onsdag 2. januar 2013

poems on planes/i am no poet/part 3



AMSTERDAM - TRONDHEIM
thinking about the flight from AMSTERDAM - ATHENS
on the smallest plane ever, EMBRAER 190.

"Do you want one?"
No thanks, he said
in a thick scottish accent.
I wasn't sure what he meant
until I saw his electric cigarette.

"It's swedish
it's tobacco,
they sell it in Norway too,
that's where I'm from."

He asked me why I'm going to Greece,
Why I would choose the poor country, not the rich.

I didn't understand his question until he said he was working for a norwegian company:
"We are searching for oil in greek waters".

It infuriated me.
The thought of one homeland expoliting the other.
But it wasn't his fault.
He's just a poor old Scot,
no real agenda,
other than to support his family
working a job that always changes
always frustratingly
far
away.

His breath smelled of beer.
Mine smelled of wine.
Fifty-something years old
balled,
ring in his ear.

We really had nothing in common.
Not a single thing.
Yet, I found some comfort in this conversation with a stranger whose words I occasionally understood -
he had a thick accent.

A three hour flight can pass quickly by,
talking to a guy with so much to say.
His drunk mumbling was a lullaby to my constant paranoia.

Thank you for distracting me.
You made my day.

poems on planes/i am no poet/part 2


ATHENS - AMSTERDAM
PÅ TRØNDERSK

Æ veit itj ka som skjer, men det e sånn at når æ flyr
så blir æ paranoid.

Æ slår av mobilen på en manisk, bestemt måte,
og gir ordre rundt mæ om at folk må gjør det samme.

Det e jo logisk, e itj det?

Æ glane uten skam,
æ prøve å sje fram te tidspunktet æ lande,
men det e ikke lett når æ veit at det e det samme.
egentlig..
Æ prøve å vær lykkelig
og klare det!
Før æ går på flyet... e æ det.

Og æ e førsten te å innrøm at sjøl om æ har vært politisk aktivist og venstrevridd
så gjør all propagandaen rundt flytura mæ te en rasist.

Bare når æ e på flyet.
Fakk det.

Derfor drikk æ ett og ett glass vin
og prøve å sje film eller serie på datan
bare sånn at hjernen min får koble av litt.
Æ sitt og skriv dikt.

Æ e en hykler av en poet
æ har itj my å stå for, men det hjelp faktisk litt
mot frykten av det ukjente som kjem hver gang flyet tar av,
når lysan slukkes og alle går inn i en dyp søvn
e æ våken.

Plutselig blir sansan spissa te,
når alle veit at flyet drar og alle har snakka ferdig
kjem en stillhet uten makan -
plutselig hold dem fre'.

Kanskje det e fordi dem også e redd.
Kanskje dem nyt utsikta.
Det hjelp å tenk at alle føle med mæ.

Og når æ sir at æ vil ha vin
klokka seks om mårran trur dem sikkert æ e alkis,
æ tvile itj på det.

Whatever.

Æ putte en snus i leppa, tenke gode tanka;
at flyet sveve i en rosa ball -
det va mamma som lært mæ at det hjalp.
Og æ sjer mæ sjøl inn i flyet, inn i en rosa ball,
æ sjer ut viduet og vinke -
og æ smile.
E det mæ? Det e sånn æ sjer ut ja.
Uten frykt, uten fobia,
æ sitt ved sia
av en drøm om at æ en dag klare å stå opp mot det.
Æ miste itj motet.

poems on planes/i am no poet/part 1



TRONDHEIM - AMSTERDAM

The beast
breathing in the air
that is so willingly given to it by the sky,
and spitting it out again.

It is used to feeding so gluttonously it forgets its precious cargo.
Grunting, sighing
it does not change its habits.

Yet the undeniable tension is lost somewhere
inside its hollow shell,
every inch pulsating in a complex rhythm only the winds decide.

Lost in a place between time and space
the beast moves through continuums that makes one doubt on the reality of it.
On whether it is standing still,
if it is moving at all.
And before the mind is left to wander
it reminds you of a powerless desperation hidden in its size,
there's no place to hide
when push comes to shove.

But all of it is obsolete
in light of the one true thing it has in common with the people in its seats:
the destination.

Fed with plastic food with plastic names by plastic people,
the carry-on, cargo luggage is seduced to staying
people reduced to numbers dangling in the sky.
It is here the irony comes creeping in -
the realization of the inevitable truth:

no one else decided.

You are the keymaster, the pupeteer
the director
producer and star of your bitter attempt to prove to yourself that
YOU ARE NOT AFRAID.
and once again.
you failed.

Now all you can think about is how happy you felt a few minutes before stepping onto this
SUICIDE MISSION OF STEEL

and now you are stuck.
Trying to handle the mind games that the mind plays
when one thought is on repeat:
"I have to get through this"
and mute whispers of
"I swear I'll be a better person".

The desperation that human beings feel sometimes
is laughable and scary,
it makes you weary to say it but it's true.
Meanwhile you are sealing your eyelids tight,
you try to get some rest,
you try to block the light.

It doesn't change a thing.

The deep sleep you seek will not be visiting today,
even if you glued your eyelids shut it wouldn't.

This situation you are in, it is here to stay,
your hung-over neighbour leaning on your shoulder,
producing odours resembling dead horse's meat that's been hung to dry for three days
will not go away.

Sip your tea.
Eat your cookie.

Blue, yellow, red light to your left.
Sunrise.
To your right: pitch black.
Night.

Piercing through thick layers of smoked water
as you are once again facing the paradox of a tin can floating on air.

Not bad.
Not bad at all.

© msar