Lonely Writer: 7 poems in English
Seven poems from me in English. Original poems in Finnish have published in this blog (or somewhere else) earlier. All the translations are made by me, too. I translated all the poems within a day, 6th of October 2011. I apologize because of all possible grammatical disasters & rapings of English language. Do not hesitate to give some feedback. Some of the grammatical errors may be intentional, thus. ;)
White dogs came at first.
They came as a huge flock to at my feet. They licked and fondled me,
And I did stroke them too, I am not denying the soft cuteness of them
I just don’t see it necessary to tell them that.
Then came a tall mister with his black coat.
In a coat, which hems were almost reaching the ground.
He stood uprightly straight in front of my eyes.
I admit that he was having such powerful sturdiness in his sun glasses
That not all the generations will be priviledged to see.
I could imagine all those medals of honour on his chest
That the presidents of this Earth are allowed to pick up from the floors.
The surface of his glasses were not reflecting anything
What I am not able to see by myself.
We agreed that I wasn’t saying anything of him.
After the sun glass man, it started to rain balaclava helmets to the street.
Thousands of balaclavas, millions of balaclavas!
Soon they were everywhere. The winds were mangling them by the rudiments of Earth.
They were flying with the dead leaves against the flesh, coated by scales.
Why should I speak about them, since I have an opportunity to take mine
From the hat shelf whenever I want to.
One sees poorly through the tiny holes – and the hot, suffocating feeling will come soon.
There’s not much to tell about on balaclavas.
Suddenly, I was passed by her
Whom I thought I had loved for 1000 and a day.
I greeted her, although it was unnecessary.
Her pupils and cheekbones did recognized me.
We were watching each others for few minutes
As people watch equestrian statues, street performers and game boards after the loss.
For the end, we changed our daily bread to something easier to digest
Ice cream, cookies, thimbleful of cognac
To something which brown, rustling crust is still the same.
Never before had we understood each other as well as now
But there is no need to say anything about this either.
What just happened
Is perhaps leading a small child to me.
He would have lots to say to me
But if I would repeat all that, I would act against truth again.
Inclusively, this all is not about my personal deficiencies.
I consider you as a friend. Nevertheless, I must tell about these foggy nights. Foggy nights and faint light. A faint light that alters expensive carpet to white sand. White sand that is made of tiny splinters that are hooking on over all on one’s body and which wont get loosen.
This foggy night makes me to remember all those nights when we didn’t copulate.
I would surpass her knees as a great mountain, I would press my cheek down on her as against damp sand, against soft white sand. Waves of sound would cease from being audible, I wouldn’t hear how city measure of people would dully roll off from my back. I wouldn’t hear how cars would swishly drive away from under her window. Up to my toes I would be in the state where I’m not able to take any nutriment, and I would hear her calling me as a heaven is calling grand mother. Come! Come! And I would fall into her as into turquoise water, into mild, fresh water. And suddenly I am on my knees on the dark smooth islet. On hot, desolate islet. Heat of sun makes my back to tremble, and I know that soon my abdomen will touch something even warmer than that. And I am lowering and raising, raising and lowering my body till my updomen is hot as rock, smooth and hot as rock. And whole time my hand is lowering to her abdomen as a shadow. As a shadow it is resting on her belly so that we both are uniting to dark night. We are uniting to the dark night in the way that no-one in this world could tell where one is ending and another is beginning. My lips are pressing against her side, and I am watching her breast closer that human can watch. I can distinguish every wispy hair of hers, I can see every soft wispy hair of hers, and every tiny papillas on her skin. For the short period of time I have the sureness that the perfection of Father God is living in my teeth. I know that my teeth are whiter than white. But I do not know, if my hand should slide up or down, down or up. And I am sensing how sweat is slowly cooling on her. And sweat is cooling on me also, and it is like night would fall round us second time. And it is like we would get forgiveness for all those cold nights, those cold nights when she didn’t call me and I didn’t come.
I am just sitting alone on this cold carpet, on this cold carpet that is illuminated by faint light of fluoresan ampul. I have sank into oblivion beside this carpet, and there is not single person in the whole world who would come through that door and turnt off the light, the light that has not exposed anything of me. I am sitting naked in white sand, and I have the feeling that I have locked myself into this foggy cell forever and that I am forced to crawl toward that switch by knowing that somewhere behind that glass, in some of those thousands of boxes of curtains I would surpassed her knees as a great mountain. As an only living creature, I would reached the ultimate peak. I would reached the snowy ultimate peak, and I would erected a flag there to everybody to see, and I would raised my hands as winners do. But no, I must crawl again and again toward that switch by crying and freezing and curse all those slashing and sliding nights when we didn’t copulate.
