Poem
Gro Dahle
MAMA, MAMA! MY BACK SHALL I CALL YOU. MY LARGE, BROAD BACK SHALL I CALL YOU.
When I wake up, the room is waiting for me. The skirting boards, the thresholds and the parallel lines. When the late morning light falls in a trapeze on the floor, it brushes one corner of a button. My mother’s mother-of-pearl button.When I spill sugar on the floor, I take it as a good sign. But in the corner of my eye I see the furniture getting ready to run.
*
In there my mother sits in her rocking chair looking at me. Everything is so quiet. Everything is so quiet. The glass cupboard listens. It is just before she starts rocking.
*
My Mama. My lips peel for you. My hands. My ears. You talk to me through the chairs. Through the liver pâté on the table. You look at me from the milk glass. When I smile, my lips sting.
*
Does my mother say the green jacket. Do I put on the green jacket. Does she want to see me dance? Stand on tippy-toes? March? Does she want to hear me laugh in five languages? I can sit on command. I can lie on my back. Cry a streak of tears. This is my little one-dog-show. That’s all I can do.
*
My mother lives in my arms. In my neck. My mother lives in the gravity. She comes behind me down the road with a dark bag.
*
One heart says: Look down. The other heart says: Look up. I hide behind my mouth. Laugh a lot, run fast. One heart says: Wait. The other heart says: I cannot wait. I stand on the diving board peering into the water. From the corner of my eye I see my mother standing there like a signal flag.
*
Diving out into the body. Swimming into the tears. My breasts are ready. Two flower-bulbs beneath the yellow blouse. Smiling with round bows. Waving with nipples beneath the blue t-shirt. Pip-pip they tease. Tit-tit. Two rubber boobs. Greeting everyone who walks past. What’s your name? Where are you off to?
And I must hold on to them. Button a jacket tautly across my chest to keep them calm.
*
I am a yellow dress in the door opening. A lemon butterfly. Everything is flower-dust. Everything is pollen.
Two black silk underpants I hide under a white stone. And I see my mother in all trees. At home I hide in my hair, but when I look up, the black lacey underpants flutter in my gaze.
*
I know something I shouldn’t know, and my mother lays the shame out to me in the bathroom. I put it on. It tightens over the crotch which grows more and more moist.
I am more naked with clothes than without. And in the mirror I see the bathtub mocking me. The walls laugh with their white slippery tiles. And the tap consents by being silent.
*
I shall be salted. I shall be salted. My mother makes tracks in the living-room. My mother sits at the window. She rubs and rubs one thumb with the other thumb. And the large brown clock strikes eleven. The chairs grow straighter. The floor smoother. The table shinier and shinier.
I am impure. A stain on the white tablecloth.
*
My mother is a pair of scissors. She cuts into me on her way past. Smells my jacket, looks through my dirty laundry, searches through my pockets. No matter how fast I run, it’s not fast enough. No matter how far I run, I always come back for supper.
*
The snakes grow out of the ground where my mother walks. She eats into my head through my eyes. Sucks my thoughts out with a straw. I am mute with two tongues. The reptiles of my fingers on my arm.
Let me go. Let me off. If the roses can sing, they sing about air and love. If they can whisper, they whisper about the sun. If they can shout, they shout for fresh water in the vase. Fresh water in the vase, fuck it!
*
The quarrels grow out of the scalp and lie and wait in the hair. I practice pricking my mother with pins and needles. Her broad lower legs. Her heavy upper arms. When she asks me what I’m thinking, I kiss her.
My mother teaches me to lie. And I dissolve in excuses. Shortcuts through the thicket. Detours through the forest. In front of the mirror I trick myself as well. No one notices the difference.
*
My mother stands in front of me wearing her tears like an apron. Then I go through her. Then I go straight through her womb. No other way out but out.
Don’t wait for me, Mama. Don’t sit at the window in your nightgown with your cardigan over your shoulders. I’m not coming home, Mama. Hit me. Hit me. I’m unfaithful to you.
© Translation: 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
MAMMA, MAMMA! RYGG SKAL JEG KALLE DEG. STORE BREDE RYGG SKAL JEG KALLE DEG
MAMMA, MAMMA! RYGG SKAL JEG KALLE DEG. STORE BREDE RYGG SKAL JEG KALLE DEG
Når jeg våkner, står rommet og venter på meg. Listene, dørstokkene og de parallelle linjene. Når formiddagslyset faller i en trapes på gulvet, berører det ene hjørnet en knapp. Min mors perlemorknapp.Når jeg søler sukker på gulvet, tar jeg det som et godt tegn. Men i sidesynet ser jeg møblene stå på sprang.
