TOMAS MIKAEL BÄCK
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
This parting of ours, how many have there been?
Every time it is equally unusual,
the smokeblue of heart
alone moves blood.
These verses are not lyricism
One step from suicide
to exchange one's life with verse,
a dubious exchange:
I play myself.
How long this time?
The scent of winter in a rose is lovely;
I cannot write without our separations.
I don't long for you,
but without longing
I lose my voice.
That is how in an embrace death and loneliness
gave birth to truth,
but even that fell off a shoulder
so that I would get what exists.
I don't long for your small lights,
you carry them like shields.
How many times did you separate from me?
The Wolf-bride doesn't miss a singer
on her body pierced like a sieve,
light looks through the cavity that is my heart,
Northern Star from behind drooling clouds.
This parting of ours, what number is it? I don't know
the melody of the useless song
in which I get everything
the way I get myself.
Bottles clink, glasses break
What´s the use of prolonging,...
You put out my heart, like a cig...
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...
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