Thursday, October 15, 2009

My Heart Belongs To The Soldiers

Five Poems By Boel Schenlær

The man speaks English

they want me
to get on board
the white airplane

they don´t believe
I understand

they don´t believe
I know what to do

the man speaks English
I watch his hands
while he imagines
what he could do with them

the rage
like a scar
that puts his face in order

The dark-dressed men

much taller than me
push me in front

I take care of my clothes
white skirt, white shirt

the dark-dressed men
keep reminding me
the clothes don´t
belong to me

I know their names now
Jim and George
they call me Laurie
that´s not my name

a little ends up
in the seat
I wipe it off
with an orange
some woman peels
for me

All there is


I try to push everything
through the ventilator

the sounds from a fan
makes me sleepy

there is a light
strong lamps
there is darkness
and my pain goes everywhere

I am four meters long
and my belly is too small
there is no one
capable of this
can I please go home soon

From the dark and cold room

On the third floor
men from shadows
not around my bed
but around hers
four, maybe five of them
holding her
pulling the sheets
holding her head
her belly
they are
already gone
when the fire
covers her

III Back home


I know
she is weeping
there are no tears
on her pillow

What if?

if they knew
I am not capable
of this
but still
they can´t possibly find me
it will cost too much
to go this far


next time he starts his car
his foot will blow up
then he gets angry

because he doesn´t get it:
who wishes him
bad luck

Carried down

shadows made of nothing
but steel
in the cold and dark room

it all shrunk
or got destroyed

I am put in a unit
planning to run away

a needle
with a blue head of glass
in a black pajamas

my memory of sunshine
becomes a lucid vision
I get no air

the darkness
pushes me up
like if my body
is cut in half
pieces by the limbs
there is no pain at all
for a moment
but then it comes around
as the air returns
then they carry me down
it is over

My heart belongs to the soldiers

In my ears

they cry out to me
telling me to die
shouting they fear to die
that they want to go back home
that it´s all my fault
that they don´t want
their intestines torn out
that they have a girlfriend at home
that I am a thin rug.
Children sleep in their beds at night
why am I here
why did I not see to
stay at home
so they wouldn´t
need to be here
stuck with me.


Be glad you´re still with us
many are even worse off.
I saw one.
She was suddenly
Just like that, just gave up.
She didn´t want to be around anymore,
I guess.
No wonder.
Really, I didn´t know what to do.
“But”, they said to me,
“not your fault”. She was
going, anyway.
So, left me with nothing
else to do but pack my bag
or, to leave, I mean.
I hope I don´t scare you, puppy.
You´re so cute,
white and small and all.
Not like her with
those twisted eyes.


You can keep it
if you want it.
It´s from my jacket.
What did they
do to you.
I won´t hurt you.
I will tuck you in
and then you´ll sleep.
God bless you
from this filthy space.


I´ve had it.
I won´t go back.
I´ve got this ticket
so I know what I´m saying.
I will get you out of here.
You´ll come with me.
I know what I´m saying.
Just wait here
and I ´ll
be back soon.


Do you believe you´re the only one here
Do you believe you can force me
to love you.
You must be a joke.
A bad joke.
As bad as me.


I got it from the store
as a gift for somebody
but you can have it
for free.
What are you doing here
living here, anyway?
You are not somebodys daughter,
are you?


Stand up!
Don´t just lie there.
Don´t you have no legs.
What is this? I paid for
her standing.
I want another one. A new one.
I didn´t pay for the strap.

For a second

the sun
was brought to me
it was warm
and damp
someone was kind
for a while
then drove me
back inside

Boel Schenlær : Poet & playwright.Hometown:
Södermalm, Åtvidaberg, Sweden.


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