”. Maybe I waste my time: all
days dedicated to words. But maybe not.

 

 

Jag vaknade sent idag vid lunchtid och
nu är det nästan kväll och jag sitter här
rörd av en fransk sång som jag översatt
till svenska. Den utgavs för 37 år sedan.
Jag förstår inte någon franska förutom
“je’taime”. Ute sjunger en fågel sömnigt
om regn och jag tänker lite grann på dig,
du som alltid tänker på mig. Det har du
sagt och jag tror dig. Jag är likväl ensam
här, som i en bubbla av “jag och tystnad”.
Kanske slösar jag med min tid: alla dagar
tillägnade orden – men kanske ändå inte.

 

Som vi aldrig kommer att leva samman
Som besatta, som ensamma
Som de andra är så många
att även moralen talar för dem
Jag vill ändå berätta för dig
att allt jag kunde skriva –
jag hämtade bläcket ur dina blickar
Jag insåg inte att du var bunden
jag ville bara se på dig
Jag glömde mina egna band
Vi drömde om Venedig och om frihet
Jag vill ändå berätta för dig
att allt jag kunde skriva
har ditt leende dikterat för mig
Du kommer sedan länge i mina drömmar,
Du kommer alltid från den sidan
där solen stiger upp,
Om jag trots allt glömmer dig en dag
så jag vill ändå att du ska veta
att allt jag kunde skriva
kom en lång tid att ha ångerns doft
Posted in inspiring literature, inspiring music, love story, poem in Swedish and English, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The lover’s prayer (Älskarens bön)

My spouse in our king size bed,
blessed be your manhood. You’re
my heavenly cloud 9 and dragon’s
teeth. Work for our daily bread and
pay our bills. Stay away from other
women’s temptations and guard us
to be safe from evil eyes and deeds.

Min make som i dubbelsängen häckar,
välsignad är din mandom: mitt kungarike,
himlafröjd och draksådd. Jobba på för vårt
dagliga bröd och betala på amorteringarna.
Håll dig undan från alla frestande fruntimmer
och skydda oss från onda tungors makt och vilja.

 

 

 

 

Posted in love story, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, rebellious lovers, Swedish poem to English | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Move forward! / En Marche! / Shosholoza (Love a little more)

 

 

 

 

 

No one hates as much as the one
who has been rejected, but us all
gets there at times. You better let
it go! You can’t force someone to
join you. Learn to live and let live.

And let’s hate a little less and love
a little more! It’s simply a choice
and an ambition with no excuses!
We’re only brothers and sisters in
our minds, as souls aspire the sky.
The cursed blood we once shared –
it was all we shared. As the best it
watered the soil to be sucked up,
atoned to be forgotten – all those
secret griefs turning to treasures!
Love reborn all rejoined. Let it be.

 

 

 

 

Posted in create life, friendship, inspiring music, lost, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, roots | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My ugly Arabic lover!

 

My ugly Arabic lover!
His eyes are too deep!
He laughs way too much!
His ego takes a lot of space!
He talks and talks all the time!
Except when he’s looking at me!
Then he’s silent, just looking good!

Posted in Attraction, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, satire, sexuality | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

An election victory for love and common sense?

“All for love”, or was it an election victory  to promote common sense? Well, but who except for a Frenchman could vote and live for both love and common sense?

Whoever and whatever Macron will show to be as a President in the next coming, the alternative was really scary for everyone in Europe with a heart and sense. So I’m happy this night. And I easy know I share this happiness with many.

But we still have countries in the EU  like the horrifying Hungary. And Romania, Poland…

 

Posted in borders, create life, immigrants, living in the world, politcs, reading, rebellious lovers | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A boy from Morocco

In English below the Swedish lines

Han var en pojke från Marocko
Han kom långt från sin komfortzon
Han träffade en kvinna från Sverige

Han var en pojke från Marocko,
Han brukade stödja sin mamma
Han brukade be sina böner fem

Han läste boken varenda dag
Han undervisade barn på svältlön
Han var en pojke från Marocko

Han var en pojke från Marocko
Han lärde hålla händerna borta
Han var dagens ängel, nattens hankatt

Han träffade en kvinna från Sverige
Han kom långt från sin komfortzon
Han blev en man på gott och på ont

Han är en man från Marocko
Han har en kvinna från Sverige
Hon är långt från sin komfortzon

Han är en man från Marocko, hon
en kvinna från Sverige. När allting
gick snett, något blev så himla rätt.

(Gud går nu ensam sin komfortzon.
Ingen är där, förutom ormen.)

 

 

 

 

He was a boy from Morocco.
He lived safe in a comfort zone.
He met a woman from Sweden.

He was a boy in Morocco.
He used to support his mother.
He performed his five prayers.

He read the book every day.
He was an underpaid teacher.
He was a man in Morocco.

He was a boy from Morocco,
taught to keep his hands off.
A day’s angel, a night’s tomcat.

He met a woman from Sweden.
He came far from his comfort zone.
He became a man of good and evil.

He is a man from Morocco.
He has a woman from Sweden.
She’s far from her comfort zone.

He is from Morocco. She is from
Sweden. When everything went
wrong, something come out right.

(God walks alone in his comfort zone,
no one is there, except for the snake.)

Eric Saade is a Swedish singer and songwriter. He was born in 1990. His father is Palestinian/Lebanese and his mother is Swedish.

Posted in Africa, Attraction, poem in Swedish translated to English, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, politcs, rebellious lovers, sexuality, Sweden view | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment