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Edge – Trifecta

23 Feb

 

Here’s what this weekend’s Trifecta is all about:

“This weekend we are playing another type of word game with you.  Below are photos from the 33rd page of one of our very favorite books, Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge.  What we want you to do is to scour the page (click to enlarge), choose 33 words, and reshape those words into a piece of your own.  Your piece does not have to tell an entire story.  We just want to see what you can do with this particular word bank.  Punctuation is up to you.  Use whatever you need, whether or not it appears in the photos.”

 

 

I absolutely love this!  It has bones and flowers and children and rifles, such intriguing contrasts. Here’s the 33 words I chose:

 

Blackness carried him along

Wild woods of his mind

Starflowers so hollow-boned

Entrails of umbrage

Ripping, flapping panic

So hidden

Beneath the green leaves

He picked up the rifle

Edge of life came

Nature of Happiness

16 Jan

Deep below, under the stubborn ice and mouths frozen shut, the roots of life still linger. Slowly, they string their fine fingers upwards, infiltrate the army of snow flakes besieging us. Those fingers, you can feel them caressing your skin when you fall your cheek pressed to the iron-cold ground; sprigs and sprouts of onion being born, the sweet-tasting sap brewing, the birch babies and oak saplings still playing hide-and-seek, until the day that earth’s anticipation, its certainty of spring stronger than thousand ice ages, breaks all winter’s barriers and blossoms into light leaves of coltsfoot, pansy, primrose and thistle. But not quite yet my dear, not quite yet. First, we have to live through this concerto of whispering winds, nothing but rumours of life budding. That way we can have two summers; one blossoming in our ears and one, in time, blooming up from undeground, inviting us to a flower field dance.  

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Waiting for the spring is a sweet expectation, it is like waiting at the train station for an old friend to arrive. Peace and love, and warmth to melt your winter fingers! Take care.

Breathing discoveries- Finding your place

21 Dec
Stormy Weather by Beatrice Baumgartner-Cohen, I own no rights.Source: artfinder.com

Stormy Weather by Beatrice Baumgartner-Cohen, I own no rights.
Source: artfinder.com

“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say”

J.R.R Tolkien – Lord Of The Rings

Where do you think we belong?

Have you found your place in this world?

Have you ever felt in love with too many places all at once,  felt like you are living in between? Squatting on the border of two countries, one leg on each side. Or two cities, or two houses, or two beds. Have you ever felt distance weighing you down wherever you are?

I met a woman in a plane once. She was young and lovely. She was from Rome, had lived four years in Bangkok, was travelling to Finland and was currently living in the UK. Next week, she said, I’m going to Ukraine.

Where would you say she was from? Does it even matter?

Do you think the feeling of belonging is definately bound to a place? Or is it just something abstract floating inside you? Is belonging just a synonym to feeling comfortable, or is it the feeling of total acceptance of everything inside you and around you? Do you think the only map to guide us can be found in our hearts? Is there even a map?

Do you think there is one set path for us to take or just little stepping stones scattered carelessly around, chances that just come our way? Is there a place for everyone?

 

Breathing discoveries

 

Leaving tearing on the seams

On the bark of my solid being

Uprooting my ankles

As I skip from a cherry branch to another

Always parched, always searching

Tugging on bonds, knitting barren lands together

Till they form a smooth rug of rain

Filling all the air, touching all the cheeks

Reminding us of the lively streams

Entwining all under us, swimming under the skin of life

Everywhere we go they follow, unexhausted

Uniting our wondering feet

Till in loneliness too we are together

Till we are breathing discoveries

Miracles shaped out of pulping springs

Till we find ourselves again and in ourselves

A strength to go further

A wisdom to halt home

Two in one: A Promise Whispered and Plea -Romantic Monday post

3 Dec

sakura-romantica-small

 

Okay, because it’s Romantic Monday and all you need is love, I’m going to be extra generous today and give you not one but two romantic poems!

