From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
Lappi,
Lappi,
inexplicable,
endearing,
alluring,
merciless,
stripping down sounds,
colours,
scents,
leaving so much space
to listen to myself.
Why do you take away
from my ordinary life
so much sense?
All my desires echo
in this vast emptiness.
I want your pale face
always with me,
in my mind,
Lappi,
Lappi,
as a reminder
that what matters
is not the rat race,
so meaningless,
but what is inside,
true,
pristine.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
This is my last day
here in Lapland.
It also happens
to be my birthday
and Sami National Day.
My present will be
breathing as much
as I possibly can.
I’ll stock my lungs
with this clean air.
I want to imprint
this unspoiled scent
on my nostrils
and on my brain,
an olfactory memory
to hold dear
when I am back
choking on PM10,
down in the city
where I live.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
Here is so vast,
so empty,
so different.
People here
have special skills.
They endure the cold,
do not fear the snow.
I, countryside girl,
instead cannot.
Snowy tracks
are not my thing,
I walk simple routes,
so afraid
I would get lost.
Did I intrude
into a world
not meant for me?
Do time and money
atone
for not belonging?
Am I a joke?
Me,
here,
today:
privileged.
This is not a playground
for folks like me.
This is ancient,
wild and sacred.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
This sea is strange.
It is not blue,
it is all white,
it is mermaid‑free.
Its fish are weird,
they have no fin
but long sleek skis.
There is no seaweed,
just trees floating
in wide clusters,
with white balls on
soft and cottony,
like candy floss,
huge lollipops.
This sea has waves too.
They are more like dunes
with diamond powder
glistening
under the moon.
Is it stardust,
fragments of dreams?
It is what I wish,
what is precious to me.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
Wrapped in silence,
I walk toward
the sinking sun
in front of me,
and all around
the world turns rosy.
A car passes by,
filling my nostrils
with something syrupy,
almond‑like,
artificially heavy,
while everything is light.
It does not belong
to this picture,
it’s so unwelcome,
yet it lingers
for a moment
too long,
before the scent
of puffy snow
takes back its place
right where Inari
and Sodankylä
shake their hands.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
White above,
white below,
and a belt of trees.
A perfectly ironed sheet.
Every now and then
a skier here,
makes a ruffle there
on this soft draping,
doomed to melt
in a few months.
Earth here gets bored
of wearing the same clothes
all year around
and requests a change
for every season.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
Everything is coated,
frosted.
Trees,
lampposts,
cables,
even the road signs.
Is this some hidden
“get lost!” message
nature is sending us?
“Get lost.
To hell with your tours,
your aurora hunting,
your damned buses.
This is mine,
still and silent,
unlike you all,
now if you please,
get lost.”
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
Here I am,
at the edge of the continent,
at the room window,
looking at wilderness
getting a touch-up
of fresh powder
to keep the look
of “welcome to Lapland”
postcard appearance.
Then, after this small
dump of snowfall,
the sky cracked open
into a blue hue,
and the distant trees
emerged from the background,
peaceful and pure,
untouched
by destroyers.
Here gentle hands heal,
take care
of these last icy
fortresses
of loneliness.
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
I thought I was flying
somewhere remote
but stepping off the bus
I realised I was wrong.
People skiing,
people hiking,
people,
people,
people
racing around
frantically,
like a swarm of ants
shaping their anthill
with a strict deadline
and short on money.
Capable folks
knowing where to go
while I,
stunned by the fuss,
couldn’t even picture
where my building was.
I expected “peaceful”
and got “hectic”.
Oh well.
As temperatures fall
my spirit lifts,
the sun is hidden
and the air turns crisp.
Now that snow refuses
to visit us,
winter stands stripped
of all frills and pomp.
Still beauty lingers,
stark and raw,
soft and slow,
a simple charm.
This season sings
in a low voice,
its song is blissful
melancholy.
Cosmic & Uneasy 