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.
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.
Cosmic & Uneasy 