In the light of the screen
you and I will be seen
when the last of the stars
will have nodded to sleep
when the highway of cars
will have woken to keep
Australia rolling, Australia fed.
In the light of the screen
we are earning our bread
and our butter and our caffeine.
As someone once wrote,
(and here I must quote):
He who works not for salary
still works not for free.


A Rose

A white rose, a green leaf, a red wall.
A sun so bright no sight at all.
We’ll call a rose another name,
If falls a petal, this rose, a rose
is not to blame.


Translation in Progress

[This is a translation in progress. I’m having trouble finding right expressions for some of the words and getting the right feeling down. Thus, the alternative translations in brackets.]


Poetry is wending the way, [journeying, travelling]
counting the unending [endless] steps,
sitting down at the root of a tree,
lighting a cigarette,
watching the scenery, [landscape]
raising a wine bottle to
your lips, falling asleep,
sleeping unconsciously, [an unconscious sleep]
waking up, shivering
from cold, emptying your bladder,
pissing on flowers,
washing your face.
And poetry is taking [catching] a breath
before setting off, [taking off]
tying the strings of your bag,
packing up stories:
an empty moment wind
makes its nest into.

Tammikuun helle / January heat

Portaat johtavat takapihalle.
Aika on pysähtynyt
valokuvaksi helteestä.
Mikään ei liiku.
Ihmisten, autojen, hyönteisten
äänet kuin vaimeaa kaikua,
johon korva ei jaksa tarttua.
Me laskeudumme uneen,
lapsuuden lämpimiin kesiin.
Kaikki on vielä tallessa.

The stairs lead onto the backyard.
Time has stopped
into a photograph of the heat.
Nothing moves.
The sounds of people,
cars, insects; like a faint echo
that the ears do not have strength
to seize onto.
We descend into a dream,
the warm summers of childhood.
It is all there yet.



Cigarette smoke the gray clouds
	spreading in the lungs 
of space, the living stars,
	the far-off drops of joy, 
the hair of palm trees, 
     and on the planet’s 
surface, en route 
  from one country 
    to another, in the air, 
in the stratosphere
    of the sky the wind 
       of thought, it dances 
in the brushes of the courtyard, 
shakes the limp sheet 
         on the line,
as a man awakens 
     to life, some future 
you can’t quite 
     put your finger on,
  it hides in the darkness, 
        in the night,
 and he stared into the stars 
      of the black space,
the sleep changed 
      into serious words,
far away the dogs, 
    beyond sleep, wake,
wise sentences, the sentinel 
    of the unknown,
Ulysses’ old mongrel, 
   I will never return home, 
I am condemned on the road, 
     a jew, my eyes like stars 
  shining, I have murdered
	the albatross, I cannot 
    come back again, I am 
         flying, I am gliding
 and the time slows down, 
     the joy of the stars
penetrates the thick 
         mass of clouds,
     it starts to rain, the sound 
          of raindrops
 on wooden window 
      sill, the night nearly
worn through, the first 
of the house woken 
      up unperceived,
I am still sitting 
      on the wooden bench
in the backyard, 
     listening to a toilet 
    hushing, a shower 
       being turned on,
 the whole planet 
    on the threshold of day,
the wet sheet on the line, 
   an actor’s cape, 
        this play is over, 
    the encores called,
  the life starting.

Markus Jääskeläinen

The Seed of Life

For life to continue.

One must leave, stay,
become new, old,
fall, stand,
lie on the ground like a rotten treetrunk
out of which
a green shoot
again and again will grow.

The seed of life
in a dead body.

The breath rustles
in the branches of the lungs.
I have arrived,
I will continue the journey.

In the beginning

Markus Jääskeläinen:
In the beginning
From Testamentti (Testament), Otava, 1998.
(Translated by Herbert Lomas)


At the beginning of the aeons the earth was sand. Here and there were
little stones still, they were a relic of the rocks that
covered the earth, since a beginning is an end and there is no
end like forgetfulness.
In the beginning the earth was sand. A level sandy
desert stretched in all directions; the sand merged into the shore of the sky. It was
hot. The air shimmered. Other movement there was not. There was no wind
since there was no water.
One day (night and day had been discovered) footprints
Appeared in the sand. Sandals, a grown-up man’s.
The man had walked without a stop, straight ahead, following
the sun till the sun disappeared and night came.
We never saw his prints again. We began
a story in which we hovered above a dead
landscape, we dimmed our cabin lights, vainly watched
the glowing eyes of a dying fire.
We sought him but didn’t find him. We saw
his footprints, which appeared on the border of day, walked
to the ridges of the dunes and descended into the valley with no
We followed the footprints from the air for many days.
We studied the surface shining below us, we grew blind.
We couldn’t grasp that our ship was a mirror that marked off our hand
from the black sun, our feet from flying eyes
of sand.


We decided to land, to walk. We confounded our footprints
with the predecessor’s prints, we rejoiced in freedom like a runaway
child, we gathered under a blind sky, we saw
our arms, our legs: hair grew on them.
We walked and slept. We slept while we walked.
We began to dream, to create – as if night had mingled
with day – with trees around us, lakes and grass.
We bent our heads to the tussock and picked the fruit
from the trees. We ate and drank. We got full and
our bellies grew. We couldn’t move any more, we
built a house that we lived in, where we gathered
on snowy winter evenings. We burnt the trees
that had given us their fruit. We fell asleep to the sound of flames.
In the morning memories mastered us. We spread
our arms out, rolled our heads; some of us laughed
at a dream where we saw the dim footprints,
the sand stretching to the horizon.
They didn’t go on anymore.


Our group was smaller, our step lighter. We doubted
Less, we were happy. We enjoyed each other as
the animals enjoy each other, we imagined we saw a person’s
outlines in the light of the sun too, imagined we weren’t
far off.
But the clarity didn’t last. The black line of night darkened
the day, the sparkling campfire didn’t keep off
the darkness. We prayed in the silence, washed the dishes.
We lay down without speaking about the future, we wrapped our arms
around our chests. We squeezed ourselves in a dream in which
things froze, we rushed to the walls. We chopped
trees that fell, and as they fell tore dead branches
from the neighbouring trees.


We guessed the end. It didn’t come to us like night, which sucks
day’s floating light into its black mouth. It was a sound
we didn’t hear, which wiped away our words like the footprints
in the sand, separated soul from soul.
It was no longer us. They left the camp one by one,
walking in opposite directions. Their legs didn’t
falter, they hardly felt the wind they disappeared into;
which opened its breast to them like a mother, lulled them into a long
I alone did not depart; I who tell it.
I gathered the gear into a great heap, set fire to it. I lay down
in the last tatters of tent, looked at the cloudy sky.
Like a bird: alone, alone!


The sound recorder’s flow will soon end. I put it in my pocket,
lower my arms to my sides: I’ve time enough to wait.
The water wets my defenceless body, the sun’s tired
hair opens out over human speech, over
the history books.

I know there are no memories.