amplified for pain / the first chord is struck
deaf and blind / the zealous crowd cheers
listening to truth / a song, no words to hear

on the street a beggar / weakly on his knees
an insult to our kindness / no charity in the open
passivity condemned / our best invention

a car races past / red lights, a thump and screams
the radio was on / told of bad weather
bad news indeed / eyes intent on future - no more

a man in white preaches / doom is upon us all
they never listen / they've heard the minister speak
whatever faith in power / a preacher is no good at all

the green was calling / nature's offers carved by skillfull hands
why the boy outside / he looked like he was starving
no dreams. no food / no reason he'd be heard

how fluently they speak / the new language of the land
the opressor and the slave / walk almost hand in hand
the tourist wonders / all names are old and strange

and I mind my own business / wash my blood drenched hands
take heed of yourself / close the eyes for a while
to the tune of a lullaby / the world is just and fair

clap your hands / the jester takes his bow
he breaks the lute / makes a string of cords
so elegant and strong / [hangs himself]



// CEC, what? ... Active ingredient: boredom.

You, of flesh and bone and hair of gold that I could almost touch, are but an image, a spirit in transition at the short intersection of my and your life // our life that never is.

The drifting of the I - its realities and realisations, are brightened by a smile;
a ghost or nymph or angel - any flattering insult we might use with people who nonetheless are, who ever are -for now at least, seer- hidden from our curiosities - only revealed at the superficial glimpses of our lovelorn, life-numbed consciousness.

The projection of beauty, perfection and weakness into a face, by which we hide even further the only things we should value in the self perceived in others. But how could we know, the only connection is light travelling from the friendly lips to each others eyes carrying the cultural meanings I would only like to read on the night/sky-hope interface.

And however lost I am in my daydreams, and however I ridicule them at day, I'd still walk all the steps down and through the seven gates of the netherworld, so you might walk free again. But you are no goddess of love and war, no divine prisoner, you are as mortal as my dreams and we are not friends in life.

Still, as far as transitions carry, another (they're all the same?) war god's day has recreated a new beauty of being. Counting once up and once down is more than enough to lift my spirits - they end up in senseless combinations of words - a thing we do not share. Ours is a silent communication, slight movements of the facial muscles and already the carried meaning is so erringly construed in my mind.

But passing things, even though they may last, bring scars and marks and memories. And the longer days, and forever nights are lovely in being, but imagined or remembered only the burden is left. I may be meek and dishonest, but each time my world finds its beauty again coincides with the short seconds it takes for you to pass me and take notice so kindly. And the moments will end, but must that be the crossroads? I do not know, and yet there is no doubt of it.

The roads are long, and company is often lacking, yet at hand. How many perfect seats would we find alone in this night's dusk, noise and smoke. Each corner cafe and new ambient-designed bar would eagerly host our minutes and hours, cups and glasses, of sitting, talking, being.

And then again comes sleep. Saves from thoughts that dwell on the insecurities of the inaction we call life. And brings a reality more strange and illusory than any of my daydreams.

I forgive myself childish hopes in believing that rearranging words may change, how I perceive my self. That something would be different when the words run dry.

The direction of my journey has yet to be decided, and I know I should ask you, where we are going.



\\ Has been a long silence again. Not only on my part... A new experiment. Writing what needs to be written instead of what I should be writing.

mitä hymy kertoo?
mitä sadeyö?

iho viilenee,
pisaroiden taivas
palelen

mutta iloinen
me olemme
olemme tässä pimeässä
valojenkin maailmassa

varjoja, katseet liikkuvat
kaupunki meluineen nielaisee kaiken.
silti; kosketuksia, kohtaamisia
sanat pyörivät
tanssivat lehtien kanssa.
jalkakäytävä on märkä
katu kova ja likainen
silmänne - yön aurinko

kaupunki elämineen huokaisee
meidätkin unohdukseen
mutta nyt olemme ainoa tarina.

