Typing a translation while Nici is giving me a
manicure, applying black polish to my nails,
laughing as she spills on my fingers, it looks
like I fell into an ink-pot, I give up one-hand
typing to admire my beautiful nails – this is
why I had kids, to keep me company
At home Nici covered the white-board in red
writing, it looks like a scene of murder; the
mess of CD’s and DVD’s creates a feeling
of total madness; when she and Tiaan play
games it sounds like insistent machine-gun
fire; I can’t stay in my own study
I can barely live in my own house with the
TV full volume competing with Nici’s radio;
Tiaan’s cell-phone bleeping, blood squirting
from little men in TV-games and cars racing
down scary streets underneath fairytale skies;
the weirdo’s who create the graphics must be
Nuts to create such beautiful scenery for games
scintillating in red violence; I am living a violent
life just at present; where did my little kids go?
Où sont les neiges d’antan?
Margaret, many mothers have asked themselves the same question. Did our mothers too? Thanks for this wonderful poem.
your spirit is infectious you seem an open, dynamic, and generous person thank you
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You ask the question, where did my little kids go? but the bigger question is: How has everything become so violent? and in your safe home surrounded by your beautiful kids, there is still violence or inference to it in everything you see.... so sad when our children grow up and so sad when it is in such circumstances.