Something is happening to me. The mind, mine, is obedient to the seasons and I’m suddenly very Finnish. Autumn comes like ice to a pond. Last night it was 40 degrees in Syracuse. I slept deeply.
By day I’ve been reading the poems of Risto Rasa and translating a few. I like the stoic and quirky wisdom of Finland’s poets–this and the economy of Scandinavian poetry. Here are bits:
**
you touch my hair
saying: Great Crested Grebe
among reeds
a floating nest
**
You sew
I study your statistical method
Your formula sheet is a map of stars
I use
the seahorse’s coordinate system
**
The gardener cherishes a black flower–
sad napkin: it is a Lepidopterist’s poem
**
Night,
day’s
print.
**
brightest reality:
a walking song
before the vast migration
brings back memories
**
in the open attic
a pregnant woman
hangs laundry
a vision of
this woman
as a child again
I do not take a single step
ahead of her
**
In the first shadows of autumn these poems feel like refugee graffiti–quick sketches of the heart.
Planet of the Blind 