Solemn Rambles

Ramblings and thoughts, personal poetry.

[solemnrambles]

liekkien katveessa kipinöiden tanssi otsalla havahdun palavaan pajuun

tuhkattu hiekka taottu tuli taivaiden teräs ja titaani kuin tähtituli, kirkas ja kuoleva kiidän kohti taivaanrantaa

askel askeleelta veren ja suolan kohinassa tahtoni taotaan uudelleen

[solemnrambles]

Teeth per capita

kiiltävä öljysora hohkaa neonvärejä kaukainen raivo ja tuhka värjää taivaan käsissämme maailman murtumat kurkussamme metallin katku kauanko, kauanko katkeeseen  kunnes tuli täyttää silmän ja sydämen kunnes kilpajuoksu kääntyy  kunnes näännyttävä käsi katoaa parempiin suihin

[solemnrambles]

katseissamme palaa kulovalkean katku syöden askel askeleelta menneen ja olleen. kipinöivä tuhka kuiskaa,

keitä olemme nyt?

haukka ja varpu, hukka ja viima kun sisin palaa karrelle se mustuu, murenee ja kytee uuden hengen  se takoo, tahtomattaankin-  kunnes jäljellä on vain yksi hetki

aamunkoitto. 

se on meissä, hengessä ja sisimmässä se on kättemme lupaus, se on tuhkasta nousu  ja ensilento taivaan kannelle kunnes uusi roihu, ahjo seuraavaan tulevaan tuo meidät takaisin kotiin.  

[solemnrambles]

Elegy of intimacy

and in the nights, in the never-ending boggy woods and winding, tiled corridors the wolves rip me- limb from limb, sinew from bone

It is- complicated, to speak of intimacy. I- it- my relation to my bodily presence, its- sexual considerations, never really- grew. I was yanked violently and much too prematurely to an existence I had no knowledge of, would have no desire in for years to come, no tools to navigate. ...I was ten. 

I was ten, and I learned what horror meant. What it was to feel every shread and cell and inch and nerve, every bone and its very marrow scream in abject terror. I had no mouth, my throat was ice but my very existence screamed and howled on cream linoleum, and the dying wails of my childhood were so very loud that I lost all hearing. I remember the hands, the stench, the breath on my neck, the confusion, the posters on the walls. I remember how it bruised and ached. The temperature, but not the season. The pet hamster they handled too rough, the door that clicked shut, the freezing radiator to my back under an old writing desk as I crawled to safety. The smile of my tormentor, as I shivered. Not all hands that violate are an adults. This one was my peer, as would be the one after, years later.

I turned my sorrow to a knife and plunged it deep within my heart in hollow wish and a twist- that it might become deaf

I don’t know when, exactly, I began to torment myself with that same terror. When did I turn my hand from clutching to digging? The years meld together in a thick, gray goo. I’ve no desire to wade it, and there’s little point in it. No- this night we speak of our unhealthy sexual habits, let’s not dwell on others. 

My dreams are full of violence of an intimate kind. It’s always skin-close, of teeth and claw and knives and axes, of promised respite and bitter trashes. Somewhere there, in the past that has melted, I’ve become unable foster kind closeness. Even as the fear-to-touch seeps and ekes from my limbs and mind- intimacy remains corrupt. The skin may have healed, but the mind remains branded. 

I think, in the beginning, it was involuntary. Reliving terrible and dreadful moments. But eventually- it dug in. It became the norm, the air I breathed, the water I drank, the bread that dipped to drippings. I grew and I grew not out, but into it. The horrors that festered out came not from the hands of others but the veins that pulsed around my heart. Sometimes, then alot of times, then all the time- I did it on purpose- I made horrors and set them loose on myself, I took everything vile and violent and disgusting that could be done and I fed myself to that fear, bite by bite. Violated and used and abused and torn and cemented and taken and dressed, with words that poured like a rotten wine- I became my own tormentor. I gave the horrors faces I knew and faces I’d never seen and I became numb.

There are no horrors that I’ve not been fed to, no rot that I haven’t drank, nothing that could shake new terror, nothing that could strike me like I’ve struck myself. I regret the day I gave into it, touching myself to the chorus of my own terror and disgust and bile. Because in that moment, I gave up on myself. I took the pain, and etched it into my mind, onto my skin, until I became that pain. I took whatever wishes and hopes and dreams were left in intimacy, and I tore through it all. I ought to have fought, not to give it hold, not to let it hurt and howl words that I think I’ve deserved.

The world was made unto ash and fang I stand on desolate sand I weep for what was never right and what might never grow again

And now- I find myself unable to go back. Kindness and warmth shrivels before it forms, if I am in the equasion. I don’t know how to heal something that was never given a chance to grow, nor something that’s rotten with decades of self-hatred and self-harming habits. My unhealthy formation was as much in the hands of my peers as it was in my own. I may have been in pain, yet it is my own handiwork that strangled the last air. And I find myself deeply afraid. I’ve defiled myself for so long through these dreams and compulsions, I’ve stood so long in the sea of sullied, putrified desire and sands of self-hatred- I’m afraid there isn’t a healthy patch to be found. I’ve woken to a stillborn world, and I find it impossible not to lose heart at its sight. 

