from your glance
the end
of the poem
*
You
light-footed moss
already
on
the window frame
already
on the roof
to walk
on tiny
feet
which
arrived
so long
before you
on fingers
which
guarded you
in the almost
intolerable
world
long
before
you knew
how
to see
them
and
name them
*
Near
nearest
distant
they all
become this
same yellow
voiceless
chicken
in the courtyard of
another death
et cetera
thin
sharp thread
which ties
your heart
with one and
the same
relentless
sorrow
of them all
trembling edge-
wise the shadow
of an aspen
leaf through
your eyes
into you
like a platinum
thread
to weigh
stars
constellations
but never
never
your own
heart
*
The same
sea
in us all
red
dark
warm
throbbing
winds from
every quarter
in the sails
of the heart
line
of foam through
white
space
question falling
from the oar
rolling
back
on the wave
fear
behind the darkness
or the same
sea
waiting
for another
*
Big black hedgehog
eternity descending
into the valley
a spiny ball
melting
in the hands
of a child
all
frontiers
barbed wire
of
the world
walking
like hedgehogs
over
all frontiers
children’s eyes
resting
like butterflies
at
your feet
*
A flying fish
takes wing
from the book
through the seal
of the Milky Way
on the swell
on the other
side where
the great sea
dissolves
everything
to its primeval
elements
even
death
too little
for this
great
world
*
Ant trail
on a
poplar’s
gnarled
trunk
memory
small light
in the damp
cloud
then
between
two worlds
you lose
direction
what pulls
you upward
is it
your weight
what pulls
you down
is it
your wings
not yet grown
yet growing
*
Summer’s
last evening
cloudy
and warm
no one
you visited
was at home
two useless
bottles
of wine
in your bag
everyone
you met
in the street
was drunk
everybody
drunk
in the street
*
So light
after all
this great and
evil world
built
of butterflies’
wings
springtimes
big cities
pestilences
gliding
over history
you
me
who does
need
consolation
fluttering
of motley
wings
caught
by a gust
over
the lake
you too
long ago
cast
your last
glance
said
your last
word
*
Heart
of rain
where nothing
stirs
only the
difference
of black
and white
halving
a random
falling
drop
Nymphalis Io
wings
folded on
the smithy
window
poems
and flames
dying out
in the great
joy
of waters
that meet
in the little
flowing
world
the tears
lose
meaning
*
Ashes
of one world
crumble
upon the colours
of another one
the sunflower
lost
its crown
hoarfrost
on the scythe
grasshoppers
silent
three sheep
in the fog
the rowan tree
stripped
of leaves
and berries
to write
write
something
something
else
*
Painting
a boat
you need not
paint the water
painting
a smile
you need not
paint the face
painting
a blossom
you need not
paint the flower
and you can say
you have to bear
a mote
from the immense
weightlessness
of the world.
