On Writing Poems

For many people writing can be a very difficult task. At the moment I write and publish a lot of poems. There are so many thoughts and ideas that have stayed inside my mind until now. Where I live we have one of these long and enduring winter.

The days are short and the nights up to 18 hours long. That gives a lot of time to write or waste watching TV. I write in the modernist tradition mostly, that means not much rime but a reflection on how every word is used to construct meaning, sentences etc.

But reading and writing poetry takes from many different tradition. From Ulysses to Bukowski. I have the greatest admiration for anyone trying to write anything!

To all my readers here on WordPress I am so grateful for you reading my poems!

Surviving Being a Partner to a Bipolar

Living with a bipolar partner can be very traumatic. All conflicts tend to be extreme. Whatever you are doing is completely wrong. You don’t deserve any credit for anything. No matter what you have done so far is never enough.

Then after that comes the change. She is so sorry for what happened and what she has done. Then there is a slight chance that you can agree on something. This agreement she might keep or not. But the that is s good start.

Once this pattern has repeated itself enough often. One start to adapt and create strategies for handling it. Eventually however it gets you and you can give up talking about your needs since they are not acceptable if he/ she does not feel well or is frustrated for one reason or another. It can be a family quarrel with a mother or something at work. You will have to carry the burden of that by being the target of aggression and merciless criticism for something completely different like putting the children to bed too late or in the “wrong ” way.

On Suicide

Once upon a time my grandmother

Tried to commit suicide

She swallowed a huge

Number of yellow pills

That my mother had

Prescribed to her

As the good doctor and daughter

She was at the time

Sleeping pills

My grandfather found her

In bed with the faded light

And traffic noise from

The street below

On a winter afternoon

I was about ten at the time

My mother told me that

It was not my fault

Not so much, just a little

And any way the pills

Would not kill her

Most to blame was my grandfather

Who did not fulfill her wish

Of the perfect summerhouse

I kept those words in memory

Creating new disasters in

The far future

That is now