I don’t want to be torn by these hands, or any others. if there are kinder ways, warmer dreams, softer touches- safety and respite, I hope not to be beyond it all. Yet, deep within, it feels all too late. 

I am unable to stop, I drink the oil-festered brine- and the cycle repeats.

[solemnrambles]

holdfast

in the eyes and smiles and tender wishes of others

there, I delve  to find and to reflect to rediscover and rebuild

I hope, one day to share and be shared in the twilight recollections of shimmering kindlings where the recollections of my dearest companions seek to rest and reminisce  in our shared joys

there, I remain  to host and to cater to hold close and cherish what had and will be shared

I hope, one day to confine and trust in the journeys we took  on murky ground and harrowed road in the hard-fought solace of a desperate cry to keep going and not let go

even when it felt rather undeserved 

there, we remained. 

[solemnrambles]

There’s a hollow space between blades and nape where the weight of the world and grief, decades brewn have sat for time unending

Each breath shallower than last agony robbed all comfort and to forget the crushing crescendo I once rejoiced in it’s choir and rang the bell that called it’s ire more, more, more strike me down and strike me well wrench the heart and deliver its end

These cries did not yield toward an end of either kind

One might think that to strike self is not to strike another until they wake one morning to find their palms stained from tears

[solemnrambles]

[Adrift]

hands returned to helm have forgotten how to steer eyes lost in sea-shell green raining a brand new sea 

without a feathered fiend to rid me of my sight I find ways to peck mine own 

not knowing how to live beyond the bite of icy brine the mind forgets who we are and where to be

does it end?

[solemnrambles]

we shake, and we shake apart let it not be for naught for I still await, eager to find my breath, to linger

[solemnrambles]

Morrow morrow Hide me no sorrow No grief no tear no death

Blessings be What greenery sees Under palms of yonder

Soothe, I beseech Let the sinking breach Sweet water shore

[solemnrambles]

I dream of [structure] and [flow], rivers and houses and roads and lingering sentiments, of a quiet, [serene] hum that fills the spaces where people gather. 

[I dream of a world that holds meaning.] 

I dream of [darkness] and [cold], wet tiled floors and endless corridors, still air and the sharp end of nothing at all. Mold and bogs and the creak of [abandoned] things. 

[I fear a world that has lost its purpose.]

I dream of [those-who-aren’t], [those-who-weren’t], and [those-who-will-never-be], these people fill and linger and pass-by, [perfectly content] with whatever they do and wherever they go. 

[I dream of a world where everyone is allowed to exist.]

I dream of spaces where I am [alone], yet is filled with [that-which-lurks] and [that-which-hunts] and [that-which-hurts], always prowling about, forever on the run and without a place to hide. I have [no home] nor safety in this realm.

[I fear a world where nothing is allowed to exist.] 

I am the [Host]. Yet, I am the singular being whom is always [Lost]. 

I have [no purpose]. I am always [searching something]. It’s form is [unknown] to me, it’s name [lost], it’s destination perhaps [unreachable] or [nonexistent]. It might be a feeling, or an item, or a person, or [something that cannot be defined at all]. 

Even a space filled with [those-who-aren’t], [those-who-weren’t], and [those-who-will-never-be], that which I am ever searching [remains lost]. It isn’t with [those-who-are-familiar] or anywhere else in the duality of the [world-that-doesn’t-exist]. Yet, it is something that [I am missing] and something that [must be found].

[It exists] but [not here]. Perhaps [not at all].

[solemnrambles]

Like to a crypt surrounded by evergreens, it defies logic, doesn’t it?

The crypt stands, silent, stagnant, full of dust and scars and tears, even marbled stones from faraway places. A collection behind heavy doors, a gentle melody long forgotten ghosting around it’s halls. Yet, surrounded by such blinding vigor that life itself might pale against it. A forest that never truly stills nor wilts, even in the face of scorching heat and cruel winter, ever growing, evolving, standing tall against the rolls of thunder and gentle in a summer’s breath. 

Whatever shape should the forest take- no step will prevent it from returning where it has once been, or yearns to be. Endless possibilities grow in it’s very making, etching into every bark and leaf. Yet a stone can only be cut once, and it’s mark will never give way to a different outcome. To carve a housing of death within, there lingers a merciless notion, the very definition of an end. Cut and gone. Lived, and done. 

On some level, certainly, the evergreens must be nourished by decay, if it were a matter of gardens. But what can it yield, entombed, what would it need to, when all it needs can be found within itself? No matter the facade, nor the gentle caress of a vine against it, a stone remains a stone. The only outcome to it is to be plundered, ground to dust, forgotten, then oblivion. The only wish it can have is to never have been to begin with. There’s naught to be offered within. 

