Poetry #too.

Wow!

The Rocket Launcher and Her Son

Farewell, my son,
for you've grown old.
It's time for you to break the mold;
to see the world with your own eyes,
to scorch the earth and glide the skies.
Farewell, my son,
it's time to go.
Feel no sorrow, feel no woe.

What's that I hear
above the skies?
Is that you who moans and cries?
What's the matter, my dear son?
Aren't you flying, having fun?
What's that I see?
A flash of light -
then darkness, the eternal night.

Where are you now?
Why can't I see?
Why can't I hear you calling me?
If only I could just once more
feel your warm metallic core.
I miss you, son,
oh please come home.
I'm so empty, so alone.

Philéas wrote: Someone ought to compile Vompatti's poetry and release it as a book. I'd buy it.

And I'd gladly take money for it. The weird thing is, whenver I try to write poems in Finnish, nothing comes out.

The Fable of the Man and the Worm

The other day I was walking along the forest road when suddenly my eyes met those of a little worm. "Halt!" yelled the worm, "for I have a song for you." She opened her little mouth and sang her song in a mighty soprano voice. It went like this:

I know not you stranger, but do not be scared,
we're both the same once completely bared.
You are a trav'ler, a trav'ler am I,
alike we do live, alike we shall die.

Now that you've laid your feet on this trail,
so very old yet so very frail,
watch where you step, don't trample your friend,
for she is the one you'll yearn in the end.

When it's your time to rot and decay
turn into ground and wither away,
I am the one who comes to release
your soul from your corpse, deliver your peace.

Now that you're here, why don't you lay down,
embrace the earth and lay down your crown.
Soon it's your time and while waiting the bell
beneath your body I'd most gladly dwell.

With a seductive look on her face the worm pulled me down to the ground, so close I could hear the footsteps of nearby men resonating from its surface. I tried shouting for help, but regardless of several anxious attempts I couldn't get my mouth open. Noticing my desperation the worm tried to calm me down with another song:

So it is, you've met your fate
and laying on my gravel plate
you twitch and pant in hopelessness
as if you were now something less
than what you were while standing up
closer to the Heavens' top.

But think about it, can't you see,
what's ground to you is roof to me
and when you've laid down on the ground
it's not just dirt that you have found
but Heavens of the world below,
its luminous yet earthly glow.

I was both comforted and baffled by this strange song. Was I, a powerless human being who had just become mute and tied to the ground by the worm's mysterious spell, laying on the top of an earthly Heaven? Miraculous sensations were running through my practically immobile body, and my mind became filled with such revelations that I could hardly keep myself together. Suddenly my mouth opened and words started flowing out of it:

The world is a garden enclosed by words
and Heaven its outmost fence,
but the world of men and the world of worms
are seen through a different lens.

When I look down at the dirt and the sand
what I see is the bottom of the world,
but when you, the worm, rise to this land
it's as if into Heavens you were hurled.

If the earth I see is the Heaven of worms,
it's truly an honour for me
to come to you now from the Heavens above,
lay down and be devoured by thee.

I was laying on the ground, peacefully, when I felt a peculiar lightness and unexpectedly regained my ability to move. I stood up, and the worm began to speak:

Now that you know your place and mine
- and it's not yet time for me to dine -
you may leave, but keep in mind
the little worm you left behind,
the humble creature in her depth,
the trusty servant in your death.
Keep in mind what we have spoken,
go in peace, the path is open.

We said our farewells and I went on my way. As I tread along the quiet forest road I gazed at the ground and I gazed at the sky, the two Heavens now revealed to my eye.

I too would buy a book Vompatti's poetry!

So, why not, I'll put something of mine here...

 

 

 
How I fear these structured machines,
Hanging, dripping down the wall,
Rows: only seven squares of chances,
Dates of independence, celebration,
Moons on their axis of rotation,
And linear strokes to tell me when to sleep.
Although we all dream of jumping the lines,
Playing hopscotch with the time,
Let us name that priceless space;
Like children, with cute rhyming titles,

All will end in ‘day’.
But as there is always a tomorrow, there is always a favourite, late, 5^th in the week:
The socialist, lie-back-and-drink kind of man
Who outshines the cycle's redundancy…again.
Did he pass by so soon?

 

It was a gift from your right-brained friend:
The current: now the prequel.
He will graduate in the sequel,
With his defining diploma,
But all his books are misread, mis-lived.

 

I can pin-point here when you turned forty-two
(Another numerical nuisance,
Let’s just say it was your pink birthday)
Chart upon chart the doctor revised
Holding hands with the clock ‘til you die.
In the other hand, clenched: a sheet that can tell
The amount of cells;
Shrinking, shriveling…
Alas, a conclusion: you’re growing no more.
So it’s time you became a farmer,
Harvesting your age,
Cropping the crops so that they fit on the page.
A tricky business to sell live books, it is.
The tuck shop has it much easier selling bait
Because no one is willing to fish for space.
Those landlords have the life,
Or do they have the math?
They’re counting their chickens, fingers, feelings…
Thinking little symbols are felt, grasped, hatched.
Was it not the number folk who told me?
Their own bodies are water-based.
This is why I swim in a mixture of paint.
Side-stroke through the month of blue…
Yes, I will design your calendars,
But the useless numbers will be up to you.
Signed Monday, February 12^th, 2008,
Day, month, year, time, date.

An Irrational Wish to Become an Amnesiac Serial Killer Leading to an Expected Lack of Revelation

Fingers on the bathroom floor
attached to a body
not mine -
I never wake up like this.
Walking in the fog
I always expect
the same.
Only when I forget what was
can I almost see exceptions
but they are no exceptions
once they have happened.
An unidentified shape,
an area not yet an object -
hopeless.
A point of view without assumptions,
a pair of eyes without goggles,
a subject without self -
I never wake up like this.

Horizontal Dances?

Lively dances
danced on the front lawn
illuminate us
but if I saw the sun in movement
alone from above
I'd be bored.
Can YOU see the dance?
You CAN?
For someone who watches movies horizontally
you've got a pretty straight mind!
Those who never get up
dance their lives on the lawn
to ones like you.
I'm not sure if it's supposed to feel right
but I look up to you when I feel down,
when you've left.
Horizontal dances turn up vertical,
so don't turn them down.
The right impression will be left
when you're down.

Shakespeare wrote: My friend refers to sex as "the horizontal dance".

So do I. Or do I?

Umm, a silly quiestion, but is this serious or for laughs? If the former, I might contribute.

Digging Out Some Pieces of Food ad Infinitum

What remains between the teeth,
what the tongue cannot reach,
must be fought with nails.
With trembling hands
and fracturing mind
I reach for the target.
No success.
I've such short nails
and the night is very cold.