*
The late well-master
of Veskimoisa
lives on
unlike the others
In water
in springs
From under
the lid
thrust aside
from the dark square
his sky looks
every day
into your eyes
*
With a broken wing
somebody whisks off
the letters
and breadcrumbs
children are picking up
motley pens
in the courtyard
perhaps it is better
&n
bsp; if no one thinks
which were the wings
that bore me once
high above
this strange earth
as snow
as ash
as water
I will come I will flow back
little by little
to everywhere
and when someone
standing on
the roadside will count
kernels from an ear
in his hand or
gather his pockets
full of acorns
no one of them
will ever recognise
me again
*
Everything melts
burns out:
lamp lampshade
the light itself
with no shade left
no world
belongs to you and you
belong
to no world
you are pulled
by rain and light
on roads coming
and going
from everywhere
to everywhere
*
A tit
upside down
picking last seeds
from a frost-bitten sunflower
we came back
bees had abandoned their hives
a dead mouse
was floating in the well
north wind roaming
over dead grass
in our garden
and hillside
at night
we stood long
on the stairs
with the boys
and looked for
Taurus and Aries
rising from the southeast
a rat was hustling
through dead vines
this fall
space for a while
more real than time
*
Ink not yet
dried
loaf of bread
not yet
eaten
spring
come
and gone
colours
growing
again and
again on
my burnt
happy
wings
which do not
know if they
belong to
a philosophy
or
to a butterfly
*
Wiping away
dust
washing away
mud
from the ten
boots
of my family
waiting for snow
time goes
winter goes
*
Swarms of daws
are flying
home
from the west
black
on the purple background
of the sunset
over the town
depot
over hundreds
of elbowing people
grey in the dusk
who do not know
what to do
with their large
black wings
going home
going to work
*
All in one
one in all
mind in body
body in mind
the strange in the ordinary
the ordinary in the strange
a swarm of bees
in an old chest
in the loft
of an abandoned
farmhouse
*
The white vase
on the white piano
glowing
through the blue
stream of dusk
that carries
me with
myself
with this house
this room
this you
I am ready
to go
to flow
it is good
like remembering
that I
have stored the matches
and firewood
for winter
*
Little by little
our dirty river
flows itself clean
little by little
perhaps we too
manage
to take each other
by hand
back to the endless
purity of
this world
understanding
we have never
really left it
*
Little by little
a poem fades
I dreamt
a poem about
a beautiful girl
on white sand
on the far side
of flashing water
it was written
and read
by someone else
and the longing
to flow like sand
over her legs
belonged to someone else
yours
was only
that dream you could not
be rid of
*
An understanding
of someone
coming nearer
from far off
everywhere
you are
only simply HERE
a pine tree in sea-wind
grey beard of lichen
swinging together
with the twig
*
I am both
spider and fly
snared in my own
web who sometime
in the evening
thinks
how to reel
into a single ball
all these endless
sticky soul-threads
to throw them
into the blue fire
that sometimes
rises
from the bottom
of my mind
between sleep
and waking
*
Dana paramita
from this
red fragrant strawberry
I brought you
in the evening dusk
coming home after mowing
there remained only
a gentle red glow
we see
we remember
between sleep
and waking
between
two dreams
*
Dana paramita: (Sanskrit) the perfection of charity.
There is nothing
between us
but oblivion
something coming into mind
in your eyes
in your helpless
little hands
I have never existed
never at all
*
To wake
in the dead of night
from sleep
from myself
as I am
as I was
before I was born
no light no darkness
only astonishment
that I am here
and inability
to tell
how it all
really is
before and beyond
the sword-blow
of the great oblivion
that gave you
this time
and space
and name
*
from
THE WANDERING BORDER
(1987)
translated by
JAAN KAPLINSKI
with SAM HAMILL
and RIINA TAMM
The East-West border is always wandering,
sometimes eastward, sometimes west,
and we do not know exactly where it is just now:
in Gaugamela, in the Urals, or maybe in ourselves,
&nbs
p; so that one ear, one eye, one nostril, one hand, one foot,
one lung and one testicle or one ovary
is on the one, another on the other side. Only the heart,
only the heart is always on one side:
if we are looking northward, in the West;
if we are looking southward, in the East;
and the mouth doesn’t know on behalf of which or both
it has to speak.
*
The washing never gets done.
The furnace never gets heated.
Books never get read.
Life is never completed.
Life is like a ball which one must continually
catch and hit so that it won’t fall.
When the fence is repaired at one end,
it collapses at the other. The roof leaks,
the kitchen door won’t close, there are cracks in the foundation,
the torn knees of children’s pants…
One can’t keep everything in mind. The wonder is
that beside all this one can notice
the spring which is so full of everything
continuing in all directions – into evening clouds,
into the redwing’s song and into every
drop of dew on every blade of grass in the meadow,
as far as the eye can see, into the dusk.
*
We started home, my son and I.
Twilight already. The young moon
Selected Poems Page 3
