Letting Go


You show me your knives,
the guns you're going to sell
Through the ice and the fog
she is waiting with smiling eyes.

The joy of travelling
finding a new land,
finding connections,
finding your own clan.

Work with your hands in the morning,
use your head at night!
I remember these words
as I turn out the light.


______________________________________
GOTH GIRL


Sitting beside two Goth girls
at the break
my newspaper blocking out
the young Swedish guys across the way.

Black hair, black clothes,
black eyelashes,
silver studs in the knee-length boots,
pale daughters-of-Dracula complexions.

I could be in Whitby for a Goth convention,
standing on a crag
looking out on the cold North sea,
but I'm having a coffee break
from learning Swedish,
and the blonde thread running
through my thoughts
has been momentarily lost,
a shadow darkens the sun.

Sneaking a glance at her chill loveliness;
no fangs or love bite from the master
blemish her ivory neck,
and I laugh behind my newspaper,
laugh at the adult restraint
I have to honour,
laugh at the sentence,
Welcome to my castle!

She turns to look my way
but I have to get going
- Age before Beauty -
before the light of those eyes
makes me break
my thousand-year silence.



______________________________________
Millesgården

Amazing angel
holding a little trumpet
Poseidon carries a fish
and towers over Lake Mälaren
as if he owns it.
If I look saintly, faith looks up!
Thank you, for my Lidingö
Stockholm travels.



____________________________________
SUPERNATURALLY CAUTIOUS


I entered Gothenburg's opera house
like a barge through the mist, like a barcarolle
from Puccini's Il Tabarro.
The lights of humanity shone in the foyer.
Supernaturally cautious, I wove my way
through the crowd to level 1.

The cloakroom attendant gave me a smile
as graceful as a soft adagio;
I was sorry I didn't have a cloak
to give her.

The performance was splendid.
It wasn't football, the working-man's ballet,
it was Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky!

At the finale, I slipped out into the night,
a barge laden with silk and happiness,
the evening performance in my hold.


_____________________________________

MIDORI RECITAL

(Franco Midori, piano teacher
at The St Celia Conservatory
of Music in Rome, in Stockholm's NationalMuseum)


Midori's hands
run across the keyboard
glissando supple.

Behind the grand piano,
a Nils Forsberg painting (1882)
of a dying soldier
receiving the last rites
from a white-haired priest.

The romantic piano music
fills the museum.
We listen as if in church.

Afterwards, I tell him
he looks like Frank Sinatra.
I make him smile
and we shake hands.




_____________________________________

STEFAN


Mad as a banshee,
stronger than gin;
You're like ol' Jack Nicholson,
you've got the same grin.

Well, buon appetite!
and how are your feet
standing in the hall
when you could be sitting
on a seat?

You're good at the weaving
with fingers so deft.
Hope none of your colours
end up in the cuckoo's nest.


_____________________________________

FAITH


I don't know about faith,
but after the Roman play tonight
when Ingelöv came to the table
and sat beside me
it was like expensive oil
being poured on my dusty feet.

I looked across at the crowd
and forgot them.




_____________________________________

LOSING INGELÖV

We got dropped off
at the road that leads down
to the lake.
Daniel took the lead,
anticipating his reward,
a cigarette, while Ingelöv
brought up the rear,
keeping a distance
between herself and Daniel;
two autistics not on speaking terms.

Me, Johaan and Leah,
the big bounding dog,
in the middle. What could go wrong?

The path was a long one
and soon became slippery with ice.
We reached a bend. I looked behind.
No Ingelöv. I waited...

Johann volunteered to look for her.
I went ahead, trying to catch up with the brisk Daniel.
He backtracked. Cigarette?
When we get to the lake, Daniel!

The lake was frozen.
A group already there.
One guy was skating. Amazing!

I walked to the left towards a bench. Cautious!

Leah spotted another dog and raced off
leaving me sitting on a rock
staring at the frozen white lake.

Johaan came back. Couldn't find Ingelöv.
Back up the path, shouting out her name.
Visions of search parties,
helicopters and police involvement,
a moonlight flit
down to Gothenburg
and the first plane home.

Where is she?
I was rapidly losing my affection
for the strange little woman,
and I was getting worried.

Shall we phone Deborah? asked Johann.
He seemed calm enough.
Up at the drop-off point
he phones, but the phone goes .
Great! now no lift back,
and no Ingelöv!

I got my mobile phone out
and got through to Abigail.
The silent child took my call
with little enthusiasm.


Just then a car passes
with Ingelöv in the back seat.
The driver stops the car.
Ingelöv jumps out.
I explain in English to the driver.
She answers in Swedish.