Helsinki, 7.10.

//

Verloren

Wenn es etwas gaebe
was dich und mich verbaende
waere es nur
ein Schatten vergangener Illusionen
nicht
die Spuren einer glorreichen Zukunft
nicht
die Sonne die scheint aufs Jetzt

Meren takana

Mikä päivä oli kaunein päivä?
Se yö on synkkä.
Taivaan varjossa mieleni lepää
ja hengitys rauhoittuu.
Vieno kuusenlatvojen tuuli
tuo mieleeni tummemmat yöt.

Pimeässä ei viidakko vaiennut
eikä lumouksen kuume laskenut.
Sinulla oli kaukainen puutarha,
unelmat outojen maiden.
Mutta luulen mä nyt
sen soinnun kuulevani,
ne näyt ja tuoksut
alla valtavan taivaan.
Valon himmetessä mä
muistan sen elämän kiihkon
-kadonneen arvoituksen,
joka tuhannsissa muodoissaan
sisältä raastaa
kun välillä harvoin osaa pysähtyä,
edes pienen pihlajansa juurelle
kaihoisana kuolevaisena,
joka kuulee ja tuntee
vain niin pienen osan
siitä kaikesta jota ei ymmärrä.

Ne kaukaiset saaret, rannat ja kasvot,
joista niin monet ovat mielessäni
enää häilyviä varjoja -katoavat.

\\ Joka kantoi elämän tulta, elää sanojen muistossa ehkä.

August sings in broken verses,
my heart missing a beat
for every shadow
I see through the window.
My head hurts
because all the curtains in white
hide so many mirrors.

My face turns pale
with blood trails
the soul took leaving.
I stare silently at the sun
refusing to drown,
though all the warmth went away.

I stitch close my lips.
A liberation from imprisoning words;
said things that
did not make the difference.

Can you see the water
they spill on the earth?
All the dreams,
that someone once had,
suffocate in the dust
of a lost childhood.

I fell from a tree,
was climbing towards mystery.
Down here they sell maps,
but I can't find
where I was going.
Only strange names
with no meaning
and lines representing
roads I'll never walk.

// There are some many strange faces that I've never seen. Some of mine lack polish.

Κλωθώ

Du bist die Liebe meines Lebens

Doch ich liebe dich nicht mehr

Den Fluch kann dir nur eine nehmen

Es ist schon so lange her.

Parfum

Dein Parfum ist die billigste Droge,
stark genug, mich hochzuziehen.

Heb mich auf, heb mich auf.
Heb mich für später auf -- - - - - - -

05:00

(Viel zu früh, um aufzustehen!)

Dämmerung hält mich im Judogriff
Judo - "Der Sanfte Weg" - von wegen!
(einschläfernd ungleich sanft)

Derdiedas Zeit ist ein strafender Gott
seine Furien: alle Uhren der Welt.
Jeder Blick auf mein Handgelenk
kratzt mir in die müden Augen.

/Mein Geist traut sich heute
nicht vor die Tür//

(Suomen maan karakterisointi)

Joka vuosi poimin
5 mustikkaa vähemmän
mm-mm, mm-mm
näin tässä maassa vanhenetaan

Goodbye 2.0

Sleepless nights make sleepy days
and all you leave me with
is a hollow heart (to be filled
with love and whatnot)
and a head full of melodies
(to be cast out on planet Earth),
which is more than I could give.

Koti?

Aamu on piirretty kiinni kuvaan,
joka pysähtyneestä hetkestä toiseen
haalistuu irti.

Sade on, mutta odottaa
siirtymistä alkavaan päivään.
Uuteen alkuun, joka kaikkien
muiden lailla on oleva palaamatta.

Lintu, jonka laulua et melkein kuule
lähtee lentoon kaartaen,
kaartaen tutun taivaan;
kadoten.

