This one is about silence.
No, there’s never silence.
Just listen: ok, no wings lapping, no wind
scratching the surface, no aspen rustling.
Still, everything isn’t still.
You hear a nervous crackle,
a muffled blast of a motorcycle behind
the thick deciduous forest.
Is it just noise
in your inner cave, call it the soul, call it a tent
that gathers echoes from the ancestors
who put up fires on this rock
and saw an ominous sail approaching
from the open sea?
This is the shoreline
where the Vikings disembarked. They must have
ripped away part of your soul when they left:
a piece of decrepit canvas floating,
a ragged tire on the waterline.
And yes, the silence prevails,
just for a second, the real thing:
as if the ground were part of space
that emanates circles, an enormous
dark soul with a new, lower pitch.
First I leap over a ditch,
across the damp ground,
step into the coarse mist
the landscapes here are similes,
the dim row of lights behind the fen
similes of an inner surge
that I´m trying to fathom: you see inside
when you look outside, stare at the radio masts,
crooked pines and satellites
and a hare leaps behind
a tussock, but
who is the other and the third
who runs beside me
with dashing paws?
I run across a dry moor
straight into a thicket, I
off the twigs on my face, I run
to a cottage in the shade of the Yggdrasill,
unusually tall spruce
I make the coffee, I cut the bread, I saw the boards,
I want to see the fireplace blaze into a long deep
feel a firebrand in the soul, in the nerve, in the muscle,
in the heart, those words are similes around here
and I hope that that´s enough about me,
because now I am going to speak of something else
Ode to the horizon
Of course it escapes, when so much
is hurled towards it, a whole blizzard,
even more: iron nails and tie knots,
even they are desires and a most burning longing.
Maybe you won´t believe,
but once I found it
under the tarpaulin, when a muddy rain
made me to seek shelter.
It smoldered and sparked, scorched the fingertips,
it fled with a hissing sound like a snake,
with a rainbow and a blood scratch in the skin.
But without it I cannot advance two steps,
cannot get over the ditch to the open ground,
because it pulls, trails, whistles,
lights up the torches,
it tugs and puckers.
It is a magnet. A refuge. A retreat.
No, it is a foam, and ebb and flow, a sluice,
it filters the minerals and metals
that circle in the organs and perform
You do know how it attracts,
like a ravine, the vertigo of a dash,
the roar of the rapids: how its suction
just grows and grows. It is what doesn´t exist,
a thing we stare with sore eyes,
the blind spot, the rasp when the film breaks,
pulls the strings behind the scenery,
it assigns us to the role of genius and jester,,
pours a bucket
of water to the neck,
and finally tears apart the curtains in front of the
the night of the soul.
Ode to an office
I pulled open several doors,
I ran from desk to desk,
signs and instructions,
walked from corridor to corridor
– something like that I remember you telling me
felt thirst quenching my throat,
found a water machine but it was empty,
I stopped by a window to look
at a cityscape waxed by the sun or a fire serpent,
at a highway along which hundreds of thousands of cars
were heading somewhere from where
they could head back or onward,
the grass patches looked unnaturally green
behind the darkened glass,
I pushed forward, asked for advice
and received mountains of advice
which led me to more counters,
doors and more potted cactuses.
I filled a couple of forms and left them
in the indicated service points,
considered enclosing a couple of banknotes
but didn´t know whom to address them to and when,
nobody gave me advice about that,
– I think that´s what you were telling us
when we were looking at stars years ago,
there was a blackout, and the candle burned out,
your voice kept on echoing in the walls
of the ten-store buildings, you poured
the last drop of pastis into your glass,
swallowed it coarsely before clearing off,
I remember that
they didn't give you a visa, at the airport
they wanted an unreasonable amount of money,
you played the fool, just kept repeating
now I don´t understand a thing,
and finally you were off without paying anything
neither in the office nor at the airport,
when you arrived, the polar night had fallen,
you saw traces of a motor sled over an endless expanse
and a still contourless creature was creeping out of a cave.
How a poem is born I don´t know
it is like standing on the other shore
seeing the ash falling to the water
when the waves burst and hit all around
Inhalation and exhalation belong to it
it is like having to start from scratch all the time
from scratch of the times or from the end of thread
from inside the ball from the prehistory at the
with a streetcar screeching in the ears when
you finally try to get an hour´s rest
no rules no guru no guiding principle
only a heap of straws the murmur of the shell
a choir of voices in the ears it is
a crossing of the paths and a ground trampled
with strange traces: combs cellophanes
cracker crumbs cracks crows caws and
perhaps a cellar though be careful now
it isn´t a pig that eats everything rather a sheepdog
that skillfully keeps its herd together and sometimes
runs wild in the highlands when the wind blows from northwest
but note I didn´t say stones they´re something I don´t understand
I just wonder about the boulders that the ice age left behind
grooves and fossiles constantly changing species
that creep over the built
It is a game of cards without numbers a pile of jokers
that sometimes are valid and then again aren´t
many times I have longed for a measure
for a meter a metal a certitude of the mangle
but I end up crawling in the marsh and moor
milk and malt will be poured to my mold
and there´s only you and me and the garden
the coin of the moon in the wetland growth
I run in a circle there turn stones around
and I see the same faces the same moneychangers
who now speed in their Porches across the desert
heading to the gold coast where the night rays hypnotize
the neural pathways there the poem is born
like Zenon´s arrow
towards the sum of
a knight dashing by, pointing the lance
to those distant stars and a spirit walking on the water.
You get off in a village.
fall leaves rustle,
the river glistens,
a lone car raises dust.
If you could stop
you´d do it this way.
And you do stop the time,
and it happens like this.
The whole landscapes moves,
and time moves with it.
Your steps echo in the rocks,
landscape is broken into
bits of paper,
wood slat, pickets, stills
floating in the air.
The fence gate creaks,
the rusty hinges and nails
spread their color all over.
You cannot escape it,
you turn brown, golden.
Everything has changed,
the next time is already here,
an eagle reaches the zenith,
a train rushes into space,
the soot falls on your shoulder.
Next time you'll travel further.
Maybe behind the scattered hills
there is a rampant light, a spiral,
a wild dance in distant film or foil
to break the spell.
But that´s next time, when
time is rolling again.
16.03 | 07:12
Kaunis kiitos. Runojen on tarkoitus ilmestyä seuraavassa kokoelmassani ensi vuonna.
26.02 | 10:18
Löytävätkö Parnassossa 4/2019 julkaistut runot jostain runokokoelmastasi? Pidän niistä kovasti, varsinkin Illan aavistuksia kosketti sisintäni. Kiitos.
16.06 | 08:43
Hyvä ja tarpeellinen kirjoitus
22.09 | 02:03
Kuka olet Jukka Koskelainen? Sukunimi kiinostaa. Sita samaa sukuako . Mina myos.
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