Deborah drives up
and we're altogether again.
A scary moment. Disaster averted.
I sit in the back seat with my villagers
breathing a sigh of relief
blurting out the story of
the shepherd and his lost lamb!


____________________________________

THE PONIES


She cleans their hoofs
and brushes their coats;
they're shedding so much hair.

Hitched to the wagon
we ride through the forest
until we come to a far field.
The horses run along beside
the fence like excited kids,
glad to see Elaine.

I think the big chestnut one
fancies our little white pony,
nuzzling up through the wire.
I let loose the reins -
Elaine is off like a shot.
Fifteen minutes later, I manage
to grab her as she
munches grass under the snow.

Back up the path
through the pine forest,
horse power drives us on
deliciously.



____________________________________

IN THE FOREST


The stump of a tree
looking like a green claw
planted in the earth
fallen leaves with mottled toad colours
morning mist and the half light
of the pine forest

villagers planting seeds
for summer flowers
and me walking away
a few hours.



______________________________________

COMING IN FROM THE FIELD


Oscar Wilde was mentioned at the dinner table today;
J.'s sister is putting on his play
at a Camphill in Ireland.
He tried to explain what
The Importance of Being Earnest
was all about: party guys
leading double lives!

I felt well,
ready to eat for Scotland
after mushing through the snow
with Danjiel.

And what about our play?
The injustices of Roman soldiers
towards a bunch of handicapped people.
I'm the dumb one in it: eh, eh, eeeh!

It's not exactly Salome!

Oscar Wilde was involved in a scandal,
wasn't he? came a voice
from the head of the table.

Just like his father, I replied;
Sir William Wilde was a famous
eye surgeon who once treated
the King of Sweden,
for a cataract, I think,
but he was always
chasing the ladies.

He didn't work very hard, concluded
the head of the table.

The Selfish Giant turned in his grave,
the Happy Prince let fall a tear,
and a swallow looked in at the window.

I stared at the John Bauer painting
on the wall above and thought,
fairytales don't write themselves!



______________________________________

MOVE ON



Yorkshire or Sweden?
Should I give up an assured North Yorkshire tenancy
for a 3 month stint in a Camphill community
or will I return to the market town
where I never went out at night
where I waited for a giro every fortnight
where I went for long walks
and ate solitary meals?

Will I stick it out here
with my German co-workers
and autistic villagers?

Yorkshire or Sweden?
Kulturhus or pub culture?
Community or splendid isolation?

Mornings in the forest with Danjiel,
making a fire
stopping him from wandering
or going off
on one of his nonsense rants
Sabrina and the horses in the afternoon,
scraping hoofs and brushing coats,
mucking out the stables.

The land of Abba, Volvo and Saab
or the land of Emmerdale and Last of the Summer Wine?
The Swedes aren't mad for pubs.
They go ski-ing and skating
and have summer homes next to lakes.

I came upon a skater
and felt I was in a Breughel painting.

Will I catch the 6-15 train to Herrljunga
or go back to bed and resume my duties after breakfast?

Herrljunga, Alingsös, Kungälv,
Lidköping, Mariestad, Uddevalla, Skövde ...



____________________________________

THE LIGHT IN YOU


There's a light in you
a spirit that is strong
I look into your eyes
and know where I belong.

You save me from the darkness
my way is so much clearer
you walk just ahead
but I'd like to hold you nearer.

The mountain is dark and cold
I think I'll meet a troll
but you appear
and your smile makes me whole.

There's a light in you
a spirit that is strong
I look into your eyes
and know where I belong.



______________________________________

THE COLLECTION


I'm travelling to Sweden tomorrow,
up to Sundsvall. Long way to go
for a bit of snow.

On the eve of departure,
I've finally opened the jug
of single malt Glenfiddich whisky.
It has the Robert the Bruce story
on its sides,
the spider in the cave
and the battle of Bannockburn.

If at first you don't succeed...

My mother won it in a raffle.
I've kept it in the display unit,
beside the little knick knacks
I've gathered over the years:
a small white teddy bear
in a graduation gown,
a contented mole with his feet up,
two little black terriers
in the ready-to-pounce position,
two kingfishers and a hummingbird,
a glass jar of stones
from the beach at Portmuck,
Co. Antrim.

I'm reviewing the situation
like Fagin from Oliver Twist.
You can't take it with you!
Never again shall I hoard
treasure on earth.
I'll collect experience,
I'll collect memories.
_____________________________________

GULLSMARSPLAN



On the wall, a poster of James Dean,
Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe
sharing a make-believe table.
I'm on a high stool thinking
what a movie that would be be.

