Tracks from My Album

Anni Sumari 

Tracks from my Album 

Translated by David McDuff and Sarka Hantula

Anni Sumari was born in Helsinki, Finland, in 1965, and studied literature and media/communication studies at the University of Helsinki. She is the author of fourteen books of poetry and prose, including Selected Poems (2006), The Years Above the Waters (2003), Train Play (2001), Sinerian (2000), and Measure and Quantity (1998), for which she won the Finnish National Broadcasting Company's Dancing Bear Prize for best poetry book of the year. She also received an artist's grant from the Finnish Ministry of Culture for 2004-2006. She is active in translation and editing, and her works have been translated into 24 languages including English, German, French, Swedish, Danish, Belorussian, Serbian, Macedonian and Italian,  Slovene and Hebrew. She was shortlisted for the Runeberg Prize, and in 2016 was elected Best International Poet of the Year by World Poets Quarterly Magazine (Multilingual) and the editorial department of Chinese Poetry Abroad). She was the first Finn to receive this meritorious award. She is a member of the Board of the Finnish PEN Center. She recently received an artist's grant from the Finnish Ministry of Culture for 2007-2011, and has edited and translated a book called Odin's Steed: The Scandinavian Myths, which has just come out in Finnish. She is the co-editor of The Other Side of Landscape, published by Slope. 

Anni Sumari's poems have been translated into English by David McDuff.

The sky, Swiss air space, December

  

We slide on the tray of noon,

we ski, we slalom on the expanse of the clouds.

On the plane’s wing it says: Do not step

outside this area,

I would never dream of it, I promise you,

anyway it’s cold out there, -65°C.

The snot runs, what joy

to be able to pick an anthrax sample

from one’s nose, I long for you! even

in the deep frost I can’t

concentrate on what is,

be where I am.

We are 

unquestionably at an altitude

of at least 11,880 metres.

That cloud is tall

for its age, the hairs on its crown

touch the angels of heaven. So

at night it’s the starry sky,

one must be thankful for that,

if on top of everything else one wasn’t

thankful, what would happen then?

Europe lies under an eiderdown

weary of those things that come

from the sky, from the blue, the bolts

the ribs of the clouds slamming down

into the divine comedy. 

Be quiet, be quiet, encyclopaedia.

The concepts burn your ears

as you don’t know what is behind them,

gratitude, freedom, love. Innocence

is a white house and an empty bottle,

are you wiser now. From above the rural landscape

is a threadbare suede coat

a moth-eaten stuffed reindeer, what else is

missing from this picture. The shadows of

the trails of jet planes ticking

over it. 

The earth’s face has always been hidden by plants

and encrusted with bivalves. Is it any wonder

that some of them were preserved, perpetuated

in stone or resin, marble, softness.

But is it possible

that even one portion of spaghetti Bolognese

will be preserved in any circumstances?

The mountains grow bearskin,

then turn to cinders,

the romantic beaches grow fossilized,

the messages vanish from the answering machine,

but the most haphazard one of the most tender things

preserves its form, remains, moves minds,

is put on display, receives its value by chance,

a nucleus of meaning. 

The granite flickers.

A human being wants to know

his exact location, approximately

by rule of thumb

the bedrock, and how long

a finger can be held in the candle flame

before it burns –

and if there is stone underneath

is there also stone on top? and what

meteor would fall

on my head, if I lived long enough? and

have I already lived beyond the moment when

I ought to have died?

and will I push my head

through the grey granite

even in the graveyard. 

But here is a surface 

which will not be breached: the horizon.

You can freely choose

an arbitrary point

anywhere on the globe,

and you will notice that all

gazes finally turn there.

Before that, however, they perform

an inconceivably complex

figure-dance at the fourth dimension

of the system of coordinates. 

Through the oval window

I watch us reach our goal.

I am not touched at all.

In the sunlight, seen from above,

the cities are broken mirrors

in which your memories

are distorted in reflection.

You clench your fist

you caress the emptiness.