Yesterday I talked about poetry duets being an inspiration dialogue, so today I decided to try something new on those lines. I’m very excited! What you’re getting is the dialogue of two poems, the dialogue of two lives, the dialogue of two lovers.

First, you get to enjoy a poem by one of my favourite poets, Tommy Tabermann, that I stumbled upon today and translated to you.  I then wrote my Romantic Monday- poem as an answer to his. I wanted to have two pieces that might be separate but breath in the same rhythm, a nod towards ‘finding your missing piece’ which is of course THE idiom of romantic love. In doing this I wanted to give you something totally new, something you have not read before, another view on romance. Because what I love most about our Romantic Monday is that it has become a world-wide poetry feast, always surprising, always showing new shades of love.

Plus, Tommy Tabermann should be introduced to you because he is quite adorable and looks a bit like a sheep,  and sheeps too are adorable. (Click the link to see how fluffy he is! He would make a very wise sheep, I’m sure.) And he’s very talented of course and I want to pay my respect to his poetry, in which Cupid lives quite happily without a doubt since it is so full of feeling. Hopefully my translation does his poetry justice.

Peace and love, enjoy and take care of each other!

 

Plea by Tommy Tabermann

 

Come to me as rain

Come as swift, swooshing,

chinkling like the bells 

of an invisible cattle

Come to me as the rain of May.

 

And from the fissures of my rock

the grass and the onion will swoop

out of their cell, they will plead to

be a pillow under your ear,

a gipsy camp on your tongue.

 

Come to me as snow

Come as the freezing, slowly

trudging flakes of November

The raging, draughty rifle

of your last words on your shoulder.

 

Not in me to be a lint,

not  in you to be the wind.

 

Come to me, but

now already I will ask,

now already

I will ask, staring into

the cerulescent of my anticipation,

spare me of sleet.

 

And here’s mine:

 

A Promise Whispered

 

I will move into your heart

The way spring’s fingertips move

On the velvety surface of dawn

In caresses of translucency

In softly rising light first unnoticed

Colouring the air into life with hasty streaks

With petals of purple lilac

 

I will move into your heart, I will come

and shower myself in your love

Be it fleeting, arctic storms

Ice ages outliving the swaying summer wind

Be it a stream of  pearly water reviving

Or the somber, grey stubble

Of the Autumn fields, tast all harvest,

Bending their bare heads in humble greeting

 

I will,

if you only let me surrender

If you only let you to unravel undone,

If you only let us to become

The meandering trail of frosty mornings

And the surprising crumbs of time

To be found asleep, waiting peacefully

Inside the buds of sunflowers

 

I will come

If you only let us become

Anything at all, even just a distant ring

A sudden burst that once strikes through the air

Simply to startle a single butterfly

Into flight, into a promise whispered

In a spinning moment, in a wink of an eye.

 

Find the official hub of Romantic Monday here.

Inspiration perspiration- sweating over creativity

2 Dec

 

What inspires you? Where do you draw passion and ideas from when you’re not surfing high on the wave of creativity? What melts your mental blocks?

 

To me, it’s probably nature, the harmony and strenght it possesses. But since we have gone from Winter bliss to winter blizzard:

The view outside my window on Friday morning. The obscure blur is the snow falling every which way possible.

The view outside my window on Friday morning. The obscure blur is snow falling every which way possible.

 

I have found refuge in art instead.  Munch is one of my all time favourite’s, although not the most cheerful bloke he surely does know how to express sentiments with colours! I just love the feeling in his paintings, so aching and melancholy. Also, one of the reasons I love music, art, literature, poetry, all of it, is because it shows beautifully just how original and yet how bound together we all are.  Your visions and feelings and ideas on the artwork below might be totally different from mine or from Munch’s, and yet as we both look at it, we are connected by it. Isn’t that quite miraculous?

 

Girl on the Bridge by Edvard Munch, I do not own any rights.

Girl on the Bridge by Edvard Munch, I do not own any rights.

