ELU/LIFE | RAAMATUD/BOOKS | ARVAMUSED/OPINIONS | KIRJANDUS/LITERATURE
|FILOSOOFIA/PHILOSOPHY | TÕLKED/TRANSLATIONS | UUT/NEW| ALGUSSE / MAIN
 

One more day


One more day
one more nightfall
gliding
on the glimmering surface
between black and blue

bats
tying
unseen knots
around old poplar trees

everything
turning
to another page
another instant
as empty
as voiceless
as the passing
past one

still
so many dreams
per capita
unaccounted for
lost in action
between
this shore
and another sunrise


a well
so deep
though
close to the surface
you wake up
every night
with hands
wet
clean
and cold

when you wake up
in tears
is it
because of a woman
a child
a robin's nest
in an old
dilapidated
stone wall

take care
fare well
my darling
my child
it's so dark
here
under the trees
under this shadow
of autumn
carrying airborne
odours
windborne
hints
from another shore
another age

cobwebs
dreamwebs
the autumn
has woven
from East to West
from corner to corner
from maple to nettle
sometimes
shimmering like silver

here
I can only breathe
deep
underwater
deep under
the waking mind
I can think
only subconsciously
without words
languages
images
cobwebs

here
in this instant
so pure
so cool
and dark
the day
fading away
in the treetops
high
above us

BBC World Service
on the other side
on the other shore
otherworldly
here
in an old
log house
surrounded by forests
beaver ponds
muddy tracks
ravens
and the gray clouds
of approaching
winter

now I know
I can look
without fear
into these clouds
into wet snow
into the eyes
of a
morning robin
sitting in a
maple
into the eyes
of a snake
waiting for me
under
an apple tree

what longing
in their eyes
a yearning
for the lost
apple
apple garden
paradise

but autumn
is always there
high tide
blue
turning into darkness
knee-deep
icy cold

maple leaves
turning into
chess boards
brown specks
on yellow
take care
means
I love you
something
we never tell
our children
our parents
on this shore
in this autumn

it's the same thing
as inspiration
this chilly wind
full of reminiscences
dead leaves
yellow and brown
and pale and hectic red
ghosts
of romantic poets
Pushkins Goethes
Shelleys
gnawing in every corner
wanting in
to your pantry
into your home
into your poem

and the cat
self-conscious fat lazy
sleeps on the sofa
far away
in its own
private dreams
striped gray
as tomorrow
as the day
after tomorrow
as afterlife
the flickering
of a dying candle
on another shore
but not
far
away

is remembering
is memory
really the nicest thing
better than dreams
the unforgettable
better
than
the forgotten

on both sides
still
glimpses
of this
evil infinity
of unforgettable
horrors
barbed wire
half-hidden
by white clover
in blossom

barbed wire
binding
us all
together
binding us
to the killing fields
the killing chambers
of the past
present
future

odours
of twilight
materialized
nostalgia
longing
that brings
you back
to the beginning
and beyond
all the
memories
to the very heart
of the oblivion

what is there
is there
a border
a red line
barbed wire
between the forgotten
and what never
existed
in the dark
oblivion
never
and nowhere
have
the same odour
the same smell

but this path
these tracks
still there
in the wet snow
around the corner
around
the clock
a gate
a gateway
into
a different gray
silent
soft
moist
full of
unuttered
meanings
forgotten words
still present
still waiting
asleep
under
every roadside stone
each
speck
on every
maple leaf
lost moments
still present
somewhere
here or
there

gray stones
half-covered
with moss
bright in the
fading light
of this lost
late
autumn day

a light
meaning
the end of exile
return
to the garden
gardens
and fields

I too
wanted
to build
a house
to have
a garden
on the
Eastern slope

I wanted
to live
high
above the ground
see people
and politics
at best
as mosquitoes
swarming
somewhere
below
in the depths

tiny tiny
faraway
creatures
worries
comings
and
goings
in the waning
evening light

today
saying goodbye
to a girl
in Hangzhou
tomorrow
reading
web papers
e-mails
sent
from
the sunny side
of the world
of the street

hopelessly striving
to stay afloat
alive
in this stormy
sea of information

web
cobweb
of
ten thousand
fleeting
meetings
greetings
arrivals
departures
returning
to impermanence
smoke
rising
from the huge
bronze kettle
in front of the
laughing
Buddha
of the
world to come

in this world
in these days
they've
killed
darkness
distance
loneliness
they've killed
my home
homeland
my China
my America
my Africa
they've killed
they are killing
me
again and again
every
morning
and evening

selling
non-stop
advertizing
Jesus
Coke
Microsoft Windows
advertizing
the sinking of the Titanic
the bittersweet
end of this
bravest
newest world

the end of this
speediest
greatest
running away
from
our own
shadows
from our
own
evening
old age
sickness
death

still
it's
always there
inside
all this
a black
glittering
chiming
ball
inside you

the kingdom of heaven
petrified
fossilized
transferred
to stone
into a
perfect
round
shadow

a Platonic
ancient
black
merry-go-round

life
ourselves
transformed
into
perfect
ideal
nonsense
perfect
ideal
suffering
pain