The dead would do well

to weep for the living

and not the other way round

 translated from Finnish by David McDuff 

Translators' Week

FILI  is hosting a poetry 'translators' week' on its Finnpoems Facebook page, with profiles of translators of Finnish poetry into various languages, including Czech, Russian, German and English. I'm there on July 6. Above: some Finnish poets.
Also in this blog: Poetry in Translation

Poetry in Translation

Poetry in Translation is an enterprising venture organized by FILI and aimed at crowdfunding translations of Finnish and Finland-Swedish poetry into 9 languages by 50 translators. The poets include:

Saima Harmaja
Mirkka Rekola
Arto Melleri
Sirkka Turkka
Susinukke Kosola
Tuomas Timonen
Jukka Viikilä
Jukka Itkonen
Anja Erämaja
Henriikka Tavi
Kirsi Kunnas
Sanna Karlström
Sinikka Vuola
Olli-Pekka Tennilä
Bo Carpelan

night night

by Anni Sumari

night night what do you know of the night

the quays are its fingernails

under which black ice

cracks and breaks

night night what do you know of the night the quays are its fingernails under which black ice cracks and breaks

you know nothing of the night’s bright face

because it turns its black coat shrouded back on you

at regular intervals, at regular intervals

now and then it casts its honest gaze at you over its shoulder

and when you say that it’s the moon then it’s the moon

black panther whose long-haired velvet

you can feel in your fingers at a distance of 380,000 kilometres

black long-haired panther whose sweat makes the stars sparkle

whose fur suffocates you, who winds itself around your neck

black panther winds itself around the white swan

night makes the pyramids wail with frustration

night makes the skyscrapers wail with their first love

the night spreads out like a uniting statue made of black canvas 

connecting the Statue of Liberty and the Great Wall of China

the night crawls in the tunnels of your guts coughing ash

the night bruises your temples from within with its knees

the nocturne of the spheres whispers in your ears

your stomach is the night’s bagpipes

your slow breastbone is the night’s movement

in your bloodstream the stars flow

in a nocturnal seizure night and heart will meet in secret and you will die

like Juliet, like Romeo unable to spell one sonnet in the Book of the Dead

as you feared ever since it was written and illustrated for you

with the pictures and names of the creatures and constellations

the pictures and names of the night

at night the stars burn

more holes in the black velvet coverlet

you know it, the quays are your fingernails

the morning full of scars – the Kama Sutra

teaches how to make them

you really know nothing of the night’s bright face because it carries you

into the sheath inside out, at regular intervals, regular intervals

and your eyes remain inside and you see your own darkness

a night substitute

instead of the night,

and where is the bungler who first had the idea

of calling it evil

yö yö mitä tiedätte yöstä

laiturit ovat sen kynsiä

joiden alla musta jää

ritisee ja murtuu

yö yö mitä tiedätte yöstä laiturit ovat sen kynsiä joiden alla musta jää ritisee ja murtuu