Pihlajamäki, 26.5.
(2002-2007, 2006-2007)

\\ Jostain syystä tulee mieleen Ääni & Vimma 07':n semifinaalit ja bändi nimeltä 'painostava hiljaisuus'. Onko syynä blogi vai runo on jo vaikeaa mietittävää...

Sitting by the window, overheard

A coffee break, a quick round,
sit by, around, a corner table.
Life at pause they ease their breath,
gather to look at what was
and is no more.

The past to see tomorrow;
perhaps to change course
so intently locked for years
on railroad tracks
rolling forward to no change
in life, emotion and death.
But for all its momentum
nothing remains nothing,
and maybe hope to leave
the ride is not misgiven

A small shower left
gleaming spots for
the sun to drown in dust.

One raises his cup to say:
What we have is fear and its comfort,
what we could have
is uncertainty and its joy.
A few words so simple
and all lies in the open.
Tea spilled a symbol
of personal habits.
-Of no consequence
for the real question revealed.

Cowardice and reason
with all their minions
and promises of years to come.
Or the courage and folly
to take up the doomed-to-fail
journey in search of paradise.
That with luck will be
one hell of an adventure.
Is that not life.

Another declares, noon is late enough
to change from coffee to wine
(and says) passions surely wins.
Other daily customs
one sips his beer,
this day no different.

But this claimed;
there is a tension in the air,
the coffee-round of workday routine
may finally pull
the emergency break
and get out and moving
as never before.

A sober one, perhaps not so
in the mind, though I disagree,
takes a glass of water
and takes a small sip:

We may admit we are happy
or just take a step
to learn to walk.
This eternity question
will surely resolve itself in waiting
in the course of years.
Its answer is all too plain.
We intend to see it tomorrow.
But if we cannot act today,
yes maybe we could tomorrow.
One needs blind faith
to believe it will be so.

He throws the glass of water
spills it on the table:

My self will no longer falter,
I draw my line today.
Alone it may be cold
and failure is so sure,
that it will never be.
The first step will change our eyes
to see and not to see.
Our accomplishments are small
and attain no praise,
but the way we try
and how we walk
will give us warmth
that we never apreciated before.

Evening falls, cups lie empty,
someone counts the tip.
And the spectator-by-chance
wonders if tomorrow
a chair,perhaps two
or the bench by the painting
will not be seated.
If somewhere the morning
opens a path
that does not lead or last,
but lives in birdsong
and a hearty laugh.

Viikki,
23.04.2007

// And I'd be the one with the Hoegaarden, who does nothing. But at least this came after some thing.

Postanything

On tuntematon tämä tuuli,
joka kevättä tulossaan seuraa.
Mieleni kaipaisi kauas
vaan ei näe polkua huomiseen.
Puutarhassa odotan tulevaa
on vihreä vielä vain poissa.

Kesä saapuu aikanaan
iloni on viipyvä edellisessä
vielä edelleen. Ja apeus,
jonka aurinko peittää
ei lähde minnekkään.

Ja elämä piilossa herää
kaupungin laidoilla.
Silti harmaus ja melu
ovat näkyvimmät asukkaat
näillä kiitävien hetkien kaduilla.

Minä en vieläkään jaksa
kiirettä, iloa jakaa.
Illoin kirkkaat silmäni
tähyävät taivaan rantaa
ja rauhoittuvan kaupungin valoja.

On välillä niin vieras tämä maa
ja taivas jonka alla asun.
Kaukkaa tulevat unelmat, näyt
eivät helpota tyyneksi oloa.

Kun tuttu ei tunnu tutulta,
eikä kaukainen toive tuo uskoa,
aamukaan ei näytä
parantavan arpeutuneita haavoja.

Tuo huomenna uusi tuuli
ja tarkoitus toiveille,
tuo itsesi esiin elämä;
minulle lauluni uus.

Viikki,
18.4.2007

\\ Suomea taas, vaik' yksinpuheluun pitäisi sortua.

comedies pencil painted
words are shining through

our future awaits
but is our hope-conclusion
deduced in clarity?