 

The feeling of connection, the feeling of being part of something and of belonging,  is a precious feeling. I think it might just be happiness, or the root of it. Because we weren’t created to be alone.

And that’s why I got together with Hasty to write another poetry duet for you! I hope you enjoy reading it, and feeling it, as much as I enjoy writing them. Poetry duets have totally surprised me, they’re like a breathing dialogue of inspiration, so enrichening! And they always give you new perspective to writing as well. And isn’t that just what creativity is, a fresh angle or an idea?

Or what do you think, how would you define creativity?

 

Free falling

by Hastywords and me

 

Your mourning, blue lips

And the searching transparency

Of the morning light

Pushes us under the rhythm of life

 

Free falling, closed eyes

Into desecrated fields

Bodies sleeping cold and blind

Waiting for the ghosts of truth

 

All those gaunt prisoners on display

Stalking roads and alleyways

Worn out too many times

By your trembling feet, by mine

 

Spiral clouds melting daylight

The moon covered in dust

Seekers find refuge in memories

Hiding trauma behind their eyes

 

Unseeing days, blind nights

Static, empty landscapes like

Blank kaleidoscopes of the past

Washing out the mermaids of rebirth

 

My red lips of blazing fire kiss the land

Torching the rotting decay, then I cry

Upon the sand, springtime to start again

Filling reservoirs of revival in their minds

❤ Language love ❤

21 Nov

If you’re at all fascinated by languages and words, you might enjoy listening to this. Even if you aren’t, it might still make you chuckle because I’ve heard Finnish sounds like gibberish. And as a bonus, it’s a really special song!

 

I love the English language! It is not just the fact that I’m fluent enough to do the practical stuff, like express myself at the doctors, either. I just feel so connected to the language. I have christened that feeling ‘the soul fluency’. It is when your mind, your dreams, even your feelings function in a certain language. It is the feeling the language gives you when you open your mouth, the feeling of coming home. Like that language forms a part of your soul. That really is English to me.

But then again, Finnish is my mother tongue.  It is the language I uttered my first word in.  So it is, too, a part of my soul and that is a side you don’t get to see here often. That’s why I thought it would be nice to introduce it with this song. Finnish is weird, peculiar, complex language. It is beautiful too, like the man above. Or what do you think?

Anyway, I admire the artist Samuli Putro endlessly. He is a lyrical genius. I think he really has a unique, gentle way of portraying our ordinary lives. I hope the feeling comes across! But just so you don’t have to trust Google Translate I have translated the lyrics for you. Listen, read, fall in love!

But before you do, just out of curiousity, what is the language that speaks to your soul? Or the word, for that matter, if you’re more of a word-geek?

Lyrics:

Ash in the Jewellery Chest – Tuhkaa korulippaassa

 

In the morning, I see migrant birds

In formation, on the sky

I’m moved and I greet them

See you in the spring, or later

 

I stood there, in the shade of the moment

Musing on the frailty of human life

And I could not question

Some kind of God

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

We’re not automatons

Typing errors on the screen

 

Our life has a purpose

Everyone’s story is precious

We are not meaningless

Ash in the jewellery chest

 

I celebrate my birthday today

My present was a digital camera

I took two photos of a woman

Other one of them looked pretty

 

I decided to propose tonight

To the lady on the photo, knees on the carpet

I pondered over the words carefully

I closed my eyes and I smiled

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

We’re not automatons

Typing errors on the screen

 

Our life has a purpose

Everyone’s story is precious

We are not meaningless

Ash in the jewellery chest

Ash in the jewellery chest

 

People’s expressions and

In the old songs

Flowering fields and

In the winter snow drifts

Spouse’s haircut I’ll notice or maybe not

Yellow September and stains on the linen

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

We’re not automatons

Typing errors on the screen

 

Our life has a purpose

Everyone’s story is precious

We’re not meaningless

Ash in the jewellery chest

Ash in the jewellery chest

Playing God – Daily Prompt

20 Nov

The Daily Prompt- Coming to A Bookshelf Near You

Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.