ette tiedä mitään yön valoisista kasvoista

koska se kääntää teille mustaan takkiin verhotun selkänsä

säännöllisin väliajoin, säännöllisin väliajoin

toisinaan sentään luo teihin vilpittömän katseen olkansa yli

ja silloin sanotte että se on kuu silloin se on kuu

musta panttteri jonka pitkäkarvaisen sametin

voi tuntea sormissaan 380 000 kilometrin etäisyyden halki

musta pitkäkarvainen pantteri jonka hiki helmeilee tähtiä

jonka karvaan tukehdutte, joka kietoutuu kaulanne ympäri

musta pantteri kietoutuu valkoisen joutsenen ympäri

yö saa pyramidit ulvomaan turhautuneina

yö saa pilvenpiirtäjät ulvomaan ensirakkauttaan

yö levittyy mustasta pressusta tehtynä

yhdistävänä patsaana Vapaudenpatsaan, Kiinan muurin yli

yö konttaa sisälmyksiesi tunneleissa yskien tuhkaa

yö kolhii polvilla ohimoitasi sisältäpäin

sfäärien yösoitto suhisee korvissasi

vatsasi on yön säkkipilli

hidas rintalastasi on yön liike

verenkierrossasi virtaavat tähdet

yöllisessä sydänkohtauksessa kohtaavat yö ja sydän ja sinä kuolet

kuin Julia, kuin Romeo pystymättä tavaamaan sonettiakaan Kuolleiden kirjasta

kuten olet pelännyt siitä asti kun se kirjoitettiin ja kuvitettiin sinulle

eläinten ja tähtikuvioiden kuvin ja nimin

yön kuvat ja nimet

yöllä tähdet polttelevat

lisää reikiä mustaan samettipeittoon

sen tiedätte, laiturit ovat kynsiänne

aamu arpia täynnä – niiden

tekemisen Kamasutrakin opettaa

sittenkään ette tiedä mitään yön valoisista kasvoista koska se kääntää teidät

nurin, tuppeen, säänöllisin väliajoin, säännöllisin väliajoin

ja silmänne jäävät sisäpuolelle ja näette oman pimeytenne

yön sijasta yön

korvikkeen, 

kuka poropeukalo keksi

nimittää sitä pahuudeksi  

translated from Finnish by David McDuff (with thanks to FILI)

An African Hand

by Anni Sumari

An African hand
has carefully shaped this wooden sculpture
almost 70 cm long, with two heads
and one body
two identical girl's heads, the eyes
closed now because,
because they can't see with them any more,
death has abducted the two-headed
goddess in its black armpit
goddess who never learned
to walk
but could speak, with her two mouths
words that were listened to closely
and also repeated to the next generation
the two heads spoke in turn
and one stopped to listen
when the other spoke, their conversations
would have been all the more interesting
and weighty and important
as soon as they realised they were
a goddess we would call
Siamese
Siamese twins although Siam
is in Siam and far away
they predicted
the past and the future
like the dreams of aborigines
but they had been born
in the deep armpit of Africa
unable to continue their lives
as gods
as gods
born for death
unsuited for life
even though they were so well equipped
far better than ordinary people
with two boat-shaped mouths
four boat-shaped eyes,
two noses, baobabs growing upside down,
two sets of eyebrows like two horizons
in the east and in the west
two rose-coloured brains
like the sea's surface touched by sun
going up and down
two coconut skulls
four labyrinthine ears
two clavicles connecting
rivers of two throats
two shoulders
two hands
that wouldn’t
greet one another
one heart
one belly
one womb
two feet

that wouldn't 

tread on the other's toes


Afrikkalainen käsi
on tarkasti muotoillut tämän puuveistoksen,
melkein 70 cm pitkän, kaksipäisen
yksiruumiisen
kaksi identtistä tytönpäätä, silmät
jo suljettuina sillä,
sillä he eivät enää näe niillä
kuolema on kaapannut kaksipäisen
jumalattaren mustaan kainaloonsa
jumalattaren joka ei koskaan oppinut 
kävelemään
mutta osasi puhua, kahdella suullaan
joitain sanoja joita kuunneltiin tarkasti
ja toistettiin jälkipolvillekin
kaksi päätä puhui vuorotellen
ja toinen vaikeni kuuntelemaan
kun toinen puhui, heidän keskustelunsa
olisivat käyneet yhä kiinnostavammiksi 
ja merkittävämmiksi ja vakavammiksi
kun he olisivat 
ymmärtäneet olevansa jumalatar,
jota me nimittäisimme
siiamilaiseksi
siiamilaisiksi kaksosiksi vaikka siam
on siamissa ja kaukana
he ennustivat
mennyttä ja tulevaa
kuin aboriginaalien unet 
mutta he olivat syntyneet 
Afrikan syvässä kainalossa 
pystymättä jatkamaan elämää
niin kuin jumalat 
niin kuin jumalat
syntyneinä kuolemaan
kykenemättöminä elämään
vaikka olivat niin hyvin varustettuja
paljon paremmin kuin tavalliset ihmiset
kaksi suuta, veneenmuotoista
 neljä silmää, veneenmuotoista
kahden nenän ylösalaisin kasvavat baobabit
kahdet kulmakarvat kuin kaksi horisonttia
idässä ja lännessä
kahdet ruusuiset aivot
kuin aurinko koskettaessaan meren pintaa 
ylös tullessaan ja alas mennessään
kaksi kookospähkinäkalloa
neljä labyrinttikorvaa 
kahden kurkun virrat
yhtyvät solisluut 
kaksi olkapäätä
kaksi kättä 
jotka eivät
tervehtisi toisiaan
yksi sydän
yksi vatsa
yksi kohtu 
kaksi jalkaa
jotka eivät
astuisi toinen toisensa varpaille

translated from Finnish by David McDuff

Enchained

ENCHAINED

He, a man enchained, who once long ago was free,
casts his gaze, full of suffering, in my direction.
On the rocky path he approaches me,
in the dark mist of a dream my soul detects him.

