Quotes about sweden, page 7
Animal Sentimentality
Animal Sentimentality
If I told and elephant it was the biggest land animal
in the world, would it trumpet this good news around
and be bigheaded, or be envious the elegant giraffe,
for its lovely eyes, long neck and splendid view?
On the pristine sandy beach, near the Nordic town,
a rare, long legged bird landed, it was so beautiful
that it was shot next day for its feathers, the paper
that reported the crime had black borders that day.
An elephant isn’t cute, walks arduously, cranky eyes,
once saw an elephant foot, used as an umbrella stand,
bought its owner was on holiday in Africa, this made
me so gloomy that I peed into the foot before leaving.
I should have said something at once, hit him and left
in a righteous huff, but had also brought bottles of
whisky; yes, I do have soft heart for animals, bit booze
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poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Without A Shield
At the Rochester Institute of Technology
while a graduate student
in photography
I met a woman
I’ll call Ingrid Bergman
and fell in love with her
allowing my soul to drift
in ethereal realms
When the time came
to return home to Brooklyn
we spoke seriously of our future
She loved me,
she said,
but also
Gustav Gustafson
and Earl Kip. This information
hurt but she said
all I had to do was hang on
until next summer
when we’d travel together
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poem by Charles Wax
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Back Where It Was At
As our years get older
we have that yearning
to peel away those years
going back to the days
that we most enjoyed
back to where it was at.
Where we used to
dance the night away
to our favourite
artist of the day
and each generation
have artists of their own.
In the fifties, the Americans
lead the way with rock and roll
and Elvis was King
falling in his footsteps
other greats followed behind.
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poem by David Harris
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Hope Is a Tattered Flag
Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time.
Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in white
The evening star inviolable over the coal mines,
The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night,
The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works,
The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace,
The ten-cent crocus bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom,
The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket,
The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve—
Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.
The spring grass showing itself where least expected,
The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky,
The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow,
Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden carried
Across the sea in behalf of a world family of nations
And children singing chorals of the Christ child
And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
And tall skyscrapers practically empty of tenants
And the hands of strong men groping for handholds
And the Salvation Army singing God loves us….
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Paradise Lost
Paradise Lost
The grass is tall now a cat with a dormouse in its
mouth is watching me, not quite an African lion
as seen on a BBC, nature program
I may go to Africa in May, Congo, might not see
an elephant or a gorilla but I’m sure to find a war
somewhere in the forest, near a diamond mine.
Here, where I live, I can take off my shoes and
walk barefoot in the grass, but my feet have been
encased in shoes so long they are European now.
So am I an African? No not now, but I used to be
in an earlier life, that’s why I call Africa my home
and tend to idolize and over romanticise the place.
Portugal is a god country to live in and it is closer to
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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During A Journey In Sweden
My boyish heart in thee confided,
For to the great by thee 't was guided.
As man, my waiting is for thee,-
The Northern cause with thee, with thee!
Rich lands and talents are thy dower,
But fallow lie thy wealth and power.
Thou must the North in concord bind,
Or never shalt thy true self find.
There's longing in thy folk arisen,
Poetic hope-but yet in prison.
Though forces great within thee dwell,
Thou art not wholly sound and well.
Too many things are undertaken,
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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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International Clowns Guild. At a recent conference on racism
At a recent conference on racism
The International Clowns Guild made a surprise appearance
Sporting red noses and rainbow colored wigs
Apart from that, these Clowns looked just like everyone else.
Commencing their performance by hissing and booing
The Clowns between sobs their audience were wooing
Lamenting their complaint - simply stated
Because of their red noses and rainbow colored wigs
These Clowns claimed - for that, they had been discriminated against.
Removing their noses and colorful wigs
The Clowns indeed proved they looked just like everyone else:
As The Clowns true identity had been revealed
Laughter erupted for it was plainly seen
Clowns are people with or without their red noses or wigs
Thereby proving that between Clowns and People racism should never exist.
© Calac
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poem by Chris Lane
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0258 While the enamel holds
I've just made a passable loaf:
the mixing bowl could almost
be called a Thanksgiving Bowl -
maybe, could start a fashion:
it's made, not of catering-trade steel
which spins nicely on the worktop
nor of plastic, but
of enamel, made about 1929 I guess,
by Kockums of Sweden, size 28 cms
it's clearly stamped -
Kockum's whose proud claim is that
'it lasts a lifetime' - if
you're fortunate enough to be able
to test it thus...
my mother used it to make cakes
- I can hear the scratch of sugar, butter, flour, right now;
sometimes the smell of lemon or vanilla too. And
for her, too, gratitude, I guess,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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They Fought with their Bare Hands
To Mordecai Anielewicz (1919-1943)
Facing formidable forces,
Supported with tanks and artillery,
You knew that there was no way to win.
Nevertheless, you decided to fight,
Not for victory, but for Jewish honour.
So, one day in the spring of 1943,
You were 24 years old then,
The Zionist banner was hoisted
Over the Warsaw Ghetto wall,
Along with the Polish flag.
The SS troops preferred to use
Artillery fire, flamethrowers
And gas, or to blast the houses
By dynamite squads, rather than engage
In direct street fighting with untrained
And poorly armed young Jewish men
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poem by Paul Hartal
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What Country Shall We Go To?
What country shall we go to? For our holiday,
Shall it be in Europe, Asia, USA, or the islands, which way?
What if we do a world trip, go get some brochures and see,
Which will be the most interesting holiday for me?
Let's now think of U.k. Like Scotland, or Wales,
Then what about Ireland or isle of wight, see the yachts sails;
We could stay in London, go see on board a decker bus, visit the Queen,
There's plenty of great shops to try, and buy souveniers, is where I'll be seen.
Now catch a ferry across the Thames, into France, for a cake or two,
Try some frogs legs, to eat, see the Eiffel tower too;
Next will be Italy, see the olive vineyards Everywhere,
Try. To eat some great pasta, like spaghetti, n pizza if I dare.
Now what about to Vienna, hear the choirs sing,
Then travel to Venice, thru the streets in a condola they'll bring;
Back to Sweden, and to Austria, see each home so well built,
Go skiing in the mountains of Switzerland, if cold, I'll take the guilt.
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poem by Margaret Haig
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