Kallio

Staggering down the filthy streets
individuals of various class:
lass and lad, young and old,
searching for an amusement
from the black stone jungle
its pavements glistening with urine.
Come and experience!
No one will be left out:
Teens drowning on Karhu and Apple Joe’s,
Millenials feasting on underground beats,
For the rest, an all-you-can-eat
buffet of imported Slavic goods.
Coffee shops for the cultivated,
A breadline for the famished!
Watering holes, drift shops,
An occasional knife.
Thai-massages with happy ends!
Booze and shit,
Amphetamine and piss:
the bleak selection of Kallio district.

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Kantele

Another poem. Please forgive me.


Her compact wooden instrument
sitting silently on her lap.
Its body made of curly birch
and the strings of her flaxen braid,
the shiny precious kantele
modern yet endlessly ancient
has yet to sing the bygone past,
to delight the withering woods.
Her milky white fingers toying
gently with the silky fine threads,
the melodic notes rising out
like the swallows celebrating
on the eve of the midnight sun.
She sings her liquid lullaby
hoping her husky harmonies
will one time carry her away
to the meadows of Väinölä,
to the plains of Kalevala,
to a land of myth and saga.