*
Der inne sitter moren min i gyngestolen og ser på meg. Alt er så stille. Alt er så stille. Glasskapet lytter. Det er like før hun begynner å gynge.
*
Mamman min. Leppene mine flasser for deg. Hendene mine. Ørene mine. Du snakker til meg gjennom stolene. Gjennom leverposteien på bordet. Du ser på meg ifra melkeglasset. Når jeg smiler, svir det på leppene.
*
Sier moren min den grønne jakka. Tar jeg på den grønne jakka. Vil hun se meg danse? Stå på tærne? Marsjere? Vil hun høre meg le på fem språk? Jeg kan sitte på kommando. Jeg kan ligge på rygg. Gråte en stripe med tårer. Dette er mitt lille en-hund-show. Det er alt jeg kan.
*
Moren min bor i armene mine. I nakken min. Moren min bor i tyngdekraften. Hun kommer etter meg ned veien med en mørk veske.
*
Det ene hjertet mitt sier: Se ned. Det andre hjertet mitt sier: Se opp. Jeg gjemmer meg bak munnen. Ler mye, løper fort. Det ene hjertet mitt sier: Vent. Det andre hjertet mitt sier: Jeg kan ikke vente. Jeg står på stupebrettet og kikker i vannet. I øyekroken ser jeg moren min stå som et signalflagg.
*
Stuper ut i kroppen. Svømmer inn i lårene. Brystene mine står klare. To blomsterløk under den gule blusen. Smiler med runde buer. Vinker med brystvortene under den blå t-skjorta. Pip, pip, erter de. Tut, tut. To viskelærpupper. Sier hei til alle som går forbi. Hva heter du? Hvor skal du?
Og jeg må holde dem fast. Kneppe en jakke stramt over brystet for å holde dem i ro.
*
Jeg er en gul kjole i døråpningen. En sitronsommerfugl. Alt er blomsterstøv. Alt er pollen.
To svarte silkeunderbukser skjuler jeg under en hvit stein. Og jeg ser moren min i alle trær. Hjemme skjuler jeg meg i håret, men når jeg ser opp, blafrer de svarte blondetrusene i blikket mitt.
*
Jeg vet noe jeg ikke skal vite, og moren min legger skammen fram til meg på badet. Jeg tar den på meg. Den strammer over skrittet som vokser seg bløtere og bløtere.
Jeg er naknere med tøy enn uten. Og i speilet ser jeg badekaret håne meg. Veggene ler med de hvite glatte flisene. Og kranen samtykker ved å tie.
*
Jeg skal saltes. Jeg skal saltes. Moren min går opp stier i stuen. Moren min sitter ved vinduet. Hun gnir og gnir den ene tommelen med den andre tommelen. Og den store brune klokken slår elleve slag. Stolene vokser seg rettere. Gulvet glattere. Bordet blankere og blankere.
Jeg er en urein. En flekk på den hvite duken.
*
Moren min er en saks. Hun klipper inn i meg på vei forbi. Lukter på jakken min, ser gjennom skittentøyet mitt, leter gjennom lommene. Uansett hvor fort jeg løper, er det ikke fort nok. Uansett hvor langt jeg løper, kommer jeg alltid tilbake til kveldsmat.
*
Slangene vokser opp av jorden der moren min går. Hun eter seg inn i hodet mitt gjennom øynene mine. Suger tankene mine ut med sugerør. Jeg tier med to tunger. Fingrenes reptiler på armen min.
La meg gå. La meg slippe. Kan rosene synge, så synger de om luft og kjærlighet. Kan de hviske, så hvisker de om solen. Kan de rope, roper de på nytt vann i vasen. Nytt vann i vasen, for faen!
*
Kranglene vokser ut av hodebunnen og ligger og venter i håret. Jeg øver meg på å stikke moren min med pinner og nåler. De brede leggene hennes. De tunge overarmene. Når hun spør meg hva jeg tenker på, kysser jeg henne.
Moren min lærer meg å lyve. Og jeg løser meg opp i unnskyldninger. Snarveier gjennom krattet. Omveier gjennom skogen. Foran speilet lurer jeg også meg selv. Ingen merker noen forskjell.
