Poetry

Nu är jag inne på sluttampen... Sista uppgiften var poesi. Ett försök till jambisk pentameter (googla det, det går fortare...) och två friverser. Enjoy and comment!

Formal/metered – iambic pentameter

The mirror cracked reveals reality
A million little pieces shining bright
Shattered like the true inside of me
Reflecting all the shine, leaving dark night

Once was there light inside this deep dark tomb
A soul intact, untouched and living strong
My steps now echo in this empty room
Where nothing lives, no light or shine or song

But in the darkest corner something burns
The flame is weak, but still it has some heat
It struggles, beating, burning and it yearns
And never will it bow to a defeat

Free verse

The ant
Struggling with his load
Little feet
Keeping the beat, like a drum
Heavy burden
Moving along the trail of many
Head up
He’s proud to be a worker
Eyes forward
The future seemingly uncertain
The ant
We all want that determination



My eyes squint in the sunlight
The seagulls shout hello
Like a pot left on the stove too long
My soul boils over
My skin in sun burnt where you touched me
You golden son of sun
Like a blender without something to chop up
My head keeps spinning
The waves whisk white foam against the rocks
The taste of you whipped cream

Fiction assignment

Jahapp, mitt absolut senaste alster. Fiction är det, alltså rent påhitt. Inte nöjd alls, ett fjolligt ämne. Känns mer som Harlequin... ;) Men vad gör man när inspirationen tryter?

Her face lit up with a smile as she took the last worn step of the old stairs. The racing of her heart echoed in her ears, she just wanted to feel the tingling inside when the image of him reached her eyes. The effort she put in to hide her excitement was not even worth the try. She sent a glance, not half as discrete as she imagined, into his office while fiddling with the lock to her one. He was late.

The pattern she had was rooted deep inside of her. Ever since she discovered the power of the female sexuality, she had used it to her advantage. What she had learned during the years was that her own heart more than often got carried away in the thing she had intended to be a game or just a distraction from the normality. For many years, she had read her horoscope, even books about her Zodiac sign, the Leo.

In his or her relations with others the Leo type is open, sincere, genuine and trusting. Outgoing, spontaneously warm hearted and plain spoken, though never lacking in kindliness, Leos are more disillusioned than the average if let down by those they trust. They are not good judges of character and are inclined to favoritism and an exaggerated faith in their followers which too often ends in disappointment. They have a strong sex drive and are so attracted to the opposite sex they find it hard to be constant; they can be so intensely sexual as to become dissolute. They may have numerous love affairs for their love of pleasure and beauty is liable to drive them from one attractive partner to another. They are very much inclined to deceive. Their marriages may fail for the same reason, yet they are sincere and generous to their lovers while love lasts, and will remain attached to their homes so long as it is run for their benefit. They demand service but are incapable of giving it.

It took a long time for her to realize that she really was a Leo, a textbook example at that. To be the focus of attention, to have the admiring eyes of men on her, to bask in the shine of her boosted ego was what she lusted after, every moment of her life.

When he sat down at the white table together with her and their co-workers, he didn’t know where the night would end. His head was a total mess, he was heartbroken and confused. He liked her, he already knew he did. She sat there, so distant and untouchable. As the empty glasses on the table grew in number, his insides overflowed with a silent desire. She asked him if he had a hard time with compliments, he blushed and stuttered an attempted response. She told him he had beautiful eyes and a lovely smile and promised him some post-it notes to make sure he knew she was serious. He downed a couple of more drinks, bought her some more red wine and in his mind a plan started to form.

She noticed that her knees were a bit unsteady as she rose from the white plastic chair to visit the ladies’ room. Totally habitually, she talked to herself in the mirror. She told herself she was in control, that she was beautiful and strong and could do whatever she put her mind to. She acknowledged the burning glow in her eyes, nodding to herself as if to say “if…then seize!” With an affirmative nod, she returned to yet another glass of red wine.