Wouldn’t you rather grow nearer to mountains and valleys, ridges and rivers? 

[solemnrambles]

[Cycles]

from a lake to sky to rain to a puddle, in the stomachs of toads and tears on rubble, verdant leaves to vigor and sweat of the humble

where one begins the other ends, but does it truly? where one begins the other ends, in name, only.

cycles begin and cycles end, the world unfurls to a canvas yet were it to wither, blink and begone it was there, all the same

in its absence silence lingers, yet, eternal.

[solemnrambles]

[where broken things dwell]

They say to look in a mirror, to see how I’ve grown, how all the pieces fit together. But the puzzle’s all wrong. 

What is the image you all see? And where is the one I’m looking for? 

Pieces are missing, some can’t be won, some are glued to place, what’s there to be done? 

Cast in a frame I cannot make a home of,   maybe it’ll seem less like a prison, but a home? surely not.

who would step into a keep where broken things dwell?

perhaps there are tears

that none can quell. 

[solemnrambles]

[Resolve]

Whether the kindling of today be the ashes of tomorrow or a pyre raised in my forsaken name, I will run toward the sea with all my might.

Like the passage of dusk and dawn, time that once grew weary, I will be forged anew.

Let us meet upon that shore one day.

[solemnrambles]

Purkitettu

Kaikki hukkui ihmismassan hälyyn, etäiseen varvastossujen läpsytykseen marketin linoleumilattialla.

Maitohyllyistä hohkava viileys vaelsi kylkiin saakka ja värisin. Silmiä poltteli väsymys, mutta lepoa en saisi vielä moneen tuntiin. Pelkkä ajatus oli saada minut itkemään.

Kuinka kukaan jaksaa tälläistä elämää?

Korkealla katossa, illan pimentämissä uumennissa, jokin suuri laite humisi, yhä äänekkäämmin ja äänekkäämmin. Sydän löi raskaasti ja hengitys tuntui paperin ohuelta. Tuntui, että maailma voisi kadota silmänräpäyksessä, enkä huomaisi sitä kuin vasta huomenna.

Katseeni porautui johonkin kauas, mutta jäi sopivasti banaanijugurttipurkkien kohdalle. Väsynyt mieli saattoi vaeltaa muualla, mutta pian selvisi, että vatsani ei todellakaan tee sitä. Joo, tuo kelpaa. Tai ehkä kaksi. Kolme? Kolme. Voin syödä ne autossa.

Olin jo puolivälissä kassalle, kun mieleeni tulvi kuva gorillasta, joka kaapi valtavalla kourallaan jugurttipurkin pohjia. Se oli hupaisan lohdullista hetken, kunnes hätkähdin järkyttyneenä, ehkä aavistuksen pettyneenäkin. Yritin muistaa tärkeän apuvälineen tälläiseen hetkeen, mutta vastausta ei tullut. En muista. Tuijotin banaanijugurttipurkin metallista kantta, kun tunsin kyynelten tulvivan poskille. Turhautuminen oli liikaa. Vajosin lattialle lyyhistyen kyykkyyn. Suola ja suru pisteli kasvoja, enkä löytänyt voimia lopettaa. Nenä vuotaen, tuskalliset nyyhkytykset kaikuivat iltahämärässä. 

Käperryin auton takapenkille heikon illalliseni jälkeen, käsi tyynynä, huivin ja mokkatakin suojaan. Laiha lohtu viileään syksyyn. 

Olin  kuulevinani etäistä ropinaa, kun uni otti vallan.

[solemnrambles]

In the days both past and gone, I find myself in awe. How everything changes subtly, drastically, yet stays in it’s lane. Bonds formed and broken, memories left unspoken. Past deeds that gratify and haunt, then fade into oblivion.

Akin to those before it, this night too, will be gone in time.

What will have mattered in the end?

[solemnrambles]

Yhdessä olisimme ukkonen

Sateen ropinassa ja ukkosen jylhissä iskuissa on jotakin, joka saa ilakoimaan ulkona. Sen tasainen rummutus korvia huumaavien pamahdusten säestämänä herättää jotakin syvällä sisimmässä. Jotain, joka haluaa huutaa ja heilua, raivota ja rakastaa. Se haluaa tuntea kostean, kylmän nurmikon jalkapohjissa ja veden iholla, järisyttäen sisintä metsätulen lailla. 

Tulisitko mukaani, jos pyytäisin? Mennään pyjamissa sateeseen, syleillään kiihkeästi ja lasketaan sekuntteja ukkosesta. Ilakoidaan elämästä ja toisistamme, tunnetaan kolea ilma ja lämmin iho! Antaisimme käsien vaellella ja hiusten sotkeutua, yhdessä olisimme ukkonen.