Untitled
–Pentti Saarikoski
Life was given to man for him to consider
in which position he wants to be dead,
grey skies float by, star-meadows hang
and the earth comes into your mouth like bread
Original
Elämä on ihmiselle annettu, jotta hän tarkoin harkitsisi,
missä asennossa tahtoo olla kuollut,
harmaita taivaita kulkee yli, tähtitarhoja riippuu
ja maa tulee suuhun kuin leipä.
Untitled
–Pentti SaarikoskiI love you
like a strange country
the big rocks and a bridge
like a lonely evening that smells of books
I walk toward you in the world
below the atmosphere
from the space between two lights
my thought which is carved and out of you
minä rakastan sinua
niinkuin vierasta maata
kallioita ja siltaa
niinkuin yksinäistä iltaa joka tuoksuu kirjoilta
minä kävelen sinua kohti maailmassa
ilmakehien alla
kahden valon välistä
minun ajatukseni joka on veistetty ja sinua
The Worlds
–Pentti Saarikoski
the worlds rose
out of the abyss
moved through me broke
i sat on a blue stool
thus wasn’t walking yet moved
farther and farther
approached a
comprehension of words until
i turned
no longer cared for them
and now i’m heavy with boredom games
no longer interest me
children are mean in all yards
words meaningless in all yards
where should i take
my fear disgust my petrified words
where should i warm my hands
over what fire tell me
where do the songs go
no one sings
any more?
The cyclical nature of perception and improbable rehabilitation of historical figures (take a look at the youth of Russia venerating and admiring Stalin) makes me take a look at this poem by Finn Pentti Saarikoski. He writes ironically: “Marx’s mistake is Lenin/as Stalin is Lenin’s mistake/but Stalin didn’t make mistakes.” Today, it is just as likely that a young person with no tangible connection to history would read this and think, “Yes, of course. Stalin was a great leader.” (By the way, read Svetlana Alexievich‘s Secondhand Time: An Oral History of the Fall of the Soviet Union for more insight.)
from The Dance Floor on the Mountain
–Pentti Saarikoski
XXIV Winter solstice
And the bees cling to each other
in the hive center
where Jesus is born a honey-scented childThe sun is setting
a scarlet winterball like a fatbellied man
our neighbor, the carpenter
will be rolling into bedOn the first day of year
I place two white porcelain jugs spout to spout
after thinking all night long
about Marx’s mistakeMarx’s mistake is Lenin
as Stalin is Lenin’s mistake
but Stalin didn’t make mistakes.I construct a snowman
a sad fascist in the yard
so some image of this winter will remain
our neighbor the carpenter
bends his knee and takes a snapA heavy snowfall
should mean a rich harvestI’ll build
a cold church for the fascist
a warm one for JesusWhen with summer’s first ill-natured wind
the guests gone
we come down the mountain
with no protection but each other’s limbs
where shall we put our hope?XXVI On St Stephen’s Day
I sit in their kitchen
drink some beer and listen to language
that’s their affair, their memories
and I scare: I say something
but it clatters
from mouth to floor like a horseshoe.