Playing God

Have you ever lost someone to death?

He had.

In his dreams he could see her falling, the car like a raging bull that sends her spinning, throws her up, up, higher. She glides through the air, gracefully at first, the wind humming peacefully… but then she starts to fall, her limbs looking all mangled and dislocated. An unhuman crash rings out as the wind screen pierces her head open, the tenderness of her temples forever disturbed. She falls down the bonnet, falls down into nothingness, into death.

But seeing her die in rewind is not the most painful part. No,  the most painful moment is the blissful forgettance that follows, as he wakes up panting and then fools himself into believing that it was just a dream, just a horrible dream. And as he reaches to her side of the bed, just to feel her soft hair, all he finds is a cold pillow. It still has the shape of her head imprinted on it, a solid proof of the nights they have spent together, curled up in love.  So he listens to her tapping downstairs, waits to hear the kettle boiling and breakfast plates clinking, just like every morning. But the house stays silent now, the house stays empty.

In that moment, in that hammer stroke of reality, death finally sniffs him out. It gatecrashes his heart, moves in with its heavy luggage and makes itself sadistically comfortable. That is the moment he remembers that love is forever lost.  That she is forever lost.

But what if she isn’t? What if she survived?

That is the question he has to ask himself when an unknown woman suddenly walks through his door. That stranger, she carries a tint of familiarity on her face. That woman, she moves like her. She smiles like her.

Then she confesses that she is her.

Is he going to believe her, welcome her back? Is he going to take that hope, embrace the sweet solace it brings? Is he going to love her as if she really is his lost love?

Or is he going to turn her away, tear apart her words, forever carrying that little regret in his heart? That little doubt, that bittersweet seed of a newly found faith in life. That one, burning question:

What if she really is her, resurrected?

Romantic Monday: Unravelling (and writer’s block, the devil)

12 Nov

It has been a bit quiet round here. As much as I would have loved to post, my self-criticism has stopped me from writing. During the weekend my worry-free expression seemed to turn itself into a nitty-gritty, grammar picking, nasty perfectionist troll whenever I tried to write.

I wrote a post which I then trashed. I wrote another one. That  one I published for an hour or so (progress)… and then trashed it too. Every blogger’s nightmare-pattern was emerging.

But now that my trash folder has been fully fed for a while, I told myself: This is not going to become a vicious cycle. Today I’m going to write.

Because today is a special day, today is another Romantic Monday. And no way am I going to let fear of failure and silly doubts spoil romance for me. That is a good advice for both writing and love, I guess.

So you’re going to get a poem today. And I also have a photo for you, to shoo away your writer’s blocks and console you if you too have been struggling and wordless:

Photocredit: southernfriedchildren.blogspot.com

So whether it is a blog, NaNoWriMo or a particularly vicious essay you’re working on, just write! Even if you’re scared, even if it all comes out as a waterfall of gibberish, don’t let it stop you.

You have potential. Don’t stop believing. (I’m sorry if you now have the Glee version of that song in your head.)

And now I’m going to practise what I preach. So here is for another Romantic Monday! Yikes, I hope you like it!

Unravelling

I do not know your lips

The tumbling currents of words

Flowing behind them, the wild winds

They have so boldly met or

The raw, pulsing secrets of life

They hold in hiding

Your lips are a mystery

And yet, I do not fear

Their uncertainty, their silence

And the painful erosion they can bring

I do not fear to trace all the seams

Of this frosty, fragile beginning

Simply because your lips, they exist

And they could be my shield

And their smile my jewel amulet

They leave me gushing

Like I had a jolting baby bird

Jailed inside my chest, still warm

From being born into its nest

Your lips unravel me

They invite me, they hold my breath

Call out my emotions

On a tight thread, on a journey

To become the pilgrims of your heart

And my laugh follows yours

It is a soft-sounding wind chime

So gently struck by your lips

Fooled into singing

This post is part of a beautiful Romantic Monday-craze, find out more about it here.

Happy Birthday Dracula!

