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To see a World in a Microchip And a Heaven in a Smartphone Hold Infinity on the slip of your lip And Eternity in a clone |
Visar inlägg med etikett poem. Visa alla inlägg
Visar inlägg med etikett poem. Visa alla inlägg
lördag 11 februari 2017
Auguries of In-no-sense
måndag 5 december 2016
Unidentified flying object
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| A floating saucerful of secrets The vast, last shade of the lamp, its metal head, thin white legs. Stardust from above, from underneath. This lonely cloud floating in a rocky universe, this flying saucerful of secrets. Meeting on a timetable between a polarized planet and comets and asteroids with swimmer's tail. An ark of Noahs and nobodies, pairing organic and inorganic, reasons and rubbish, means of love and martial arts. A rescue boat crowded with all that humanity got left, boundless opportunities for every individual answer an question. We floating saucerful of secrets, standing on the top of toes, with noses barely on surfaces. If we at least could be an unidentified flying object for someone to love or fear. (sound track: Pink Floyd | A Saucerful Of Secrets) |
torsdag 31 december 2015
Becoming the terrorism we fear in terrorists
Killers, Angels, Refugees is a collection of lyrics and poems by Peter Hammill, the founding member and frontman of Van der Graaf Generator. It's already forty-one years since that book, but now at the gates of a new year the title jumped into my head as a conclusion.
I don't believe in angels, but I do believe in good deeds, indeed. That positive ideas and individuals can grow with wings.
This passed year of 2015 has been a period of killers, killings and refugees in Europe, too. Over 1 000 000 arrivals by the Mediterranean sea during one year only. The situation with IS and their alikes, striking in "the middle of" Europe, and the refugee flood has aroused anxiety and fear. Scared of the slightest possibility of terrorism - in their front yard, on their door steps, rising up their elevator - some have even turned into homegrown, local terrorists (by) themselves.
During the year we have heard about assaults on muslims (both grown ups and children), on refugee camps, arsons on buildings housing refugees. About threats and assaults facing people that give the refugees a little help. And in Finland as well. The vast territory between IS and US has suddenly become a very thin line, difficult to walk. One of these disgusting stories could be told.
Girl gone, but the memory
It’s not just
a question of IS or US.
It’s not just a question
of justice and knots.
Think of a dozen years
in a muslim girl.
A dozen years against
five grownups.
A dozen years
against hundred and thirty victims
in Paris.
But no, not against. But
for the five Frenchmen, wanting
to beat the little thing up for being
a muslim child, a girl, a woman.
So yes, it’s not a question of
IS or US, but both
in us.
The men in us,
breaking her legs, her arms,
her eyes, her heart.
The gods in us,
ruling by sacrifices,
the dogs in us,
barking at the wrong trees.
This time she had assured she would
manage, home alone
from her ballet lesson.
A tiny distance even for
a twelve year girl.
Just a tiny distance, but
for the five homegrown guys
a big leap.
She trusted the steps mankind took.
She loved the Moomin family books.
She had but a dozen of dreams.
One of them
was to get married
in the Moominworld,
somewhere far away
in a far-away-land,
Nådendal,
Vallis gratiae,
Naantali,
Finland.
Like the end of the world,
finis terrae,
the beginning of a new.
But now, for the moment, tired
and tied to a hospital bed
by the violence of chains
to Liberty, Equality and Brotherhood,
her heart was broken.
Not her mind, yet.
The heart is just a muscle and muscles
cannot beat
the shit out
of open minds.
Eager to be visited by some
foreigners, she has to
get nearer,
nearer to the language of Moomins,
find out the sound.
Tasting words instead of worlds.
The future is still
a little bit huge, more so
than the next month,
next week, next day.
For the moment, that will do.
That will do,
for the next hour.
Small signs are big signs
when you let them shine.
And yes, no human is an ISland.
Should not be.
Should not have been.
That muslim girl,
the sparrow of Paris
she died one day,
this day
she could not make it.
But the language of hope
is forever if we just
want it to be.
Remember that twelve year old
muslim girl,
she is not a question of IS or US.
She is an answer
to all of you
in us.
I don't believe in angels, but I do believe in good deeds, indeed. That positive ideas and individuals can grow with wings.
This passed year of 2015 has been a period of killers, killings and refugees in Europe, too. Over 1 000 000 arrivals by the Mediterranean sea during one year only. The situation with IS and their alikes, striking in "the middle of" Europe, and the refugee flood has aroused anxiety and fear. Scared of the slightest possibility of terrorism - in their front yard, on their door steps, rising up their elevator - some have even turned into homegrown, local terrorists (by) themselves.
