This is the bittersweet illness
of which I wish not be healed:
a fever of sighs and sleepless nights,
a frenzy of a heart falling apart.

This torment of mine
to be kept close or afar?
Those hazel eyes
still keeping me awake at night.

What for, may I ask?
What ought to be achieved?
I have no God to replace my Laura,
no policy dearer than my Stella.

Does it take shit to make bliss?
Should I suffer for my art?
Why love, of all things?
The most mocking, least dignified?

A limbo of agony and desire,
Yet what I most dread
is for the flames to die out
and the burn to be forgotten.



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.


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.

The Hunting Season

Black mad talons
digging into the flesh of my prey.
Dig them deep as they bleed,
Dig them deep as they try to flee!

Shiny scruffy feathers
bestrewn over our autumn bed.
Pluck their eyes as they beg,
Pluck their hearts into a bloody wreck!

Smell of earth and rot,
a body pulsing with shock,
in woods desolate, ill-lit
his sweat mixed with my spit.
His nails biting into my soil,
choking on his turmoil
fighting the embraces of his captor
with sighs bordering on rapture.

Gymnopedie no. 1

So this is a poem. I wrote it a year ago. Feel free to leave commentary. I don’t (want to) take offence.

The coarse sand
tickling the soles
of the infant’s feet.
Acres of pebbles
in their various greys
and hues of red,
a carpet of stone.
Smashed up driftwood,
scattered like legos
on the nursery floor.
Clouds speeding past
on the cerulean sky
like the figurines on a mobile
hanging over a baby’s crib.
The sound of the wind
barely drowned by the cries
of black-backed gulls
and the rhythmic waves
beating against the shore.

The wind under her kite,
the wind in her hair,
her mother is but uncertain:
who is playing here with whom?