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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
 

On my birthday I rose early.
I stood at the helm and watched

the sunrise. It was beautiful
out on the sea. The sky blue and pink, haze,

ice in different patterns and formations.
Somebody said that I walked

through the leaves on the streets, smiling,
I could not deny that.

I was about to tell a story of misery
but it was filling with hope. Seven birds

flew into the room and I saw the child being annunciated.
I was offered several endings

like falling from a balcony,
being gangraped or driving into a rock-face.

But like a sloth crawls lazily through
Peru’s jungle from branch to branch

I carefully described one beginning after the other.
When my shame had courage to come through

I took it by the hand
and held it like you hold the hand

of one whose hand needs
holding. It was getting dark outside

and the lanterns were lit, it was time
for the party. I sat besieged in the saloon

but was lifted up by new, ephemeral and mild guests,
touched by those who were neither invited nor expected.

They said their names and a gangway lowered deeply
step by step to the shore, over the water


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 Bill and Kalla Buchholz and Henrika Ringbom.