A girl walks in selling roses,
a slim young blonde wearing glasses.
'Flowers for the guitarist?' I ask her.
'You can buy him one if you want to,'
she says, unembarrassed.
Wrapped in cellophane and pretty paper,
I asked her how much.
'20 kroner,' she says with a light touch.
James Dean in the planetarium,
Marilyn Monroe with her dress
blown high, aren't so happy.

The singer lays down his guitar,
surprised to see me get so far.
I pick it up and strum.
The bar‘s now become
the red rose cafe,
and I've got a song to play.


_______________________________________


THE PEACEMAKERS

T-banan to the centrum
pine trees going by ad infinitum.
Where will I sleep tonight?

Outside the Kulturehuset,
in the crowded square
I listen to the preachers
and sing at their request:


When will I learn to live in God?


The black girl is kindly.
Through the heavy rain
We drive to their
Norrtelje apartment;
I'm their guest!


In a clean white shirt
and red pyjamas
I lie on the bed and listen to gospel:

Lean on Me
Healing River
Love's in Need of Love Today.

Man, I've earned this rest.

______________________________________

Lasse Stefanz, Kungälv



I was dressed in black
like Jack Palance,
looking for a snowbird
looking for a dance.

I wore a stetson,
she wore a moustache.
Half my age and twice as handsome,
the Yellow Rose of Kungälv.





____________________________________
RESIDENT EVIL


Agent Alice, in the city of night
Programmed to kill
Moving through the crowd
Of zombie flesh eaters
with a demonic will.
Look at the wasted city!
Mutants crawling among the wreckage;
Wasted lives, broken dreams.

Agent Alice , full of adrenalin.
Flashbacks to the laboratory,
The doctor messing with her head.
She’s a lethal weapon
but how long can she hold out
against the deadly virus?

Going down a tunnel
in a four-wheel drive, bullet-proof
glass, emerging into the future
or is it already the past?
Agent Alice , helicopter
in the blackened sky.
What's our chances for survival, babe?
We might just get out alive!




_______________________________________
KALLHVALL


Slept outside a church in Kallhvall
trains thundered by every half hour
youths raced their motor-bikes
church lights came on in the evening
my sleeping bag
slid down the grass slope
almost reached the rail track
duck feathers all over my trousers.

I would have been better
at that landscaped area
beside the benches
the pale purple azaleas
the small granite walls
circular pebble path
a round peaceful spot
where the hare ran off
hearing my footsteps.

I brushed a fly into my eardrum
for hours I heard him
struggling valiantly inside...

Oh doctor's bill, ear syringe!

But his little legs may have carried him to freedom
out of the wax.
The ear got quiet
my mind relaxed
until the spider in the moonlight
appeared at my shoulder
like a Sherman tank.

I awoke in the morning
to insect bites
a million ants
wandering on the path,
a swollen eyelid,
lumps all over my body,
and the smell of anchovies
from last night's lousy supper.



___________________________________

THE LAST FIRE


was hottest when all the branches
were burned
and all that was left was a pile
of smouldering ashes
and a few charred sticks.
Occasionally it would burst
into flame again
and send a spark flying onto the grass;
that we didn't want,
so, with our boots we cleared
a circle round
removing twigs
and small branches.

The pile of fir wood,
gathered from the forest,
I moved further away.

Full of cones and needles,
it's the stuff that burns the best.

I looked at the fire.
The heat was still intense.
The white ashes were like a blanket -
the fire had gone to bed.
But it could soon be woken up again,
said Johannes, cautiously.


Tired after my exertions
I lay on the grass
looking up at the sky,
clouded over now, after
a sunny and pleasant morning.
But time had gone slow.
Daniel gathered the saws
and was impatient to leave.

I watched the fire for a minute
before we headed back up the field
leaping over the dry stone wall
stepping carefully over boggy ground
climbing the path to the van.

How different it was
to just three weeks ago
when everything was silent
and covered in a white shroud.
Now birds fluttered above
and Sweden
seemed like a different country
without its blanket of snow.


______________________________________


WINTER'S TUNING UP


Winter's tuning up
but he can play his fiddle all night
for I'm skating on the river
and dancing in the moonlight.



____________________________________

THE ORKNEYS AND THE SHETLANDS


The Orkneys and the Shetlands
treeless islands
where Vikings roamed long ago

closer to Bergen than Aberdeen.

See the Northern Lights
and play golf at midnight!
Ken whit they're sayin' in Lerwick;
the talk has a Scandinavian lilt
and puffins are tammy norries.