The cold beer from the refrigerator hissed and foamed as they broke the seal. They had left the bar to go dancing, her arm hooked closely in his, pretending to support but really wanting to be close. The intimacy of their mutual laughter mixed with the beat of the music. In the bewilderment of dancing and drinking, he kissed her. She was dizzy from all the red wine and didn’t know how to react. She wasn’t sure where the kiss had landed, but she was intrigued. They danced, on the linoleum floor in the scarcely decorated attic apartment. Her hips moved to lure him closer, his hand caressed her lower back. The smile on her face sparkled with recognition, her fingers rested on the back of his neck, drawing circles to feel his short cut hair. The eighties’ rock music kept pumping, her hips moving in rhythm, his hand pressing harder against her back. Their eyes swept past each other, only to quickly focus again. The world spun faster and faster, but came to an abrupt stop when his tongue met hers. He floated, she held on. They landed on the king size bed, all tangled up.

- You’re beautiful. You’re just so beautiful, he whispered in her ear.
- So are you, she said, smilingly looking into his eyes, basking in the light of his smile back.
- I love you, he said, mumbling the sacred words into her hair, trying to hide them but only burying them in her memory forever.

Suddenly everything was moving too fast for her. She felt the control slip out of her hands. It was no longer a distraction, a game. His words altered the rules. The conflict between her brain and her lust made the world spin even faster. The fact that they were not alone suddenly hit her. The warmth of his fingers running across her naked stomach sent flashes of desire through her body, she could hardly withstand it. A glow in his eyes made her give in for a minute, his hands working faster and faster, removing his clothes even faster than hers.

- We can’t do this.
- Yes, we can, he answered.
- No, we can’t, not here. I want to, but we can’t.
- Yes. Yes, we can. Nobody cares.
- I really want to, but this isn’t the right place…
- Yes, it is. We can do this.

She once again gave in to the lust that pounded her body. His already naked body pressed against hers, the button in her pants creating an obstacle which in turn produced a giggle between them, more intimate than the act they were starting to engage in.

She made sure to stand where she could see. The conversation with someone else, accompanied by a cup of tea went smoothly, but her senses were constantly tuned in on the entrance. When the familiar creak of the door vibrated in her ear drum, she tried to turn her head casually. She was just a millisecond too late and only caught the back of his head when he walked down the corridor. The memory of their fire burned in her fingertips. She blocked the urge to run after to burn him as well.

When he woke up, naked and hung-over, in the king size bed, he felt an overwhelming urge to find her on the other side of the bed. She wasn’t. It took him a couple of minutes to remember that she had left him the night before. His body ached for her, but his mind was spinning. The desire for her was evident, but how to have her for his own? He was bewildered, his wounded heart still ached in his chest, but it was no longer bleeding. The taste of her still lingered in his mouth, creating a craving he had never felt before.

She lurked around in the corridors the rest of the day, hoping to get a moment alone with him, just to feel the temperature rise between them. A mental straitjacket kept her hands to herself, her mind constantly repeating their lips meeting and the sacred words whispered. In a fumbling attempt to stand, of course very nonchalant, next to him by the coffee machine, the scent of him forced her to move away. She feared herself and her actions. Every time he spoke, no matter to whom, no matter what he really said, she heard:

- Baby, just you wait until next time… I’ll finish what I started. I love you, that’s what I told you. I know, I DO know what my body told you.

He leaned against her doorpost, backpack hanging from the other shoulder and his black jacket enticing her. He stretched his arm awkwardly, making his t-shirt glide up. The waistband of his underwear and the thin line of hair that crept downwards showed. She had to hide the gasp for air. They spoke, but their words were without importance. Her eyes were betraying her, his mouth revealing him. She had trouble sorting the information he gave her, her body drawn to him in the most natural of ways, her mind playing a Scrabble version of desire. He fidgeted with the zip of his jacket; she twirled her hair between her fingers. They both knew that their union was inevitable.

På min väns begäran... ;)

OK, fröken H.R, jag lägger ut den... Men mina älskade familjemedlemmar som läser, ni vet att det här är gammalt gammalt GAMMALT och inget som längre grämer mig. Jag älskar er!

