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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)

MERJA VIROLAINEN (b. 1962) has published four collections of poems, Hellyyttäsi taitat gardenian (Because of Your Tenderness You Break a Gardenia, 1990), Tervapeili (Tar Mirror, 1995), Pilvet peittävät sisäänsä pilvet (Clouds Encompass Clouds, 2000) and Olen tyttö, ihanaa! (I'm a Girl, Wonderful!, 2004). She has also written a book about shamanism and witchcraft and a play called Täyttymyskomedia (Fulfilment Comedy, 1993). Virolainen has also worked as translator, translating Keats, Shelley, Dickinson and Indian modern poetry among others.
THE ROUGH FRICTION OF OPPOSITES
 

I am the last poem
before the skill of writing ceases to exist;
one wipes one's behind with texts' beginnings,
returns to commentary
... (about poetry) ...
Few of my maker's colleagues
don't deserve an idiot's name.
Do you, my poet, have the honour to be
Rabelais, Diderot - or Kallas, perhaps?
Who cares; it's the names I forget first.
I am the last poem
before books become collectors' items,
speech made of labels,
you, my poet, will have
funny moments with me!
This is how cunning we are towards each other.
So, do pour wine for us both!
What? The cheapest kind!
I don't suppose you respect poetry much.
And into such a small glass! So few drops!
They needlessly suspect even my maker to be a drunk
although it's me who empties the glasses.
You didn't really imagine
that I would so easily open up?

Well, let life now gape at
us warm with your eyes.
Let wine make our lives
fall for us;
perfection is a poem's core,
and you can't achieve it except by living.
Some fool became famous with the thought:
the world is in being a world.
Good, I'll go on: the meaning of life is
to live it up! There's time for everything.
Empty the glass, my poet!
And then more! Don't shove, we will fit
on the same line, the both of us.

I was born from the hand of one
to whom love was the price of poetry.
Do you know her loneliness
when evening darkness has fallen,
it rains outside and she talks to her love
through us?
I am the last poem
before the skill of writing ceases to exist,
moment of the heaviest emptiness.
Some thought ill of me and my likes
when we weren't niggardly,
verses as natural
as though they didn't exist.


Still

Bottles clink, glasses break

What´s the use of prolonging,...

You put out my heart, like a cig...

Bear Park

That pimply-faced Narcissus

Friend, against my will

This parting of ours, how many...

Quietly sighing like sand

I close my eyes and open again

Oh back, shimmery parchment

This time next year

No, he didn't grow yet

Afterwards everyone leaves

Say, my sagacity, goodbye

I am the last poem

There are no neon lights in Hels...

1.

By speaking from close by

Nothing has been

When a curlew cries

Mother's scent is powder

Grandma, your tissue-paper face...

Autumnal night pauses as I pause


 
From Tervapeili (Tar Mirror), 1995. 
Translated by Seija Paddon.