coming
going
by
itself
names
always
a trouble
but somewhere and with something you must begin
always stumbling
at words
at me
at names
at the nameless
in reality there is no MUST
there is
nothing you must begin or end
no must
no need to
exist
no needs before
you exist
need something
o
little flames
in empty space
little islands in the empty ocean
air
water
clouds
song
have more understanding
than I have
be more
than I am
words
have more understanding
than you have
be open
stay open
earth air
islands
spaces
here is the beginning
here
it has begun
here
and everywhere
a beginning
an end
begun
together
a beginning
an end
in roots
as well as leaves
in stamina
as well as pistils
leaves
treetops
in reality everything is falling we all are falling that is the same as turning around coming and going being and not being and because of that the most stupid questions are where from for what a purpose why for whose sake
in reality I have never wanted to speak to write poems about anything other than free fall freedom but if I want to look out there is something a snowstorm or a huge white bird taking flight I cannot say where from or where to if I want to look I am small and silly and there is a cold pane between me and the darkness and I cannot even shout into that night of snow and birds into that white birdfeather-darkness the only word that would explain everything be the beginning of everything
I know I am small and silly I am old and tired I was a poet I was I but in reality there was no me there was only this word this dreadful white word I have bent down to see through this evening this everlasting snowstorm to look through myself throught the dark windowpane and dark space through it all through myself and through my non-existence
but there is
no answer
because
there was
no question
the owl flies up
cranes are
flying overhead
I lie
under the alder trees
in tears
sacred
earth
sacred heaven
now
suddenly
forever
a little flame
two eyes
taking wing
from the granary roof
from the ship mast
what what
are you full of
night of
snowstorm
in reality I had to write something else this something else was nearly ready but there was no beginning no beginning and no title
titles are not important but beginning how can something be without a beginning although I do not name it do not call it a poem a cycle of poems an elegy an incantation a spell a piece of shamanism a bullshit modern poem but beginning a beginning is
here
I am now
here
in the
beginning
from beginning
to end
always
in reality tomorrow I should go to Tallinn to the capital to a meeting of the Writers’ Union where they will discuss problems of poetry my wife and mother-in-law ask me if I can stay at home if I can just not go whether there will be worries what people in the Writers’ union will think of me and what they should say if there is a call from the Writers’ Union
in reality everything is much simpler I simply do not exist have not existed for a long time already Jaan Kaplinski or whatever was his name was came drove through the snowy forest stopped to listen to the snowstorm and everything changed into birds and poems he himself too
he
himself
too
let the poems themselves have a meeting let them discuss poets’ problems they know better they make somebody a poet they come if they will as they will when they will there is nothing else we should discuss at a poets’ meeting but the poems will never tell you that
a word comes throu
gh the windy ni
ght and cuts yo
u in two
in reality stupidity is as strange as wisdom but I am rarely able to understand it
I would like to understand stupidity
I would like to be absent from writers’ meetings
if I would like anything at all I
would like
to listen
to hear
to come
through
the
forest
to bow
into the
darkness
and
take
two handfuls of
white
snow
but
I stumble
on myself
as on wet stones
in the Ahja river
of my childhood
but this is
even more
than
the Ahja
I wanted to write something that would be the same as what the shaman sings when the soul somebody’s soul is gone is astray and the shaman must go and look for it somewhere in another world and bring it back maybe it is possible to call the soul back with a song with a poem too
in reality I can perhaps say that this dreadful white word behind the windowpane is the soul resting there in the snowstorm head covered by the soft white wings of its own non-existence
eyes closed
dreaming of
something
but perhaps you are dreaming yourself and your soul a soul is longing to see you and to wake you from the other side of that darkness
a soul
a big
water
coming
from the
beginning
pure
simple
big
confidence
that the voice
has reached it
come back
through
the life
that wasn’t
really
a life
up to the very
end of
oblivion
everything is different but we can ask where from where to and why we are just coming going and falling through daytimes and nighttimes and shadows are falling on us and through us
shadows of fire
shadows of water
shadows of rain
shadows of eclipses
shadows of makeshift animals
on a whitewashed
hospital
wall
shadow theatre
theatre
of
eclipses
I do not know whether they understand it I don’t but I feel this shadow that is more than just a shadow darkness the cold polished pane of darkness and I am small and silly and always miss the direction although I am not so stupid as to say it must be downward or downhill not to speak of life and death
simply
the dog whines
behind the door
the old spinning wheel
falls apart
my two boys
; are playing
in the sandbox
with broken
spoons
David Oistrakh
is playing
in a sand…
with a broken violin
but me
for me
how long yet
all this
this voice
that
came back
remaining
as snow
as ice
in reality poetry is not poetry at all even less is it literature something defined obligatory something that has to be just this way and not another
in reality there is much more much more than sorrow and joy this getting lighter getting darker in the forest and in the apple orchard your playground and that of your children something just here that remains unknown to you throughout your life