Whips have eaten streaks of blood into his back,
against his slumped head there’s a pillory.
The sweat on his sticky brow, his mouth a painful crack,
and gaze grown rigid now cause me anxiety.

You, maimed one, do I know you? You, noble and brave?
Who has whipped you, most sensitive of creatures?
Who marked your forehead with the brand of slave?
Your home turf, is it stocks and mockery and scourges?

 Fate has punished you, its naughty child.
 Like diapers, torture corrected your ennui.
whipped you with remorse, disappointment wild,
for kicks are not  much use against the goad..

You faced hunger – is it satisfied now, say?
Your bread is a stone, mocking laughter and curse.
In the pain of thirst you begged: ‘Water, pray!”
a salty tear ran down, made the thirst worse.

Caught by moments of the freezing autumn night,
grasping your hand, you, sufferer, I see.
Deep pity and understanding I observe, a light
in your eye – yes, I know you: you are me.

    KAHLITTU

    Hän, kahlittu mies, eräs muinoin vapaa,  

    luo puoleeni katseensa kärsimystäyden.  

    Hänet kolkkoa louhikkopolkua käyden   

    unen usvassa tummassa sieluni tapaa.    

    Veriviiruja ruoskat on syöneet selkään,

    pää hervonnut vasten on kaakinpuuta.   

    Hientahmaista otsaa, tuskaista suuta    

    ja katsetta kangistunutta pelkään.

    Sinut, runnellun, tunnenko? Sinäkö, ylväs?

    Ken on ruoskinut sinua, herkistä herkin?

    Kuka löi sinun otsaasi orjan merkin? 

    Kotikontusi, onko se kaakinpylväs? 

    Sua kohtalo kuritti, kehnoa lastaan.

    Elonikävän korvensi kidutus vaipoin,

    katumuksin raateli, pettymysraipoin.

    Näet turha on potkia tutkainta vastaan.

    Nälän nääntävän sait -- joko sammui se, sano?

    Kivi kannikkas on, ivanauru ja pilkka.

    Janon tuskassa rukoilit: "Vettä suo tilkka!" --

    pisar suolainen vuos, sitä tuimempi jano.

    Syysyön sydänhetkinä hyydyttävinä

    sinut, kärsijä, nään, sua tarttuen käteen.

    Syvän säälin ja ymmärtämyksen säteen

    saan silmästäs -- tunnenhan sun: olet minä.

translated from Finnish by David McDuff

Innocent

by Kaarlo Sarkia

I

You are fragrant soil expiring

in the spring sun’s brilliant hue.

A bud that opens, aspiring

to evening, night wind, and dew.

A blossoming tree by the lake-shore,

lily on the film of the lake.

A wave ave carrying the spindrift

glittering waters make.

Your steps are the swaying of corn ears..

Your laughter is skylarks in spring.

The petals of the white lily

can be seen in your eyes’ opening.

II

Your cool skin, your resilient hair,

who feels them with hands and lips?

Who encloses your supple limbs there,

your shy body roughly grips?

That smile, which trembles in sunlight,

who turns it to laughing surprise?

Who is lighting a fire, strange and fervid,

in the innocence of your eyes?

    VIATON

    I

    Olet tuoksuva multa, mi raukee

    kevätauringon kirkkauteen.

    Olet silmu, mi iltaan aukee,

    yön tuuleen, kasteeseen.

    Olet kukkiva puu liki rantaa.

    Olet lumme kalvolla veen.

    Olet laine, mi vaahtoa kantaa

    yli selkien kimmelteen.

    Ovat askeles keinunta viljan.

    Kevätkiuruina naurus soi.

