are they are we more than these thought bubbles welcome then welcome and goodbye drink us roots breathe us leaves blow us away wind blow us into this dance of dust particles that is neither better nor worse with us or without us and let us never want to be something else that something else
I don’t know
why
I am
there
why
I don’t know
I am
there
I don’t
know
what
I know
who
what
I am
whether
if
I am
at all
what
pro-
noun
must I
use
when
nothing
remains
nor
is
a
huge
empty
world
always
opening
into huge
eyes
that do
not see
anything
but light
I have never been able I never could say a word without keeping this in mind however I couldn’t not say these words is it to find some ground under my feet a centre for my world a centre that does not exist that cannot exist why then do we seek it or do we seek something else something hidden under a false name in a false place a fragment of real understanding that would clear away this cataract between us and the emptimess
we see something but it is not light we see because we do not see light everything every one of us is a fragment of something I cannot but call light although I know there is no darkness it cannot reach there is no darkness but seen from our side everything is just fragments of darkness made of shards of light around us separating us from everything else and from ourselves words from meanings and there is no answer to the question why real becomes unreal only words words words deceptive empty words verbs proverbs adverbs nouns pronouns going on around us and if there is something connecting us it is the wind of these wings the words reach somewhere our sight doesn’t reach one can put more things together from words than there is in them or in us the words are the first cutting through this grey cataract words can sometimes take flight and arrive somewhere they call us to follow them but we don’t go we are looking for the opening that is not yet closed and when we see what is below and what is above we are frightened and turn back we cling to everything to a church tower an exclamation mark a spider’s web to stop falling into this reverberating sea of petals into billows suddenly so near and then everyhting goes off and the words some back tired and compliant as a poem or a recollection as notes on a scale or swallows on a wire and only the depth once experienced once seen remains as a humming an outstretched hand on the bottom of our memory as a cry for help to accompany us to the very end
empty stupid dear words who always cover my wounds with your voiceless dappled wings o light light have you spoken to me in my own tiny flakes of words
world
not yet
awake
to
any dream
any sleep
to any
shadowy stripe
of memory
to despair
this is
our only hope
that somebody
something
comes
cuts
the wrong soul
from the
wrong body
takes
apart
the world
knitted together
in the
wrong way
bringing back
the only
true
soul
life is sad endless watching of the fire putting the fire to bed waking fire up from evening to evening morning to morning from generation to generation from an old house into a new house but it is always older than us we are its we are your children’s children old good sad fire burning is dying and sadness the sadness of a flame in the black eyes of the world sadness of life itself because of its beginning and after the end without a beginning and without an end simply as it is in this wonder that shines from outside into all things that shines from inside out of all things is there a time is there a name is there an eye for this sole this most wonderful thing that is
around which
is
still circling
your SELF
bewitched
into
a word
your personality
your
eye
to see
memory
to keep
itself
in memory
like a flock
of butterflies
glow worms
fireworks
through
bonfires
on
midsummer
night
your
night
Jaan
John
suddenly you discover that your world and your self have no centre you have no place which you can stand and call home these souls your own lost soul but what does this HOME mean everything is let loose and awakes into life stones into seagulls sand into sandpipers
and suddenly you see that nothing even yourself is either inside or outside but on the border in the present time in wind that being itself is but a border where the sparks of life thought and words light for an instant like moths which have flown into fire and then ash falls down from the blade of fire always on the side where WAS is written and from the other side come new butterflies new lives new loves and they too catch fire like moths which have flown into lamplight which means they are caught by fire burnt into ash this is beautiful and terrible the only question is who can see it is it a similar spark a speck of spacedust leaving a fiery trace seen on the backdrop of a constellation
