Kuinka sinusta on tullut kämmenenkokoinen.
On osattava luopua
osattava jättää
jos et enää palaa.
Sairaalassa tuoksuvat menneet
uintiretket
tulee ikävä sinua joka olit.
Silja
sunnuntai 29. tammikuuta 2012
maanantai 26. joulukuuta 2011
Maa lepää lumikehdossaan,
mutta sielu ja meri eivät nuku.
Myrskyävät piilossa, jään alla.
Linnut ja sielu ovat nälkäisiä,
routa on syönyt runot ja marjat.
Mutta jouluna!
Verhoamme pimeän valoon ja lauluun,
linnut ja runot
syövät vatsansa täyteen lämmintä puuroa ja
lentävät vierellämme kun
narskuttelemme hangessa
posket punaisina.
keskiviikko 14. joulukuuta 2011
pariisi.
Olen rakastellut ihoasi
kunnes
se halkeilee
Pariisissa on vielä
syksy
keltaiset puut
Seine virtaa kuten
postikorteissa
Otat kädestä
aurinko sokaisee
Unohdan olevani
täällä vain vieras
Onko tämä nyt sitä rakkautta?
Silja
torstai 8. joulukuuta 2011
tiistai 29. marraskuuta 2011
After All This
"After All This"
Richard Jackson
After all this love, after the birds rip like scissors
through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty
bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of
disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns
to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing
inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point
still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm.
The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you.
After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells
a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence
of last night's constellations? or the storm anchored by
its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember
the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern
lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots
spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear
again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can
hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words
ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light?
The words that walk through my mind say only what has
already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting
the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire.
After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain.
Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of
a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war.
He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him.
He can speak the language of early birds outside our window.
Someday he will know this kind of love that changes
the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings.
Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine.
Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars.
I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,
these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,
what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because
these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life
that isn't yours, and no death you couldn't turn into a life.
Richard Jackson
After all this love, after the birds rip like scissors
through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty
bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of
disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns
to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing
inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point
still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm.
The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you.
After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells
a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence
of last night's constellations? or the storm anchored by
its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember
the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern
lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots
spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear
again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can
hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words
ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light?
The words that walk through my mind say only what has
already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting
the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire.
After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain.
Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of
a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war.
He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him.
He can speak the language of early birds outside our window.
Someday he will know this kind of love that changes
the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings.
Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine.
Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars.
I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this,
these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think,
what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because
these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life
that isn't yours, and no death you couldn't turn into a life.
irti
Kun piirsin tämän kuvan, ajattelin irti päästämistä. Sitä, miten helposti jää pyörimään itsensä kanssa vanhoihin ajatuksiin, sotkeutuu niihin. Sotkeutuu ja jää jumiin, kun yrittää toimia oikein, olla oikeanlainen ollakseen hyväksytty. Hukkaa itsensä, menee vääriin suuntiin, tulee sokeaksi, jää jumiin. Tärkeintä ei ole päästä irti, vaan päästää, itse, tahtoa ja päästää irti. Tietää ja päättää itse seuraavat askeleensa. Rakastaa rohkeasti, nähdä ja löytää.
Minna
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