During the year we have heard about assaults on muslims (both grown ups and children), on refugee camps, arsons on buildings housing refugees. About threats and assaults facing people that give the refugees a little help. And in Finland as well. The vast territory between IS and US has suddenly become a very thin line, difficult to walk. One of these disgusting stories could be told.
Girl gone, but the memory
It’s not just
a question of IS or US.
It’s not just a question
of justice and knots.
Think of a dozen years
in a muslim girl.
A dozen years against
five grownups.
A dozen years
against hundred and thirty victims
in Paris.
But no, not against. But
for the five Frenchmen, wanting
to beat the little thing up for being
a muslim child, a girl, a woman.
So yes, it’s not a question of
IS or US, but both
in us.
The men in us,
breaking her legs, her arms,
her eyes, her heart.
The gods in us,
ruling by sacrifices,
the dogs in us,
barking at the wrong trees.
This time she had assured she would
manage, home alone
from her ballet lesson.
A tiny distance even for
a twelve year girl.
Just a tiny distance, but
for the five homegrown guys
a big leap.
She trusted the steps mankind took.
She loved the Moomin family books.
She had but a dozen of dreams.
One of them
was to get married
in the Moominworld,
somewhere far away
in a far-away-land,
Nådendal,
Vallis gratiae,
Naantali,
Finland.
Like the end of the world,
finis terrae,
the beginning of a new.
But now, for the moment, tired
and tied to a hospital bed
by the violence of chains
to Liberty, Equality and Brotherhood,
her heart was broken.
Not her mind, yet.
The heart is just a muscle and muscles
cannot beat
the shit out
of open minds.
Eager to be visited by some
foreigners, she has to
get nearer,
nearer to the language of Moomins,
find out the sound.
Tasting words instead of worlds.
The future is still
a little bit huge, more so
than the next month,
next week, next day.
For the moment, that will do.
That will do,
for the next hour.
Small signs are big signs
when you let them shine.
And yes, no human is an ISland.
Should not be.
Should not have been.
That muslim girl,
the sparrow of Paris
she died one day,
this day
she could not make it.
But the language of hope
is forever if we just
want it to be.
Remember that twelve year old
muslim girl,
she is not a question of IS or US.
She is an answer
to all of you
in us.
fredag 18 juli 2014
Dover Hastings All Night Long
NIGHT CRUISING
in Dover at a pub
across the Railway Station
1x2 pints of beer/man
kill an hour
in an empty English train
making its way through the darkness
two friends sleeping
a third one wrestling with beerheavy eyes
lights rushing ahead in the night
hair struggling for freedom
wind draught beating two numb cheeks
secretly absorbing a jolly state of drunkenness
at some station
a bad automatic chocolate machine
with the knife a minor operation
and at once: "are they that easy to rob?"
two watch warps after midnight
end station sparkling up
sleepygrumpy porter
shuts the doors
on the sidewalk outside
sleeping bags rolled out
three friends and two other discarded guests
stars keeping them company
gulls and sea
morning concert under a radiating sky
and the path up to the hills is sweer...
it's Hastings nineteenseventysix
***
This InterRail poem was originally published in 1978 (in a poem book titled Ansiktet mot muren). Translated from Swedish by the writer. Three friends was one of my favourite Gentle Giant albums. And Hastings nineteenseventysix echoes something I learned at school. From 1975 to 1983 I spent some money on boats and trains: I was a teenage InterRail tripper.
in Dover at a pub
across the Railway Station
1x2 pints of beer/man
kill an hour
in an empty English train
making its way through the darkness
two friends sleeping
a third one wrestling with beerheavy eyes
lights rushing ahead in the night
hair struggling for freedom
wind draught beating two numb cheeks
secretly absorbing a jolly state of drunkenness
at some station
a bad automatic chocolate machine
with the knife a minor operation
and at once: "are they that easy to rob?"
two watch warps after midnight
end station sparkling up
sleepygrumpy porter
shuts the doors
on the sidewalk outside
sleeping bags rolled out
three friends and two other discarded guests
stars keeping them company
gulls and sea
morning concert under a radiating sky
and the path up to the hills is sweer...
it's Hastings nineteenseventysix
***
This InterRail poem was originally published in 1978 (in a poem book titled Ansiktet mot muren). Translated from Swedish by the writer. Three friends was one of my favourite Gentle Giant albums. And Hastings nineteenseventysix echoes something I learned at school. From 1975 to 1983 I spent some money on boats and trains: I was a teenage InterRail tripper.
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