and this question grows bigger grows into an eclipse covering the moon covering the stars covering meaning so that finally over your head there is only a huge black eye reflecting this awkward half-articulate question your doubt in the world and in yourself a spider’s thread coming carried by wind from somewhere on the other side which goes through all that you believed is firm and real but has not been for a long long time
this huge black eye of another heaven full of questions full of doubt full of the same endless thirst that no philosophy no literature no art can quench it is the thirst of the world itself of all the cells roots mouths and intestines for fire thirst of life for life this thirst and yet something else something is wrong something is false the centre is not in the centre the circle is not round a cause cannot have an effect Achilles cannot reach the turtle the arrow stands in every instant at a different place and all Cretans are liars they say it themselves as I too
believe no sentences including this one do not believe Jaan Kaplinski himself and his poems he hasn’t believed himself for many years now but he doesn’t know what this really means this him this self and this believing two points and a line but if neither of the points is at a certain place where is the line where am I where is self where is everything where is nothing
you my
forgotten
self
you my
lost
meaning
is the blood
a better
companion
on passage
through
vessels
through
the heart
do you
hear
my
silence
do I
hear
your
voice
something
throbbing
coming
going
white
horse
black
horse
again
and again
new stones
pebbles
under
the wheels
new sparks
in the dark
between
two days
two white
pages
is it snow
that
covers
all the words written
on stones
in
books
birth
death
data
rest in peace
I am
the resurrection
and the life
in my Father’s house
are many
mansions
rest in peace
personal
pro-
noun
on a
granite
plaque
why have I
carried you
with me
always
selfstone
stone
self
fingers
get tired
feet
stumble
on
hummocks
between
hummocks
in marshy
water
or on
those other
stones
mossy
round
stones
with
no
words
no
inscriptions
no
meaning
stones
amidst
foam
flow
flux
murmur
rising
from
your tired
legs
into ears
head
reminder
of rising
blood
pressure
of memory
memorial
stones
that
crushed
you fingers
that once
wanted
to become
young
and happy
become
five
ten
childish
fingers
in
running
water
and wind
memory
what do you
keep
in memory
from
your beginning
what was
before
what
will be
after
you
what remains
to me
only
the knowledge
that some
have to
carry
little Jesus
to the other
shore
some
death
some the
same memory
heavy
growing
stone
some
them-
selves
and there
is no
difference
between
this Jesus
this me
this death
and stone
in the
midst of this
life
only
one death
and whether
you are
you
or me
there
is always
something
bringing
every vision
back
into
the same
memory
and
pain
and whether you are you or me there is always something bringing every vision back into the same memory and pain
earth watches
in the same way
over
every
flying
stone and
bird
life-giver life-taker earth the anchor-stone the gravestone of us all big old lonely stone in the dark emptiness – who are you – I would like to ask something from you I don’t know yet what it should be but soon it will be too late
something
glowing
red
in white
something
living
flame
heart
in us
in snow
everything
that
goes out
is extinguished
expires
cave
a grave candle
has melted
into
snow
the
world is
just ash
a resting
place
for dead
flames
a
glow
a dying
out
in the
middle
deep
below
everything
that
has
ever been
has been
fire
and
we
come
back
as
ash
as stones
as sparks
some
fall
back
meet
again
fall
apart
fall
into
memory
through
memory
where there
is no
difference
between
falling
particles
of dust
ash
or stars
through the
huge
empty
emptiness
a dying
man
in every
child
in every
dying
man
an
unborn
child
in every
thought
another
thought
other fingers
rummaging
through
someone’s
fingerbones
a saw
sawing
itself
in half
mewling
of a
child
traces
of wind
on stone
poems
books
you can
call
your
own
do you
still
come
back
whatever
you have
or haven’t
been
but
despite
you
without
you
me is
something
even worse
time
something
salty
coarse
anchor chain
sinking
through
you
never
reaching
the
ground
and poetry
fingerless
hand
rummaging
through
itself
through
white sea-
sand
songs and
destiny
without
finding
the sword
only
/> soldiers’
fingerbones
our fingerbones
strangers’ ones
without
finding
the sword
only
sword wounds
new ones
old ones
but
still
there is
something
else
something
sharp
glittering
somewhere
on
a reef
through
sand and
water
far
far
from
everything
something
else
a single
piercing
pin
a
dot
without
an i
in this
merciless
confused
continuity
stone
beside
a stone
and
between
them
always
yet
another
stone
where
is there
a place
a slit
for a
knife
for
an
understanding
and
whence
all this
light
whence
language
words
a hole
in
a hole
a dot
without
an i
in the
going
away
into
the blue
far
away
far away
a sword
there
under
many
waters
under
many
seas
a skylark
beam
of light
tiny
shadow
Selected Poems Page 12