*
Moren min står foran meg med gråten på seg som et forkle. Da går jeg gjennom henne. Da går jeg tvers gjennom livmoren hennes. Ingen annen utvei enn ut.
Ikke vent på meg, Mamma. Ikke sitt ved vinduet i nattkjolen med golfjakken over skuldrene. Jeg kommer ikke hjem, Mamma. Slå meg. Slå meg. Jeg er utro mot deg.
© 1996, Gro Dahle
From: Hundre tusen timer
Publisher: J.W. Cappelens Forlag, Oslo
From: Hundre tusen timer
Publisher: J.W. Cappelens Forlag, Oslo
Poems
Poems of Gro Dahle
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MAMA, MAMA! MY BACK SHALL I CALL YOU. MY LARGE, BROAD BACK SHALL I CALL YOU.
When I wake up, the room is waiting for me. The skirting boards, the thresholds and the parallel lines. When the late morning light falls in a trapeze on the floor, it brushes one corner of a button. My mother’s mother-of-pearl button.When I spill sugar on the floor, I take it as a good sign. But in the corner of my eye I see the furniture getting ready to run.
*
In there my mother sits in her rocking chair looking at me. Everything is so quiet. Everything is so quiet. The glass cupboard listens. It is just before she starts rocking.
*
My Mama. My lips peel for you. My hands. My ears. You talk to me through the chairs. Through the liver pâté on the table. You look at me from the milk glass. When I smile, my lips sting.
*
Does my mother say the green jacket. Do I put on the green jacket. Does she want to see me dance? Stand on tippy-toes? March? Does she want to hear me laugh in five languages? I can sit on command. I can lie on my back. Cry a streak of tears. This is my little one-dog-show. That’s all I can do.
*
My mother lives in my arms. In my neck. My mother lives in the gravity. She comes behind me down the road with a dark bag.
*
One heart says: Look down. The other heart says: Look up. I hide behind my mouth. Laugh a lot, run fast. One heart says: Wait. The other heart says: I cannot wait. I stand on the diving board peering into the water. From the corner of my eye I see my mother standing there like a signal flag.
*
Diving out into the body. Swimming into the tears. My breasts are ready. Two flower-bulbs beneath the yellow blouse. Smiling with round bows. Waving with nipples beneath the blue t-shirt. Pip-pip they tease. Tit-tit. Two rubber boobs. Greeting everyone who walks past. What’s your name? Where are you off to?
And I must hold on to them. Button a jacket tautly across my chest to keep them calm.
*
I am a yellow dress in the door opening. A lemon butterfly. Everything is flower-dust. Everything is pollen.
Two black silk underpants I hide under a white stone. And I see my mother in all trees. At home I hide in my hair, but when I look up, the black lacey underpants flutter in my gaze.
*
I know something I shouldn’t know, and my mother lays the shame out to me in the bathroom. I put it on. It tightens over the crotch which grows more and more moist.
I am more naked with clothes than without. And in the mirror I see the bathtub mocking me. The walls laugh with their white slippery tiles. And the tap consents by being silent.
*
I shall be salted. I shall be salted. My mother makes tracks in the living-room. My mother sits at the window. She rubs and rubs one thumb with the other thumb. And the large brown clock strikes eleven. The chairs grow straighter. The floor smoother. The table shinier and shinier.
I am impure. A stain on the white tablecloth.
*
My mother is a pair of scissors. She cuts into me on her way past. Smells my jacket, looks through my dirty laundry, searches through my pockets. No matter how fast I run, it’s not fast enough. No matter how far I run, I always come back for supper.
*
The snakes grow out of the ground where my mother walks. She eats into my head through my eyes. Sucks my thoughts out with a straw. I am mute with two tongues. The reptiles of my fingers on my arm.
Let me go. Let me off. If the roses can sing, they sing about air and love. If they can whisper, they whisper about the sun. If they can shout, they shout for fresh water in the vase. Fresh water in the vase, fuck it!
*
The quarrels grow out of the scalp and lie and wait in the hair. I practice pricking my mother with pins and needles. Her broad lower legs. Her heavy upper arms. When she asks me what I’m thinking, I kiss her.
My mother teaches me to lie. And I dissolve in excuses. Shortcuts through the thicket. Detours through the forest. In front of the mirror I trick myself as well. No one notices the difference.