IN THE UNKNOWN CITY
As a misbehaving child, I am sitting in the middle of the black street in the unknown city.
Rain is beating bluntly and roughly to everywhere
and I am not having anything that would cover the unscratched skin of my hands.
Yet, I can see everything clearly.
I can recognize the sounds of tinly downspouts even from the middle of the roaring rain.
With enormous power they are plunging the streaming water against the black street.
I do not know, if I should compare the rattle of downpouts
to that shrieking sound that gets birth
when the lid of pot is opened in the middle of smoky walls
or should I compare it to footsteps of darkly covered character on galvanized iron roof in the innocent night
or is it a consecuense from scruffy shoes’ attempt to reach a metalline pedal
traditionally, all this has been a man opening an umbrella on his way to unknown destination
or top of tree, shaked by the wind
When I decide to leave umbrella unopened
something ruptures in me
the places where I have sat are getting fullfilled
fullfilled and clean
and tremendous forces are wiping me off from this canyon of death
away from this canyon of which bottom I have went, and which bottom I have licked.
I started to erect a fountain to my blooming garden.
Five linden trees, seven spruces, an oak, and an olive tree, plus some others,
Blithely, I cut them all down.
Wife and parents, neighbours and colleagues, friends and buddies
– all they were fobbing their new plants and sprouts off on me,
but none of them were able to foresee my vision.
”We are having some larger models also”, said the ironmonger to me, and I felt pity for him.
Actually, I didn’t had anything specific in my mind.
I was just watching the field that was exposed,
and I was wondering, what ashtonishing acts I would do with the rocks.
The rocks, who were laying disgraced and surrendered down by my feet.
A LIMPIDNESS AFTER THE RAIN
(Sateen jälkeinen kuulaus)
At the moment like this, after the rain
when all surfaces are shining clean and watery
then you’ll know
that everything around you just wants to win itself back
again and again
none of the benches can capture me
none of the roads can force me to go
one must be where he is being, one must see quickly the red water
where is it running to, what it is colouring on
time doesn’t exist, and if it does
it is splashes on glassy surface
one needs to be ruthless
because suns wont give any mercy either – they are squeezing off
the water of life
from everything which will be penetrated by their ruthless rays..
THEN I WILL KNOW
(Silloin minä tiedän)
If I want to say
something about this world
i do not have many hitting arrows
more than that, I am having deadly recipes
medicines that do not heal
would I perceive this as a battle?
no, not at all
neither as a streaming river
stony path, that leads twisting through a foggy wood
grows bigger and wider
to an enormous road that splits the universe
or to breaking wall
that skittish animals are trying to push down from both sides
am I wandering like I would be searching after lost cat,
hollering with picture on my hand, appealing even to dogs?
has this all happened thousands of times already?
i do not know anything about things like that
but I do know that some day
after the rain
we will stand together
chest by chest, watching at same direction
at the same stony fountain
have we bricked it up together, i can not tell
we have sunk our hands into the clear water of fountain
then, all that which
is not getting caught by nets
which used to be too slimy to touch
will now stream to range of our hands
but not old bridges and trees, however
– they are a giant calamary in a small dark room –
at those we wont touch at the moment
when Finland will be Finland and stone will be stone
and we, by ourselves, as a first man before the fall of man
everything will be named by ourselves
everything has a wet surface
when our hands are reaching transparent water,
even Confucius himself would consider us
as good Chinese people
being directed toward truth
people of golden era
then I will know
what to say to you
but there’s no need for that
because your hand is touching
the bitter water
of the same fountain.
If a mammary will be marked by using 1, and your opinion on God as 2, then it can be concluded that your life is led by an algorithm. 80 % of your life is an antilife, that poems can not detect. I do understand, that thousands of children will get sick, and that victims will make thousands, but despite that we might be standing in the middle of radioactive words, and therefore I need a grant. If honor will lose its meaning, it will be like we would spill icy water from the rivers of some coastal inhabitants to ears of some to which, live! The ”daily” that foregoes of bread may be getting some new connotations. Therefore, an international research center must be based into the most indifferent place on earth – that’s why we took contact on you. You must ask from yourself, if you want to save the indifference of your daily life, daily? If you do, then the issue of need of protection must be handled in additional meeting. Alternatively, you can just keep your current attitude toward bread and paper and and and as you have had as a custom. Respectfully, I will still write a number on your forehead, it will take contact on you. If you have understood what I am talking about, then it can be said that the number on your forehead is making you connected. In that case, we have troubled you unnecessarily, because we must find a new location for our research center, naturally.