Det här är alltså Creative Non-Fiction, en sann händelse som ska resultera i ett större resonemang om ett mer allmängiltigt "problem"...

I remember my childhood and also my early adolescence as very happy. I, my two little sisters and my little brother, although in an age span of eight years, chased each other around the neighborhood on bikes and on foot. We shot our bee bee guns, climbed trees, built LEGO cities and threw the SEGA controllers against the walls of my brother’s room when one of us lost a life on Alex the Kidd in Miracle World. Some of my friends in school, mostly the ones that didn’t have any siblings, used to comment me and my family by saying: “You are so lucky, you don’t ever have to be alone and you always have someone to talk to”. In the long run, excluding all the times of great irritation caused by siblings intruding on my most cherished private time, I couldn’t help but to agree with my friends.

My recollection of my father from this period of my life is vague. He was always there, sometimes playing football and sometimes making supper when mom was working late. He talked to us in the only way he knew how, keeping the conversations on a practical level, but I never thought that he didn’t love me or my siblings. I can’t say he was like a shadow, because he was there, in flesh and blood, but he moved in the shadows of my reality, almost becoming a blur. My mother on the other hand was the one I came to for advice, money, comfort and support. The most vivid memory I have of her is from the kitchen, in the light of our ridiculous lamp with a spring that made it go up and down. She’s all curled up on a wooden chair with a cigarette glowing in her hand and a book in front of her. As an adult, I detest the smell of old cigarettes, but as a child I loved burying my face in mom’s dressing gown to fill my nose with old smoke and musk perfume. When she started working late more and more often, I brought one of her dressing gowns down to my room. At night I sometimes lay awake, with the worn pink fabric in my hands, my fingers following the outlines of the Asian pattern on the back.

Looking back, I can’t remember what I really thought about mom working late. I guess I just got used to it, although I know that all of us tried to stay up until she came home. Some of the time it wasn’t so hard but sometimes it was utterly pointless. I was in my early teens when she started coming home late, so I was probably more occupied with the kind of problems you encounter at that age, what to wear, if He saw me in the cafeteria and what to do that weekend. At first, I didn’t pay attention to the reoccurring phone calls from her boss either; it’s not all that uncommon that an employer calls his employees. But something, impossible for me to recall, got stuck in my mind and led me to the discovery that curved the road of my life in a totally different direction.

It was the note that did it. Dad and my siblings had left for Småland and our cottage there, me and mom stayed at home. She told me she was going out with a co-worker, to get some beer and talk, and she probably would spend the night in Helsingborg. She left the note, with the artistically curved digits that made me get the phone book, go to the register and look them up. The name hit me in the way a lightning bolt lights up the night sky. It was him.

Betrayal and forgiveness are closely linked together. Some things that happen to us are easy to forgive and even to forget. Some events push our lives in directions that you never thought of before and end up enriching our lives. And some dealings cut deep wounds in us, impossible to ignore, forgive and certainly to forget. I have met a few persons that seem to have an everlasting supply of forgiveness, something that is both admirable and detestable. There is a point in forgiving those who treat us wrong, but there is also a saying that goes “an eye for an eye”. It is difficult to say if revenge is worth it or not or if it just spirals out of control. For good or bad, I’m the type of person that needs closure on everything, to the point of total exhaustion. The internal need for honesty and truth whips me on and to let it go requires a real effort from me. So, night after night, I asked my mother why, over and over again. My frustration increased as her speaking decreased. The questions grew more intense, angrier, more and more as the minute hand with its technical intensity worked its way around the red square shaped kitchen clock. Tears of anger welled up in my eyes, the waters of despair in hers.

A period of confusion and anger followed. Marriage counseling, an apartment for separation, strained family dinners and endless questions. I spent less and less time at home, not having the energy or the will to face my mother. My siblings, as well as my father, seemed to live in the illusion that mom was trying to keep the marriage and the family together, but I knew that the divorce was an inevitable fact. My main goal in life at this time was to take care of my siblings and shelter them from the falling apart of our world. I’m not sure if my efforts paid off, but it was what kept me going.