history is suffering
culture is suffering
politics is suffering
art is suffering

but the depth
is still
there
here
a ball
in a ball
a light
in a light
a shadow
in
a shadow
all in all
inside
in the outside
outside
in the inside
shell
in shell
qelippah
in qelippah
without end

shells
broken shards
music
transparence
dance
in pain
pain
in music
in transparence

isn't there
any pain
but longing
this
gnostic
longing
in all
our suffering

isn't this
longing
the meaning
of all
this
historical
nonsense

is it
still there
a meaning
for
all of us
in us
all
unborn
immortal
a spark
of longing
burning
inside us

inside
all of us
burnt at stake
a fire
a spark
that cannot
be burnt

a fire
burning
only itself
a call
calling itself

a question
put
to itself

a longing
transformed
into
this question
this poem
again
keeping me
going
coming back
home
returning to
homelessness
back from
China
Estonia
America
home
to Estonia
America
China

no
not culture
not art
not religion

a pinch
of tealeaves
thrown
on glowing embers
life
is
has been
just
a special
kind of fire
of burning

life
the light
of men
ants and bees

light
a very old
echo
of a
still older
timeless
voice
a sound
coming
from future
to past
through
language
thought
psychology

the cobweb
reverberating
with it

sound
flames
waves
our-
selves
caught
in our
selves

life
the light
of cats
snails
centipedes

light
despite
all this
blood
sound
fury

Coca Cola
Gulag
Hollywood

spiders
catching
eating
our children
our childrens' children
caught in
cobwebs
nets
screens

goats
eating
Madeira
St. Helena
Anatolia
Eurasia

spiders
mice
zombies
heroes
from serials
myths
fairy tales
invading
corner
after corner
of your
self
your space

shadows
ideas
suddenly come to life
laughing
talking
crying
making love
and war

wars to end
all wars
the fucking
mother
of all wars
loves
to end
all love
exile
to end
all exiles

only
to believe that
to believe in
to bow

no questions
no problems
no doubts

but
this little
BUT
still alive
creeping out
of a fissure
of an intact
hole
in your brain
like an ant
a bee
from
a
world wide
cobweb

BUT
if
even exile
has many ends
many means
ways
in
and out

life
art
truth
caught
in a network
cobweb
of endless
explanations
descriptions
departures
arrivals
hellos
byebyes

changing roles
decorations
hands

a
volcano
sleeping
under its
thick cover
of tracks
tin cans
plastic bottles

inspiration
insight
what an
unwelcome guest
in a car
on the speedway
between
another
hotel
and airport

despite
the shadow
one of many shadows
you should
believe
adore
forget
before long

megairas
furies
devils
masters
apprentices

a day
and a night again
a night
and a morning again

poetry
is
a special
kind of sorrow
something
halfway
from despair
to joy

not
from joy
to despair
taking wing
not
falling back
into
this heap
of dead dogs
plastic bottles
empty
bags

how
quickly
we
package
wrap up
how quickly
we empty
clear out
our
history
our civilization

but history
doesn't count
here
in the skies
over
inner
and outer
Mongolia
where
so many
things
have happened

we have
taken wing
we are flying
high above
remains
memories
high above
the unknown
tombs
of Gengis Khan
and innumerable
unknown
soldiers
civilians
civilizations
pot sherds
plastic bottles
plastic bags

no peace
upon earth
perhaps
peace
in the skies
between
taking wing
take off
and landing
enough time
to think
of
birds
our
relatives
in the interim
until
the landing
or fall

birds
airplanes
evolving from
dinosaurs
who have
lived
somewhere
down there
left
traces
bones
in the dry
Mongolian soil

perhaps not
far
from the place
where Gengis
at hundred million
years later
drank tea
from a huge
bronze kettle
people say
was still there
when their grandfathers
were small boys

running around
in hills
playing
with the bones
of their ancestors
as we all
have

waiting
dreaming of
wings
dreaming of
evolving into
birds
or
air travellers

the dusk
is coming
but can't
catch us
we are flying
in the wake
of the
fleeing
day
toward
a sun
setting
for the whole
afternoon

one more day
with its
history
myths
memoirs written
into the wind
on the reddish
sunset clouds

we are flying
into another
history
other histories
sagas
inscriptions
reliefs
in church
or castle ruins

I like stones
I feel like moss
dreaming
of returning
obliterating
them
word
after word
step by step

I dream of moss
returning
to
abandoned
churches
graveyards
castles
I dream
I am
one of
the humble
who will
inherit
the earth
with its
graveyards
castles
cobwebs
sunsets

a lone
harmless
ranger
returning
to his
stones
inscriptions
to his
old
tracks

again
on a day
on a night
when
the sun
is setting

and a couple
of reddish
glowing
clouds
turn into
wet moss
wordless
poems
you
sometimes
read in a dream
and cannot
recall
in the morning
of yet
another day
yet
another
night

Veskimõisa - Beijing - Veskimõisa 1998

 

Written in English, edited by Fiona Sampson

 

top