Nine Lives
So far nine lives only, and
all mine, like my head in my hands.
My first was curled up at the foot of a fir tree
in the autumn forest just at day-dawn
in nighttime's raindrops.
The resin's still in my fingernails.
My second was the scent of split wood by the shed,
and the circular-saw blade's horrific disc.
The gruel, track shoes too large, and President Kekkonen,
ink spreading across my notebook, and
the clank of the railway under my dreams.
Mayday's red flags, the neighbour's daughter
naked, and dead pigeons lying on the gravel.
My third life was the discovery of anger, blind rage
turning and turning me in its leather bag,
wearing the edges of my day down. Sitting at our schooldesks
being forced towards a goal that can't be named.
Seeing how they start drinking, drinking
into their eyes that black impotent rebellion.
I'm on the point of drowning, someone's traversing
the Atlantic in a reed boat. And if I did die,
it wouldn't matter who sneered. The stars in the sky
are watching us in horror.
My fourth life is when, quite clearly, I hear
the birds don't care. And I begin to fly.
My first 'you' comes, fondles
my tonsillitis, reveals me, and we let
the eternal sand flow through our fingers. My mother's plastic.
In the fifth life she's already dead. I'm driving a car
along the forests and I decide I'll
never start a factory. I decide to die like a cobbler.
When I can get my sons to make up a male voice choir.
When I'm a name, a lifetime and, if possible, a colour.
When I'm everything twelve times over.
My sixth life: and my goods have slipped into the sea,
I sit with my hands on my head.
In the firtree top a gypsy thrush
clutches Wednesday upright in its claws.
I start to grasp unclear speech, I decide
to concentrate on vanishing
and leaving a trail. I spray farmed foxes
to spoil their fur and make you
stop this school for the deaf and dumb.
I begin to write what's not said.
I study how to say No
so that Yes may exist.
In my seventh I meet
my fifth wife who's the first.
Neither of us can get ahead, we keep moving
on the spot. Did my mother birth me to kick
others? I write much faster now
less than before. This is the same.
You're the same as you were before you were born.
The plastic card's singing the same old tune.
Suddenly my eight and ninth lives
have got used to me, they shine a bright light
right in my eyes. I've so often read
the waters are poisonous, I can't
go to the shore any more. But now's the time
not to believe it. Today they won't cut
the electricity, your child benefit, or your throat.
You retain your throat, your electricity, your child benefit.
You can speak your mother tongue, Fatherland is sheer talk.
I write that A National Landscape is the name of a painting.
I write that the Defence Forces are ready for Attack.
I write that there's not enough God of their own for Everyone.
I write that in the Winter you can think about summer,
and when summer comes, before it comes
the snows melt off the bridge
and that a man can love a woman
without waving his arms about.
-Ilpo Tiihonen.
all mine, like my head in my hands.
My first was curled up at the foot of a fir tree
in the autumn forest just at day-dawn
in nighttime's raindrops.
The resin's still in my fingernails.
My second was the scent of split wood by the shed,
and the circular-saw blade's horrific disc.
The gruel, track shoes too large, and President Kekkonen,
ink spreading across my notebook, and
the clank of the railway under my dreams.
Mayday's red flags, the neighbour's daughter
naked, and dead pigeons lying on the gravel.
My third life was the discovery of anger, blind rage
turning and turning me in its leather bag,
wearing the edges of my day down. Sitting at our schooldesks
being forced towards a goal that can't be named.
Seeing how they start drinking, drinking
into their eyes that black impotent rebellion.
I'm on the point of drowning, someone's traversing
the Atlantic in a reed boat. And if I did die,
it wouldn't matter who sneered. The stars in the sky
are watching us in horror.
My fourth life is when, quite clearly, I hear
the birds don't care. And I begin to fly.
My first 'you' comes, fondles
my tonsillitis, reveals me, and we let
the eternal sand flow through our fingers. My mother's plastic.
In the fifth life she's already dead. I'm driving a car
along the forests and I decide I'll
never start a factory. I decide to die like a cobbler.
When I can get my sons to make up a male voice choir.
When I'm a name, a lifetime and, if possible, a colour.
When I'm everything twelve times over.
My sixth life: and my goods have slipped into the sea,
I sit with my hands on my head.
In the firtree top a gypsy thrush
clutches Wednesday upright in its claws.
I start to grasp unclear speech, I decide
to concentrate on vanishing
and leaving a trail. I spray farmed foxes
to spoil their fur and make you
stop this school for the deaf and dumb.
I begin to write what's not said.
I study how to say No
so that Yes may exist.
In my seventh I meet
my fifth wife who's the first.
Neither of us can get ahead, we keep moving
on the spot. Did my mother birth me to kick
others? I write much faster now
less than before. This is the same.
You're the same as you were before you were born.
The plastic card's singing the same old tune.
Suddenly my eight and ninth lives
have got used to me, they shine a bright light
right in my eyes. I've so often read
the waters are poisonous, I can't
go to the shore any more. But now's the time
not to believe it. Today they won't cut
the electricity, your child benefit, or your throat.
You retain your throat, your electricity, your child benefit.
You can speak your mother tongue, Fatherland is sheer talk.
I write that A National Landscape is the name of a painting.
I write that the Defence Forces are ready for Attack.
I write that there's not enough God of their own for Everyone.
I write that in the Winter you can think about summer,
and when summer comes, before it comes
the snows melt off the bridge
and that a man can love a woman
without waving his arms about.
-Ilpo Tiihonen.