*
My mother stands in front of me wearing her tears like an apron. Then I go through her. Then I go straight through her womb. No other way out but out.
Don’t wait for me, Mama. Don’t sit at the window in your nightgown with your cardigan over your shoulders. I’m not coming home, Mama. Hit me. Hit me. I’m unfaithful to you.
© 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
From: Hundre tusen timer
From: Hundre tusen timer
MAMA, MAMA! MY BACK SHALL I CALL YOU. MY LARGE, BROAD BACK SHALL I CALL YOU.
When I wake up, the room is waiting for me. The skirting boards, the thresholds and the parallel lines. When the late morning light falls in a trapeze on the floor, it brushes one corner of a button. My mother’s mother-of-pearl button.When I spill sugar on the floor, I take it as a good sign. But in the corner of my eye I see the furniture getting ready to run.
*
In there my mother sits in her rocking chair looking at me. Everything is so quiet. Everything is so quiet. The glass cupboard listens. It is just before she starts rocking.
*
My Mama. My lips peel for you. My hands. My ears. You talk to me through the chairs. Through the liver pâté on the table. You look at me from the milk glass. When I smile, my lips sting.
*
Does my mother say the green jacket. Do I put on the green jacket. Does she want to see me dance? Stand on tippy-toes? March? Does she want to hear me laugh in five languages? I can sit on command. I can lie on my back. Cry a streak of tears. This is my little one-dog-show. That’s all I can do.
*
My mother lives in my arms. In my neck. My mother lives in the gravity. She comes behind me down the road with a dark bag.
*
One heart says: Look down. The other heart says: Look up. I hide behind my mouth. Laugh a lot, run fast. One heart says: Wait. The other heart says: I cannot wait. I stand on the diving board peering into the water. From the corner of my eye I see my mother standing there like a signal flag.
*
Diving out into the body. Swimming into the tears. My breasts are ready. Two flower-bulbs beneath the yellow blouse. Smiling with round bows. Waving with nipples beneath the blue t-shirt. Pip-pip they tease. Tit-tit. Two rubber boobs. Greeting everyone who walks past. What’s your name? Where are you off to?
And I must hold on to them. Button a jacket tautly across my chest to keep them calm.
*
I am a yellow dress in the door opening. A lemon butterfly. Everything is flower-dust. Everything is pollen.
Two black silk underpants I hide under a white stone. And I see my mother in all trees. At home I hide in my hair, but when I look up, the black lacey underpants flutter in my gaze.
*
I know something I shouldn’t know, and my mother lays the shame out to me in the bathroom. I put it on. It tightens over the crotch which grows more and more moist.
I am more naked with clothes than without. And in the mirror I see the bathtub mocking me. The walls laugh with their white slippery tiles. And the tap consents by being silent.
*
I shall be salted. I shall be salted. My mother makes tracks in the living-room. My mother sits at the window. She rubs and rubs one thumb with the other thumb. And the large brown clock strikes eleven. The chairs grow straighter. The floor smoother. The table shinier and shinier.
I am impure. A stain on the white tablecloth.
*
My mother is a pair of scissors. She cuts into me on her way past. Smells my jacket, looks through my dirty laundry, searches through my pockets. No matter how fast I run, it’s not fast enough. No matter how far I run, I always come back for supper.
*
The snakes grow out of the ground where my mother walks. She eats into my head through my eyes. Sucks my thoughts out with a straw. I am mute with two tongues. The reptiles of my fingers on my arm.
Let me go. Let me off. If the roses can sing, they sing about air and love. If they can whisper, they whisper about the sun. If they can shout, they shout for fresh water in the vase. Fresh water in the vase, fuck it!
*
The quarrels grow out of the scalp and lie and wait in the hair. I practice pricking my mother with pins and needles. Her broad lower legs. Her heavy upper arms. When she asks me what I’m thinking, I kiss her.
My mother teaches me to lie. And I dissolve in excuses. Shortcuts through the thicket. Detours through the forest. In front of the mirror I trick myself as well. No one notices the difference.
*
My mother stands in front of me wearing her tears like an apron. Then I go through her. Then I go straight through her womb. No other way out but out.
Don’t wait for me, Mama. Don’t sit at the window in your nightgown with your cardigan over your shoulders. I’m not coming home, Mama. Hit me. Hit me. I’m unfaithful to you.
© 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
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