and this bird this bird which I am listening to how can we summon it through this icy cold darkness
although I know it’s not really like that
but I just like being a shadow a flame in this big dark wind
how can we
forget
again and again
these other
landscapes
and rivers
from
who knows where
going
who knows where
although
I have
been there
although
although
I have
met
known them
although
I don’t know
whether it means
above
on
in
out
what has
meaning
is only
to reconcile yourself
with these landscapes
people
if you can
find
any
are there
any borders
between
oneself
and something
somebody
else
am I standing
in a sluice-gate
in a furnace-mouth
am I
burning
or flowing
flame
fire-
fall
water-
fall
roaring
all
around
burnt birds
under
another heaven
singing
the same
unfinished
song
drowned fish
laughing
over the
bones
of fishermen
what a joy
that
quenches
love
and hate
in a
furnace mouth
in a
sluice-gate
high up
deep down
everything
burnt
flown
forgotten
hills
like stones
pebbles
or sand
tumbled
drifted
into valleys
clover
growing
on tracks
one single
time-cricket
sawing
on both sides
of the
threshold of
hearing
beyond
the window
snow melting
into
strange
round
drops
you were
away
so long
you were
so long
coming back
what a
corner
of the house
what a
fireplace
a pebble
underfoot
does still
recognise
you
amidst this
echoeless
listlessness
if you
yourself
are a part
a particle
of this
listlessness
you
a part
of
it
them
us
all
a voice
is
always
on the
other side
here
deep down
but it
does not
speak
does not
answer
who hasn’t
called the
ladybird
by
its name
or an owl
from the night
a flame
from the fire
called home
your
self
your
soul
jaan
little jaan
johnny
come home souls come home
come home souls
but
nobody
speaks
answers
ladybird has
flown
away
time
flown
away
reached
its end
everything
burnt
flown
forgotten
they believed that the ladybird knew the way from one world to another so it could show the way home to one who was lost they believed that the souls of the dead visited the living
in poetry it would be so easy to say that I believe it too but I can’t do that because the relationship betwen ladybirds and people between living and dead is much more complicated after all unfortunately this relationship seems not to exist any more we are separated from everybody else free from everybody else from ladybirds other worlds from the dead and living from the soul from our own soul
and it is of little help if I write a poem or something heaven knows what with the title the soul returning if I even put a bowl with gruel in the sauna loft I still have a sauna and the sauna has a loft and it’s me who goes out in the darkness and summons the souls calls them back home
but the Estonian people banished their souls banished them and let pastors and priests exorcise them cut down the sacred trees and broke the stones with fire in order to get a strip of land to cultivate what else could he do the poor boor who hoped that now finally he could buy freedom that he could buy himself free with money with hard work with business with cheating with writing with singing with making music with staging plays…
but freedom one can buy and sell has a price its price is a signature and something more something tiny a soul a little soul that lived in a linden tree or a juniper or behind the old oven and ate a bit of everything fresh be it meat milk or new grain it was this same soul that was the price of freedom svoboda freiheit and of course of gratitude prayers songs and songfestivals
Let us praise our Emperor
let us honour Alexander
who has pitied us poor people
who has had Mercy upon the miserable
heard the wailing of the wretched
seen the tears of the dispossessed
but to your souls to your soul you Estonian people said go away from here go to a place where the foot of man never will step and the soul answered o how could I who have lived in this tree for two thousand years have thought that I would have to leave it
when the soul asked you where must I go you said go to the Ghost Island the soul answered there are so many of us there already that there is no place even for a needle to stand but nevertheless you banished it
boor and dandy dandy and boor
what is the difference who remained who has left what is the difference between God and matter heaven and hell modern and postmodern lower middle and upper middle Apolla and Dionysus pentecostal and episcopal conservative and liberal where is the soul nothing has a soul nobody has a soul
everything is soullless everything without a soul bread and circuses theatre and movies literature and art ideas and problems worries and victories spirit and power
in reality everything is so full of emptiness that I cannot understand how something can exist and last at all how can we live this life that is no life at all is nothing at all how can everything be as if nothing else existed as if this emptiness did not exist in us nor the strange little dot caught in this world-bubble where everything except us is so new still unborn still to be born where
everything
reaches
outside
itself
everything
is
always
ready
to die
to be
reborn
this voice
this word
this
sprouting
spore
of a fern
welcome
welcome
kaplinski
welcome
spores
seeds
water-
drops on
pistils
welcome
body
welcome
mind
me and
you
welcome
light
welcome
winter
welcome
everything
forgotten
unforgettable
today
tomorrow
always
angry thoughts angry words rising to the surface bubbles on black marsh water must I say welcome to you too comers and goers decaying body in decaying bed to the truth that the soul is astray and you cannot find sleep that everyone goes turns around without a soul breathing air where there is no soul or spirit left falling little by little swifter and swifter from their sauna loft sauna bench their house their car with their sauna with their car with their self through this town through this country through these streets and avenues angry comers angry goers angry streets full of angry people and angry cars rising to the surface rising or falling into an empty wind through clean dark marsh water
Selected Poems Page 11