'I wait, I sleep and feed
but do I really live?'

for breakfast they serve tragedy
to cheer us up for noon
the ad ever promising
even healthier life!

numbness predates comfort
and marries security
that is why the newspaper
mutely screams:
bloodletting rules outside

you should dance
for the both of us
I fear, I am too meek
but I will try
to strum the strings
to our conspiring tune

hey, wake me up at 2 am
they want me sharp at 8
those are 6 hours of life to spend
worthwhile together dreaming

a song in two parts
one is served to the end
the choir of the unhappy
was made to stay back home
to remind us our sanity needs us
we forget the industry nation

the real market trades
in human anguish
and the misery of everyone else
who accidentaly lives
on this angular momentum

now everyone out!
before the curtain opens

Viikki,
30.03.3003

// Has been a little quiet lately. Not that I mind complaining.

'If I should be a dreamer
where are the songs I make
and the visions I see in mist?'

My path remains empty
until invited are you!
Companions of wistful eyes
and radiant smiles.

So let us join the roadside gallery.
Our map is the road
our goal off it.

Paths unending we need but begin,
but declarations are empty
even with steps drawn in.

So do give me a push
or the motion fades
without having been.

Together towards imaginations makings.


\\ Not a poem by intention and not overly neat, but this is certainly where it belongs, I should say. I just hope its caveat is not too prophetic; that should certainly break my heart and give a too simple answer to the question. So...

The ground under me booties...

...walks up all by itself.

I lower my gaze, (form
a hurt lovers grimace) -
wouldn't want the rain
to come in my eyes again.

I'm not a liar, I don't claim
that I know how to read traffic signs.
Their general meaning - (for all I know) -
is one thing I do understand, though.

They're telling me,
whispering spitefully
"Don't stop moving! -
or it will happen again!"

Lips caught in tremble/
sounds not quite daring
to even stealthily creep
through between them:
"What will happen?
There is much that did this far."

But signs are made to say one thing only.
And - oh! I don't know.

...and shadows kiss?
full of whispers
devoid of words
dreams fled far away
traces through the desert persist
shared memories
but all the corners seem to be closer
and ever more scary -so empty
laugh! almost manage a smile
sleep comes and goes; still tired
Monday through and Wednesday waited
clothes washed, fabric bleached a blank white
hides the grey dust
the self tailored unique
no divergence from the model yesterday
but my shadows kiss
sun rises and night falls
a path, a saving brach, a spider's net
tiny specks, but no peroxide bleach
will touch the worlds conveyed
even as the spot dissolves the outer memory
their images and yours
tonight remain
a mirror glass in shards perhaps
and I numb myself for another day
selling out
I know where the rope hangs
better catch me falling
than let me go on without stumbling

//pointless perhaps but pointing to?

Hyphydrophilie

Wie viele Perlen
zählt der Baum?
Wie lang und sie fallen herunter?

Ha! Könnt ich mein
Schicksal selber wählen
(z.B. für zwei Minuten)
Ich stünd' unterm Baum
am Hang, die Geliebte
im Arm und sie küssend

Dann fielen die Tropfen alle herab
Zerplatzten wie Seifenblasen
Auf meiner Nase, ihrem Haar
und legten es glatt (zur Ruh)
Und alles wäre von uns gespült
Die Wangen entlang
in den Lippenspalt
durch Flächenspannung gebunden
hätt so manche Perle
(glitzernd verirrt)
den Weg in unsren Kuss
gefunden.

Ein Augenblick nur die Schwärmerei
Dann muss aufstehn, was Geist ist
Der Rest sich verkriechen

„Lass grau sein, was Alltag ist“
sagte der Freund. Ich glaube
er meinte es nicht ernst.

Durchnässt waren wir
und schauten zu dritt
voll Sehnsucht durch den Regen
ach - - -

21. - 22.10.2006 & 23.2. 2007