    Terälehdet valkean liljan

    sinun silmistäs nähdä voi.

    II

    Ihos viileän, hiukses kimmoisat

    käsin, huulin ken tuntea saakaan?

    Ken on sulkeva jäsenes notkeat,

    ujon vartalos syliinsä raakaan?

    Hymyn tuon, joka päivässä väräjää,

    ken on vaihtava nauruun uuteen?

    Tulen oudon ja kuuman ken sytyttää

    sinun silmies viattomuuteen?

 translated from Finnish by David McDuff

Encounter

by Kaarlo Sarkia

The street’s whirl and rush have faded. Space,
a deep, singing brightness has overwhelmed me.
From the stone’s breast, beauty of roses grows apace.
I have left my affliction somewhere far behind me.

Something immortal touched earth in its fall.
The singing of space has captivated my senses.
Who was it? What did I long for? I forgot it all.
Past me down the street your foot now dances.


KOHTAAMINEN

Kadun humu ja kiire on haihtunut. Avaruus,
syvä, laulava kirkkaus läikähti ylitseni.
Kiven rinnasta versoo ruusujen ihanuus.
Olen jonnekin kauaksi jättänyt kurjuuteni.

Jokin kuolematon lie hipaissut multaa maan.
Avaruuksien laulu on vallannut aistimeni.
Kuka lien? Mitä kaipasin? Unohdin kokonaan.
Sinun jalkas on tanssinut kadulla ohitseni.

translated from Finnish by David McDuff

Kaarlo Sarkia

I've been looking again at my Kaarlo Sarkia translations. They are not very many as yet, but I want to do some more, as Sarkia's poems demand to be read and heard beyond their native Finnish. There is a certain sense of connection when translating them, as Sarkia was himself a translator of verse -- particularly French and Italian poetry -- and here and there in his poems there are echoes of sources like Leconte de Lisle, Baudelaire and D'Annunzio. These echoes sometimes make the task of translation a little easier, though the spare yet sensuous forms of the poems - this is authentic 1930s Finnish design - are hard to render in English.

The Bridge of Sleep

by Saima Harmaja

Long is the days’ journey

to evening’s dim domain.

Lonely the blissful moment

exhausted by the pain:

I slumber in blue evening,

a bridge spans in between,

taking me from time’s chasms

to the land of the unseen.

When darkness wraps the senses

and, warm, the mind succumbs,

beside me they are present,

they breathe, the  heavenly ones.

Gone is the cruelest longing.

From my pain I am freed

he smiles with shining eyes

the one whom I met in my need.

He that went on ahead,

precious, grown cold his brow,

like a pale star of spring

he stays here with me now.

Broken the frame of his body.

Spirit and earth are one.

Into my tear-hot eyes

the brightness trickles down.

Waking in midst of sleep

I see, veiled by dust from above:

it is one, the land that lies there,

the kingdom of longing and love.

Across the bitter limit

on gleaming threads set free,

love goes from the circle of time

to a land that I cannot yet see.

May 3, 1936

UNEN SILTA

Pitkä on päivien retki

illan himmeyteen.

Yksi on autuas hetki

kivusta uupuneen:

nukkua siintoon illan,

uneen, mi kaartua suo

pois ajan kuiluista sillan

näkymätönten luo.

Kun jo on hämärä hellä

kietonut aistimet,

luonani hengähdellä

alkavat taivaiset.

Poissa on kaipaus julmin.

Tuskani irroittain

hymyy hohtavin kulmin

hän, jota nääntyen hain.

Hän, joka edeltä lähti,

kallis ja kylmennyt,

kuin kevätkalpea tähti

luonani viipyy nyt.

Murtunut on kehä ruumiin.

Yhtä on henki ja maa.

Silmiini kyynelkuumiin

kirkkaus uppoaa.

Valvoen keskellä unta

nään, tomuhuntuinen:

yksi on valtakunta

kaipuun ja rakkauden.

Ylitse katkeran rajan

hohtavin langoin käy

rakkaus piiristä ajan

maahan, mi vielä ei näy.

 3.5.1936

translated from Finnish by David McDuff

Aale Tynni

Books from Finland magazine has published a selection of my translations of poems by the Finnish poet Aale Tynni (1913-1997). There is an introductory essay by the scholar and academic Tuula Hökkä.

