I wrote this poem in swedish but translated it into english
to see if I could make it fit.
and I don't know, so please write comments!
I shot a bird on the backyard,
zerothree fourtyfive, one night
and I saw how your lips wanted to
say something
(And I know that you wanted to
correct me, that night)
But I have never wrong,
so I made you never speak.
and we searched for warmth
in the fallen leaves
and menanwhile you smoked cigarette
after cigarette from your cheap Maryland-packet
created we fairytale-dreams about the future
with inspiration from the rings of smoke
you accurately shaped.
Two.
And when we doesn't play Sweet Child o'mine
with your grandpa's old gramophone anymore,
has the winter come and the snow is something
that calms our minds when we wants to make revolt
(The Winter isn't made for rebells like us)
Instead we rename ourselves to something japanese
and go for a ride to a swedish village,
where we drink the dreams away and
drown sorrows and happiness
(Because that's what we believe people do
a cold winter like this)
Three.
And when the end of the year had gone,
and everything became new
we left Sweden and on the way some
torn sisters who used to spend the nights
in lonely mens beds,
came with us.
when it was your turn to drive we drove safe,
and I used to lean back the seat and shut my eyes.
Agnes, I know how you looked at me
I know how you looked at me,
but I never do wrong.
In Copenhagen you danced on Tivoli
and you forgot how the rings of smoke
became fairytale-dreams because you danced,
yes, how you danced yourself away Agnes.
And the spinnersugar you forced to eat,
didn't only destroy your clothes
but your thin skin.
Because with the sugar you became cuter and
you disappeared in the multimude of danish
overclasspoets.
(Our torn sisters didn't learn you anything)
Four.
When the weeks had past away and you'd
let yourself being fed by champange and
pathetic, danish poetry that you never understood
one single word of
you were stuck and went in in your own world
(and I wonder what you thinked about staring at the sky,
did you searh for the stars?)
You lost yourself in your danish-swedish-dictionary
when you tried to translate words that you never
even wants to understand,
because you're worth better words and sometimes
overclass-poets cannot see much more than dust
on the piano
A piano should be played carefully, Agnes
Five.
Every night you went out to the balcony
with your sellphone in your hand,
to call somebody far away from the horizon
You never dared to push in any number,
because I heard how you shaked of fear
from a long way on the street.
And it doesn't matter how hard the rain
rushed against us, or how many times you
tried to, full of naivety, turn cigarette after cigarette.
The tears on your cheeks was visible all the time.
It didn't stop you to be forced to drink
danish and german alcohol
despite you puke, fell, wobbled, fell and fell
And it never came to an end.
Six.
I drove you back home from Copenhagen
zerotwo twentythree a night in March.
And I saw how you tried to fit with yourself,
if you'd jump out with next trafficstop or not.
Instead your drunk look observed the stars.
"Thea, I have found the stars now"
And you asked me why I shot a bird
on the backyard zerothree fourtyfive,
a night for a long time ago.
"It felt pain, and so do you"
"Thea, you never do wrong"
Poetry by Poetry-poofter
Read 719 times
Written on 2007-10-20 at 00:06
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to see if I could make it fit.
and I don't know, so please write comments!
"I have found the stars now"
One.I shot a bird on the backyard,
zerothree fourtyfive, one night
and I saw how your lips wanted to
say something
(And I know that you wanted to
correct me, that night)
But I have never wrong,
so I made you never speak.
and we searched for warmth
in the fallen leaves
and menanwhile you smoked cigarette
after cigarette from your cheap Maryland-packet
created we fairytale-dreams about the future
with inspiration from the rings of smoke
you accurately shaped.
Two.
And when we doesn't play Sweet Child o'mine
with your grandpa's old gramophone anymore,
has the winter come and the snow is something
that calms our minds when we wants to make revolt
(The Winter isn't made for rebells like us)
Instead we rename ourselves to something japanese
and go for a ride to a swedish village,
where we drink the dreams away and
drown sorrows and happiness
(Because that's what we believe people do
a cold winter like this)
Three.
And when the end of the year had gone,
and everything became new
we left Sweden and on the way some
torn sisters who used to spend the nights
in lonely mens beds,
came with us.
when it was your turn to drive we drove safe,
and I used to lean back the seat and shut my eyes.
Agnes, I know how you looked at me
I know how you looked at me,
but I never do wrong.
In Copenhagen you danced on Tivoli
and you forgot how the rings of smoke
became fairytale-dreams because you danced,
yes, how you danced yourself away Agnes.
And the spinnersugar you forced to eat,
didn't only destroy your clothes
but your thin skin.
Because with the sugar you became cuter and
you disappeared in the multimude of danish
overclasspoets.
(Our torn sisters didn't learn you anything)
Four.
When the weeks had past away and you'd
let yourself being fed by champange and
pathetic, danish poetry that you never understood
one single word of
you were stuck and went in in your own world
(and I wonder what you thinked about staring at the sky,
did you searh for the stars?)
You lost yourself in your danish-swedish-dictionary
when you tried to translate words that you never
even wants to understand,
because you're worth better words and sometimes
overclass-poets cannot see much more than dust
on the piano
A piano should be played carefully, Agnes
Five.
Every night you went out to the balcony
with your sellphone in your hand,
to call somebody far away from the horizon
You never dared to push in any number,
because I heard how you shaked of fear
from a long way on the street.
And it doesn't matter how hard the rain
rushed against us, or how many times you
tried to, full of naivety, turn cigarette after cigarette.
The tears on your cheeks was visible all the time.
It didn't stop you to be forced to drink
danish and german alcohol
despite you puke, fell, wobbled, fell and fell
And it never came to an end.
Six.
I drove you back home from Copenhagen
zerotwo twentythree a night in March.
And I saw how you tried to fit with yourself,
if you'd jump out with next trafficstop or not.
Instead your drunk look observed the stars.
"Thea, I have found the stars now"
And you asked me why I shot a bird
on the backyard zerothree fourtyfive,
a night for a long time ago.
"It felt pain, and so do you"
"Thea, you never do wrong"
Poetry by Poetry-poofter
Read 719 times
Written on 2007-10-20 at 00:06
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Joe Fern |
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