8 Nov

Okay, I know that technically it is not Dracula’s birhday, but his creator’s. Actually do vampires even celebrate birthdays, they’re living dead after all right? (Does that mean they never get birthday cake? How sad, no wonder they want a bit of your warm blood. Or maybe all the vampire kiddos have black pudding for pudding on their birhday, who knows.)

But since I missed out on all the Halloween haunting in the blogworld, passing Bram Stoker’s birthday without a nod would have been a disgrace. I mean, this is the man who began the vampire craze, who gave inspiration to such things as Twilight… thank him for that or slap him, matters of taste are debatable.

Anyway, let’s get some guests to this birthday party. H.P Lovecraft should certainly be invited, his stuff is so scary even Stoker might turn in his grave in an attempt to escape. Shall we hear some of it?

 

If this didn’t get you scared enough, for extra chill factor someone can be positioned behind you and then attack you during the ending climax. (Thanks brother!)

There is a few reasons I have come to love Lovecraft. Firstly, his stories are different from the horror conventions of today that seem to penetrate especially some of the blockbusters; they are not gory, they’re not full of blood and guts and flying heads, they’re not spiced up with serial killing rampage. Instead, they can appear very pedantic at times, like the beginning of  The Rats In The Walls when you get the family history of the main character and all the dates. And yet, even if they’re full of detail, they still possess that ambiguity, that abstract feeling, that primal feeling of fear. And not only a fear towards what’s going on in the story, but a more vague fear, the fear of unknown dogging us. It is deliciously psychological, the details making his work scarily believable and realistic while the lack of rationality, the lack of any justification as why such monstrosities leap forward, stays with us long after we finish reading. It is this combination that makes the fear feel so real, that pulls you into the story, strangles you, as you feel it closing in on you claustrophobically.

Another reason I love Lovecraft is the love he has for his craft.

Sorry I just had to, the guy has a funny name. But it is true;  I admire how he manages to capture emotions with his writing. When I read and write, I’m always interested in the lexical choices because I would like to find a way to not only describe emotions, but to relate them, in all their essence and abstract qualities. Anyone who has felt something big, something all-encompassing and overwhelming inside them knows that it can be really hard to find words for that something. How do we convey all the tiny nuances we feel? How do make sure that when we’re writing them down, we are not doing just that: writing them down, reducing them, shrinking them? How do you find fitting words?

We have all struggled with these questions, whether it is because we love to write or because we’ve been in a perplexing social situation. Or because we have experienced something massive, something so very unexplainable, like the loss of a loved one or the finding of one. Something that makes us wonder the hows and whys of this world. So, if emotions are individuals, how do we find a way to convey them to a greater audience?

Lovecraft seemed to know how.  When I read his work I find myself asking: How, how does he make these emotions, these scary visions so real to us? So tangible, so breathing?

Perhaps because they were so very real to him. He had first hand experience from his night terrors.  And who is to say that the things he witnessed are not as real as the sun on the sky and the ground under our feet? Isn’t perception as debatable as taste?  There is more… Is there more?

Listen to ( or read if you prefer) From Beyond and decide.

“What do we know,” he had said, “of the world and the universe about us? Our means of receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the
boundlessly complex cosmos, yet other beings with wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have. I have always believed that such strange, inaccessible worlds exist at our very elbows, and now I believe I have found a way to break dawn the barriers.”

 

 

And now, your turn, who else should be invited to this birthday party and why? Whose writing do you admire?

Romantic Monday: Rebirth

29 Oct

http://edwardhotspur.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/romantic-monday-halloween-logo.jpg

Light your candles and start smiling with your head in the clouds, it is time for another Romantic Monday! If you want to take part in the celebration of everything romantic, or just find many lovely reads, visit here.

My contribution today is a short story. Without further ramblings, enjoy the words and the love that’s all around! Wishing you a lovely, romantic Monday!