Don't Be Afraid of Life

by Kaarlo Sarkia

Don’t be afraid of life,
Don’t shut out its beauty.
Invite it to sit by your fire,
or should your hearth expire,
to meet it outside is your duty.
Don’t turn your back on its strife.
Don’t go away to the graveyard to hide
for death’s door will stay opened wide
.
Like a bird you should fly,
not dwelling on past life’s ruins.
Turn your attention to now,
Let what has been take a bow.
Let them lie in the grave, your doings,
then face the future, and try.
Be free as the wind, unfettered, unbroken,
the gate of death is always open.

Do not ever say:
this is mine alone.
Drink from life’s cup
and once again give its pain up.
If you never beg to own,
the world's riches are yours today.
Be bold, stake all on one card:
ahead you will always see death’s gate unbarred.

ÄLÄ ELÄMÄÄ PELKÄÄ

Älä elämää pelkää
älä sen kauneutta kiellä
suo sen tupaasi tulla
tai jos liettä ei sulla,
sitä vastaan käy tiellä,
älä käännä sille selkää.
Älä haudoille elämää lymyyn kulje;
ei kuolema sinulta oveaan sulje.

Kuin lintu lennä
älä viipyen menneen raunioilla
nykyhetkeä häädä
suo jääneen jäädä
suo olleen haudassa olla
tulevaa koe vastaan mennä.
Ole vapaa, kahleeton tuulen tavoin
on kuoleman portti aina avoin.

Älä koskaan sano:
tämä on iäti minun
elon maljasta juovu,
taas siitä kivutta luovu
on maailman rikkaus sinun
kun mitään omakses et ano.
Elä pelotta varassa yhden kortin
näet aina avoinna kuoleman portin.

The One who Fled

by Kaarlo Sarkia

Did I love you?
That I do not know.
In my soul I trembled
when you turned to go.

I know that you left it
with reason to flee.
No way to deny it,
necessity.

From my soul was lifted
the innermost veil.
You could not bear it,
butterfly, you set sail,

fled from the gloomy
enigma in fright:
in front of you opened
a pitch-black night,

deeper than leagues, you saw the dark pit,
 - and then you fled
the cruel sight of it.

Did I love you?
That I do not know -
In my soul I trembled
when you turned to go.

PAENNUT

Rakastinko sinua?

Tiedä en tuota.

Värisin, kun lähdit

sieluni luota.

Tiedän: kun lähdit,

et lähtenyt syyttä.

Kieltää on mahdoton

välttämättömyyttä.

Väistyi sieluni

sisimmäisin verho.

Nähdä et kestänyt,

pakenit, perho,

säikähdit synkkää

arvoitusta:

eteesi aukeni

yö sysimusta,

pimeän kuilun näit, peninkulmaa

syvemmän – pakenit

näkyä julmaa.

Rakastinko sinua?

tiedä en tuota -

värisin, kun lähdit

sieluni luota.

In the Mirror

by Kaarlo Sarkia

Strange and truly wondrous
in the mirror you look at me.
All I really know is
that you I cannot be.

With my eyes you survey me,
with my lips you smile, too,
what I see in the mirror
is not me, but you, just you.

Whoever you are – astral morning,
eternal night – in the frame
like a wraith, a ghostly phantom,
invisible I remain.

KUVASTIMESTA

Kuvastimesta minua vastaan

sinä katselet, ihmeellinen. 

Minä ymmärrän ainoastaan:

Minä en ole siinä, en. 

Sinä katselet silmilläni,

sinä hymyät suullani mun.

En peilistä itseäni

mina nää, näen sun, vain sun. 

Kuka liet – ylimaallinen aamu,

iankaikkinen yö – sinut nään

kuvastimesta, niinkuin haamu

näkymättömäks itse ma jään. 

Chiaroscuro

by Kaarlo Sarkia

I heard the words my dreams spoke with their soul:
Who views his life with hatred, mad is he,
like one who whips and tears at his own flesh.
Life is a soil, from it your dreams break free,
and  beauty grows from under weights of pain,
and when you rise to throw off matter’s reign
your dreams, too, meet their end within that mesh,
and darkness floods in all, devours it whole.

