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JUHANI AHVENJÄRVI

CLAES ANDERSSON

EVA-STINA BYGGMÄSTAR

TOMAS MIKAEL BÄCK

AGNETA ENCKELL

MARTIN ENCKELL

TUA FORSSTRÖM

PENTTI HOLAPPA

JOUNI INKALA

RIINA KATAJAVUORI

JYRKI KIISKINEN

TOMI KONTIO

JUKKA KOSKELAINEN

LEEVI LEHTO

HEIDI LIEHU

RAKEL LIEHU

LAURI OTONKOSKI

MARKKU PAASONEN

ANNUKKA PEURA

MIRKKA REKOLA

HENRIKA RINGBOM

PENTTI SAARITSA

HELENA SINERVO

EIRA STENBERG

ANNI SUMARI

ILPO TIIHONEN

SIRKKA TURKKA

MERJA VIROLAINEN

KJELL WESTÖ (ANDERS HED)

HENRIKA RINGBOM (b. 1962) is a Finland-Swedish poet, who also writes prose and essays. She has published four collections of poems, the latest of which Den vita vinthunden (The White Greyhound, 2001), and a novel. In her work unite keenness to images and exact, mucial language.
EVERYTHING, AS IT IS
 

Soles of feet on warm stone    between the backs of stones
empty shells and mussels   On the sand further up 
on the beach shells in bladderwrack
reddish brown flaming crackling
at the foot of the birch

Shells in light turquoise plastic mug
In the water  larger shells with thick walls 
                                               glow on the bottom

Greenish yellow water darkens
dully    stalks trailing towards the surface
slowly softly   arms legs
press down
towards the deep
                       the hand
beside the shell around the shell                      pushes up 
        towards the light

Small shell on palm of hand shone large and white in the deep

Shells on flat rock
dry in the sun    grooves brittle 
to fingertips   frame
heather tufted vetch bluebell bedstraw

Gently raised muzzles of cupolas in
towards the centre of the picture
Grooves rounded towards the edge    in the corners
light brown fragile spiral-twisted
the forlorn homes of snails


The sky cloudy, grey

Soles of feet on warm stone

Excuse me, I have to get off

On my birthday I rose early

No one chooses not to be lead...

The first day when I walk around...

In the middle of the night

At about ten it was wonderfully

How dangerous the sky is to the eye

Oh to be a mouth

What all does the mouth not go...

In the great emptiness

To exist in every moment

Imagine that the road is

In the room concealed

What one says is

At the bottom of every eye

Like a jolt through


 
From Den vita vinthunden (The White Greyhound), 2001. 
Translated by David McDuff.