It was sort of relieving when the divorce was final, even more so when mom decided to move from the little town we lived in. My dad had lost both his parents during the course of the divorce and he was in really bad shape, not being able to handle the fact of starting over. He expressed thoughts of suicide from time to time and of fear of finding him dead, I didn’t visit him. Something inside me told me that his threat had a degree of certainty in it and that I couldn’t handle. My mother didn’t get many visits from me either, I couldn’t bear it. The person on the note was with her, at first in the house my father had built and then in another town, a fact that made the betrayal ever at hand in my mother’s presence.

As time went on, things returned to the closest form of normality it could under the circumstances. But more secrets and betrayals lurked in the shadows. The pot that seemed to have slowed down to a simmer suddenly boiled over and left burnt stains on the white kitchen stove that was my life. My parents took turns in turning up the heat, by revealing each other’s secrets and betrayals. To know what was truth and was fiction became impossible and the only way out was to stop listening to them.
People have their reasons for hiding things and keeping secrets. We all do it. All of us on a regular basis. But when should you come clean? When is it time to open the locked doors of secrecy? There inevitably comes times in our lives when the truth, although hurtful and everlastingly scaring, is the only way to move forward. People get hurt by the truth and the secrets we keep inside sometimes and we can only pray for their forgiveness. But on the other hand, aren’t there some things that are better left unsaid? There are truths you wish you never heard. As a child, you tend to idolize your parents. You, as I, live in a glass bubble of happiness and love and nothing at all seems wrong with that bubble. Many times that actually is the case, there’s nothing wrong. But at times the truths start surfacing and cracks appear in the glass bubble until it no longer holds together.

How, then, do you decide which truths that are possible to forgive and which are not?

Mitt nya alster...

...blev jävligt personligt om en jävligt jobbigt tid i mitt liv, som är över sedan länge. Är inte helt säker på om jag vill lägga ut det här. Vi får se...

First draft - Try this 4.6

Min första dikt. Skulle ge miljön en stämming. Miljö: the dusty road, stämning: suspense.

Red glimmering sand
Creates a layer of dirt
Crusty and hard on the wanderer’s feet

The coyotes sing in the night
Like the woman that lost her child to them
They know it’s happening again

A shadow grows longer
The moon watches in despair
The sand crusts and hardens

All that remains is a red glimmering footprint
On the wooden porch

First draft - Try this 3.6

Write a paragraph of no more than a hundred words presenting a character through authorial interpretation. Cover at least five years in the character's life, four qualities he or she possesses, three important events and two habitual actions.

The scars of the endless number of fat camps never healed. The now thirty-something successful lawyer with the perfect outside drove across town to an all-hours candy store to stuff his new BMW full of the forbidden, like always on Thursdays. He took pleasure in knowing that he had them all fooled. He remembered the day that made him change, from the obvious to the secret. It was her and the way she looked at him. As usual, he turned his loaded car left instead of right just to make sure she was at home. But the lights were out.

First draft - assignment 2.6

Här ska vi skriva objektivt, alltså i tredje person. Jag valde att försöka skriva om mitt förra alster. Är inte så nöjd, men det skulle in ikväll så va fan...

The face of the girl sitting at the table turns red. She blinks her eyes fast, like something is irritating her. Her friends around her talk, but she doesn’t say a word. Suddenly she stands up, almost like on a given signal and she makes her way from the table to the staircase. Her feet slowly take one step after another; her hands grip the banisters tight. The wooden floor creak a little as she walks towards the open door, with a beaming light shining out of it. A few men are in the room, some sitting down and a few standing up. One of them, a young man wearing a knitted white sweater with black dots, hands the girl a cracker of some sort. She accepts it and shoves a large piece of it in her mouth. Her eyes roll a little while she chews. The young man with the knitted white sweater asks the girl:

- Do you want to get some fresh air?