You must  must love your life,
For that is why your father fathered you,
and that is why, through all the shame and strife,
your mother carried you and brought you through,
was grateful to her life because of yours
which she could place outside the open doors.. .

My life, I want to praise and thank you now:
Thank you for bearing me from emptiness,
a member of the beauteous human race,
for giving them to me, these human eyes
that many generations made
for seeing beauty under vaulted skies,
thank you for filling them with dreams that flow
until the number of my days
shall bring you to an end, my life,
and I am harvest for the reaper’s scythe.

Power of life, I want to love you still,
because I wandered long in mazes, made    
to feel despair and fear without a  will,        
because you early took and caused to fade
what was for me the finest of your gifts,
love you because you took my strength to kill
and let it lie in chains that weakness laid,
because your wine could also change and be
the vinegar of pain and death for me,
because when I will long for shadows tall
and give you back your gifts, and dying fall,
then it will turn, my soul, and take from you
another day, another morning, new.

VALOHÄMYÄ

Puhui mulle unieni sielu: 
Mieletön, ken elâmäänsä vihaa,
niinkuin mies, ken ruoskii omaa lihaa,
Elämä on unelmies multa, 
kaunis kasvaa alta tuskan paineen,
ja kun pääset vankilasta aineen,
loppuu myöskin unelmasi sulta,
kaiken ahmaa pimeyden nielu.

Rakastaa sun tulee elämätä, 
sitä varten sinut isäs siitti,
sitä varten sinut äitis kantoi,
vaikka painoi häpeä ja hätä,
sentään elämäänsä siitä kiitti,
että sulle elämän hän antoi. 

Tahdon, elämääni, sua kiittää:
Kiitos, että tyhjästä mun kannoit 
jäseneksi kauniin ihmissuvun, 
että ihmissilmät mulle annoit
valmistuneet monoin sukupolvin 
kauneuteen alla taivaan holvin,
kiitos, että unta niille riittáä,
siksi kunnes alta ilmain kuvun
täyttyessä päivieni luvun 
korjuumiehen viikate mun niittää. 

Rakastaa sua tahdon, mahti elon,
siksi että sokkeloissa harhain
epätoivon tuta sain ja pelon,
että kädestäni riistit varhain 
mikä mielestäni lahjas parhain,
rakastaa siks että mulle voiman
annoit heikkouden kammitsoiman,
että viinissäsi toinen puol’on
etikkata kivun sekä kuolon,
että kuitenkin, kun kaipaan varjoon
kuoleman ja lahjas sulle tarjoon
takaisin, sen jälleen sulta saa mun
sielinu, ain’ annat uuden aamun. 

Saima Harmaja

My translations of poems by Saima Harmaja are online at Books from Finland.

Poem

by Tommi Parkko

In a city built inside a pot there is no dancing,
rise from pitch and molten lead, be a straight-backed saint.
The black steps rustle down to the shore, the ribs of the houses
melt into the river.

Old age is a habit rooted in the body, the icons bear the pure
colours of God. The black and the grey are from man, from bone.
The other colours are from flowers, shield bugs and stones
The sky is perforated by urine, the snow by Tycho Brahe’s toenail.
In a city built inside a pot there is no dancing,
do not talk to me of Mary or of virgins. Your unicorn
is the beluga whale and the relics
are tsarist bonds and Kafka. You must threaten
the relics with fire and spike to have your will.

In the synagogue's attic are the remains of a creature, and pigeons,
the city’s dream beneath the tourist map.
You will soon call the castle home, it is the backbone of everything.

translated from Finnish by David McDuff


[From Pelikaani, Savukeidas, Turku, 2011]

From "Landscape"

by Lassi Nummi (1949)


A line. From the left, slowly rising, forming small curlicues, levelling off, rising again until it folds and falls gently arching into invisibility.
Below the line darkness, restlessly stirring, swelling
Another line, vertical and motionless: a blade of grass.

