What a time
to be alive,
but are we?
Sometimes I see
only empty vessels,
ordinary shadows
led by this fear
of letting neurons
run free.
Nature cries
in grand dawns
and sunsets:
“Stay with me.”
But no,
we turn away
in the name
of our strange love
for cages,
for the yoke,
while the oxen
watch us
with condescendence.
A bunch of words…
-
Golconde
-
Burning Questions
Why
being able to connect
with your deeper self
feels so sacrilegious
and so forbidden?
Why
when the world outside
screams in fuss and pride,
being home alone,
in candlelight,
staring at your demons
dead in the eyes,
feels so lustful,
so profane,
why?
Why
are we being taught
to deny
what’s inside
just to comply?
I defy.
In the heart of the night,
I choose to acknowledge
the monsters and beasts
that dwell in me.
I am whole.
and we are free. -
Further Encounters With Aurora
From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
I thought the time
had finally come
to meet again:
the right month,
the right place.
But shame on me
for undervaluing
your unpredictability.
You’re a slap in the face,
a rinse of humility.
You appear at your fancy,
wrapped in clouds,
and to frozen photographers
with tripods and all,
you blow raspberries.
Showing up in pictures
but not to naked eyes?
Okay, we get it:
being taken for granted
is not your style.
As per our old habit,
you come when I’m leaving.
Is our situationship toxic
at this point in our story?
I guess we’ll be seeing. -
The Clarity Of Silence
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. -
Souvenirs
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. -
Special Skills
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. -
Another Sea
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. -
Overstaying Guest
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. -
A Change Per Season
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. -
“Get Lost!”
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.”
Cosmic & Uneasy 