Rebirth

As he lies paralytic in his bed, in an emotional comatose, he can nearly hear the spine of the night cracking. Slowly and painfully, one thoracic vertebra at a time, darkness is snapping apart to make room for new light. Dawn, the most loathsome part of any day, will soon rise and stretch its rays everywhere, bragging and bombastic with god-given, fresh radiance. The morning light, that soft and transparent yellow, is a new beginning for some. For him, it is the epitome of unforgiveness, revealing everything tainted in  his life to be peered at, gobble-eyed and scrutinising.

But the dawn is not quite here yet. He still has time. It is this jolt of hope that wires him up, after every sleepless night, and sends him bolt-like searching for all that was lost. There is still time. There is still time. It is this pleading mantra that he repeats to the empty rooms, to their bed that has hardened from all the tears, to the stubborn table that still bears no note.

And when there is no answer, no sign for the superstitious, he sinks down drained out of will, out of change and out of hope, and falls back to the familiar numbness.

– Why? Why did she have to go?

The sobs penetrate and choke him. His lip trembles pitifully and child-like.  His padlock fists close around his face, jailing him into loneliness.

His life has turned into a nightly ritual of apathy, tears and black coffee. Sometimes he forces himself to emerge from his house however, if only to raise suspicion and disapproval. If only to revel bitterly in his self-pity and hover over the happy couples, a vulture ready to tear apart the pieces of shattered hopes and  suffocating wedding rings.

But this time, to his surprise, he finds the streets crawling with better entertainment. He passes unnoticed in the midst of Halloween costumes now abused by alcohol, sweat trips and escaped mascara. It is late, and in delight he witnesses the wasted monsters rolling out of bars. They are all laughing with the shot glass glaze wailing their eyes. Spirit flows in their veins and the air is noisy from fight and emotion as all barricades are dropped aside and secrets shouted out. Ah, the freedom alcohol brings. They are all blinded, making vows of eternal love to each other, confessions of passion that will be washed away tomorrow with a wet-wipe and an acid-like hung over.

Don’t drink and love, unless you can face the morning after or forget the night before, he thinks and, for a moment, feels nearly superior. But soon the evil voice of guilt sniffs out his wittycisms and reminds him of the more potent dangers of drink-driving. There is a loud bang in his ear, a sharp light and a scream sinking into nothingness. To escape this torturing scene unravelling again in his mind, he throws himself into the surrounding bliss and daze. Weirdly, with the bars closing and people passing out against each other, he feels in sync with the world. The monsters inside him are silenced, staring in awe at the cheap recipe of love, the illusion created by too much Tequila and old clichés.

Then suddenly, there is a girl against him. He flinches under her heavy, warm weight as she lets herself slip against his chest, relying her whole being on him. And somehow, she manages to see past his ragged clothes and hollow chest, his gargoyle-like posture smeared with grief. She raises her gaze to meet his eyes and the words tumble out of her, arresting both of them in surprise. She mentions a broken leg but steers clear of mentioning her broken heart. She calls him with a name he does not know, the name of someone lost. She describes his eyes, his walk, his silly habit for boring people with pointless facts. His smart, gentle hands. The rows over a coffee cup and the day there was no more of them. The everything of her life, gone away and gone bad. She gives words for his feelings, pins them down and scrubs them clean.

At that moment, watching her drunken trust, he can feel something leaving him. In her frankness and tipsy confessions, everything unuttered takes fright. And though his mouth does not find fitting words, his heart answers the girl. And so he succumbs, if only because she looks a little like her, lost and puppyish, if only because they have both seen the graveyard of love. He pushes his lips hard against hers, pressing to find boundaries. She answers with same desperate passion, and in that kiss, he finds it, the love for the fresh morning light.

The city wakes up around them and meets them with astonishment and raised eyebrows. But to them, it does not exist. They stay with their eyes closed, clinging to each other, out of breath. And so the light accepts them in its embrace and envelopes them in golden hue. It sews them into one, into a seamless skin of loves lost and found. There they remain; both hopeless but starting to hope, both fumbling but now lost together, to be found anew.