The brightness is not uniform. There are dark patches in it. A slight gleam, a thin, meagre shimmer covers everything. The clouds. The sky.
The forest’s edge, the forest. The darkness splits, disperses, decreases . . earth, a breath of wind, bending grasses. Approaching, approaching: the vertical line, the grass-blade. The wind reaches it.
It moves.

In front of me is a strange, many-branched object. It rises from the surface thick and black for a while, then branches out. In three parts it continues its journey to the heights, letting a narrow branch diverge to the side now and then; slowly becomes thinner and eventually breaks into thousands of thin black segments; and finally bursts into bright bundles of fresh and delicate round, greenish plates.

Between all this there is labyrinthine room in plenty for the light and semi-twilight. A grey shimmer slowly oozes through the branches and penetrates everywhere; it is reflected faintly from the greenness, revolves around the black tissue, falls quivering along the ever thicker branches, momentarily brightening, gushes simultaneously from three directions onto the large stem; floods, growing dimmer again, slowly down it.

At intervals also a light mist, pressing deep into the labyrinth, turns the greenness soft; soft and deep.

A breath of wind: motionless the deep green cluster awaits its arrival. Unexpectedly it encounters the first one – a trace – now another flickers, a fifth, dozens .. a fluttering passes through everything, decreases slightly, quickens: now the thinnest black tissue joins in, the movement passes downwards, more violently: a sudden shiver arrives startlingly as far as the vicinity of the tri-forked branch.

It becomes quiet. The movement decreases in the middle, continues for a while further out, for a moment longer at the top, grows fainter. It is all over, all the delicate green plates hang motionless, gather into one . . parts disappear. In front of me is a single, heavy green lump from whose centre a black streak runs down to the ground.

A tree, its leaves and trunk.

*

The trees rise up out of emptiness.
Grass grows all around. Groups of trees spring up from it, the land’s surface undulates, rising and falling. Further away the forest’s dark green stripe surrounds the landscape.

I am walking in a foreign land. I walk slowly; the dark green of the trees glides slowly past. The trees stand out in sharp lines from the surface of the grey sky. They are completely motionless. The grass and the earth are motionless. Everywhere there are hard, unmoving surfaces, I cannot see anything else. Trees, land, forest. Sky.

It is strange to walk like this, in the emptiness, in the midst of surfaces. One cannot know what is concealed behind them. I stop. In front of me is a group of trees . . an uneven dark green wall that is supported by cold, black struts. I want to see behind it, I go round it, but on every side it is the same.

Everything is flat, I cannot see anything behind. I cannot see anything inside. The sharp outlines intersect painfully, the flat, grey plate covers everything, it is oppressively low. In the midst of emptiness . . one cannot touch anything. I close my eyes, I walk.


A smooth, green surface is in front of me, the grass. On it there is a grey gleam, nothing breaks its membrane.

Movement.

Something moves . . a blade of grass, I bend down to see it better. Next to it I see another blade, a third and yet another. I get down on my knees to see them better.

The grassy area is not flat. The ground is not flat. Next to the grassy area there are blades of grass and also leaves and various small plants and stones and soil and some flower, ants run about in between, and other small creatures, a leaf.

A leaf.

It must have fallen from a tree.

I lift my gaze; in front of me is a green wall, a tree. From it one leaf stands out, another, dozens . . it does not move and yet it seems to be pushing them in every direction, it is not a wall, from it all kinds of small objects protrude on every side, and in between, on the inside only an empty space remains . . I see inside it! I see behind it.

Nothing moves and yet everything is in quiet motion, on every side all kinds of small objects protrude, grass, forest, sky, everything quivers. I try to see all the grass-blades . . there are too many of them and more and more of them and ants are running about between them. And one cannot see all the tree’s leaves, there are painfully too many of them, and behind the tree there are other blades of grass and other ants are running about between them, and they cannot be seen either, and in the new tree there are too many leaves and behind it more grass . . . trees and grasslands so many that one cannot see or count them, in between soil and moss in countless quantities . . and somewhere at last a road where the sun shines, the sand-grains glitter and they are in front and behind, side by side and one on top of one another more and more, and no one can count their number.

For a while I do not raise my head; I have covered my face with my hands.

Maisema (1949)

translated from Finnish by David McDuff