The girl doesn’t respond, she just keeps on chewing. The man stretches out his hand and grabs the girl’s, leading her out on the small wooden pier where they dropped anchor earlier. The wind blows into her hair, it sticks in the corners of her mouth and makes it hard for her to see. His eyes are fixed on her, but hers are flying all over the place. The girl fidgets with her hair, to try to get it to stay in place. The young man takes a deep breath, reaches out for her and pulls her close to him so fast that she almost trips. He waits until she turns her face up towards him, then he pulls his arms tighter around her and kisses her.

First draft - assignment 1.7

Här skulle vi försöka med sinnena beskriva en "thrilling or anguishing event from your childhood or adolescence". Njut av första utkastet och kommentera!

A sudden rush of blood colors my face crimson red. I’m the red traffic light in the middle of the rush hour, steadily shining for everybody to stop and notice. The sleeping beast inside me wakes up, stretches and yawns greedily at the familiar feeling. It seems it is thinking “Long time, no see”. The wandering of my eyes seems hazy and confused. As in one of those daytime TV-shows, the edges of my reality are blurred. A sparkling spider web of mist hangs before me like the dusty curtains of my grandmother’s windows. I try to let my eyelids wash the web away, but no matter what I do it remains, grey and twinkling as if decorated by soft summer rain. I see the people talking around me, their mouths are moving silently, like sand flying through the desert. What I hear is only the roaring of the beast inside me, pounding my heart steadily as if using it as a typewriter, directly connected to my brain. The beast spells out “Danger danger!” and I know what the danger is. The beast growls, it’s hungry and I have no choice but to feed it.

The air suddenly fills with a scent, a thick creamy scent that lingers through the room like smoke. I draw my breath and realize that I’ve been holding it. I get up from my seat, following the scent so familiar to me. My feet are floating but heavy. The narrow stairs in front of me look steeper than ever. My hands grasp for control and slides around the banisters. My fingertips feel every inch of the dark brown polished wood. My mouth is dry but wet at the same time, I’m not sure if I’m able to produce sound, less yet speech. The scent intensifies, mixing with the smell of freshly made coffee. Up here, I can hear the ocean splashing against the rocks outside. A seagull cries out in and the beast inside of me responds with the same agonizing sound. The spider web turns golden from the beaming light that shines through the open door in front of me. The scent is concentrated now; I can’t smell the coffee anymore. The mixture of the saltiness of the sea, masculinity, salt sweat and sugar fills my senses. My heavy floating feet stops me just outside the open door, where I find the source of the scent. A knitted white sweater with ugly black dots, way too big, jeans and a messy rug of long brown hair down a skinny back. A dry nasty cracker filled with something white, even nastier, is offered to me. I don’t really want it, but the beast forces my hand to take it. The saliva vanishes from my mouth like when you pull the plug in your kitchen sink. The cracker grows in my mouth like sawdust made wet. I feel sick.

The knitted white sweater with ugly black dots grabs my hand. The sweater’s hand makes me feel like I put my hand on an iron. A dead jellyfish feeling runs through mine. The beast inside me laughs and types with its claws, my heart bleeds from the wounds it makes. The chill moist air from the sea hits me, my hair blows all over the place, but I can’t feel a thing. It seems my senses have all concentrated to my hand. I can feel the heat, taste the skin, the scent, I hear the pounding beat from the beast, all this through my hand. Two pale blue ellipses pierce through the spider web and suddenly everything becomes painfully clear. The TV-show edges vanish, my vision is now clearer than it ever was. It’s as if I’m standing in a Kodak moment, already developed and framed. Two knitted white sleeves with ugly black dots move slowly towards me and the beast. It roars with pleasure and anxiety as the thick creamy scent devours my entire being. Our lips meet. My senses are filled and destroyed.

Creative writing

Läser en kurs i Creative Writing på Malmö Högskola. Mina alster kommer publiceras till allmän beskådan här. Läs och kommentera!