Kovat Runot

[tsiiah]

Arpi naamassa
Kulunut nahkarotsi
Ruskeat buutsit.
Ja vielä eilen sä itkit mulle.

-Särkynyt Enkeli-
(Todella koskettava runo SinäMinä-lehdestä ysärin alkupuoliskolta)

Oli muuten hyviä noi SinäMinän runot! Ja niihin liittyvät piirustukset.

[Aloysius Kärppä]

Tällänen tuli tänään vastaan. The Space Child's Mother Goosesta!

This is the Theory Jack built.
This is the Flaw
That lay in the Theory Jack built.
This is the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Chaotic Confusion and Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Cybernetics and Stuff
That covered Chaotic Confusion and Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the button to Start the Machine
To make with the Cybernetics and Stuff
To cover Chaotic Confusion and Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
That thickened the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
That saved the Summary
Based on the Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
That lay in the Theory that Jack built.
This is the Space Child with Brow Serene
Who Pushed the Button to Start the Machine
That made with the Cybernetics and Stuff
Without Confusion, exposing the Bluff
That hung on the Turn of a Plausible Phrase
And, shredding the Erudite Verbal Haze
Cloaking Constant K
Wrecked the Summary
Based on Mummery
Hiding the Flaw
And Demolished the Theory that Jack built.

[Kerron sulle nyt juttuja]

Lapissa kaikki kukkii nopeasti,
Maa, ruoho, ohra, vaivaiskoivutkin.
Tuon usein tuntenut oon raskahasti,
Kun katson kansan tämän vaiheisiin.

Miks meillä kaikki kaunis tahtoo kuolta
Ja suuri surkastua alhaiseen?
Miks meillä niin on monta mielipuolta?
Miks vähän käyttäjiä kanteleen?

Muualla tulta hehkuu vanhat miehet,
Vanhoissa hehkuu hengen aurinko.
Meill' ukkoina jo syntyy sylilapset
Ja nuori mies on hautaan valmis jo.

Ja minä itse? miksi näitä mietin?
Se merkki varhaisen on vanhuuden.
Miks seuraa käskyä en veren vietin,
Vaan kansain kohtaloita huokailen?

On vastaus vain yksi: lapin suvi.
Sit' aatellessa mieli apeutuu.
On lyhyt lapin linnunlaulu, huvi
Ja kukkain kukoistus ja riemu muu.

Oi, valkolinnut, vieraat lapin kesän,
Te suuret aatteet, teitä tervehdän!
Oi, tänne jääkää, tänne tehden pesä,
Jos muutattekin maihin etelän!

Oi, oppi ottakaatte joutsenista!
Ne lähtee syksyin, palaa keväisin.
On meidän rannoillamme rauhallista
Ja turvaisa on rinne tunturin.

Havisten halki ilman lentäkäätte!
Tekoja luokaa, maita valaiskaa!
Mut talven poistuneen kun täältä näätte,
Ma rukoilen, ma pyydän: palatkaa!

[kasa irrationaalisia pelkoja]

joo kyllä
pitää olla suomeksi
ja loppusoinnut

[Hiljaisuuden Johannes]

Oi kaivattuni, saavuttamaton,
kun tuhat vuotta kerran mennyt on,
vaikk ehkä kaukanakin toisistaan,
ovat vuotehemme päällä saman maan

ja tuhat kertaa tuhat vuotta kun,
on käynyt yli tomun sun ja mun,
niin kenties kaaoksessa kaikkeuden,
niist yhtyy toisehensa hiukkanen.
Ja sen hetken eessä, saavuttamaton,
vuostuhannet vain harhan unta on,
niin, mitä kosmos yhteen vienyt ei,
sen kaivattuni, ehkä kaaos vei.

V.A. Koskenniemi - Kaivatulle

on niin uskomattoman hieno kokoelma tuo VAK:n Eros.

[Hiljaisuuden Johannes]

Aarni Koudan suomennos Friedrich Nietzschen runosta... en nyt muista nimeä. on Dionysos-kokoelmassa ensimmäinen

Sukuni mä tiedän juuren,
lailla leimuliekin suuren,
hehkun, tuhoon itseni!

Mihin tartun, syttyy valo,
minkä jätän, hiiltyy palo,
liekki olen varmasti!

[Lars]

Caliban upon Setebos
By Robert Browning

"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."
(David, Psalms 50.21)

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:
And while above his head a pompion-plant,
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,
And now a flower drops with a bee inside,
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,—
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please,
Touching that other, whom his dam called God.
Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha,
Could He but know! and time to vex is now,
When talk is safer than in winter-time.
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep
In confidence he drudges at their task,
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!
'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.

'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match,
But not the stars; the stars came otherwise;
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that:
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon,
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease:
He hated that He cannot change His cold,
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish
That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived,
And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine
O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid,
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave;
Only, she ever sickened, found repulse
At the other kind of water, not her life,
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun)
Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe,
And in her old bounds buried her despair,
Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle,
Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.
Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,
That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown
He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye
By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue
That pricks deep into oak warts for a worm,
And says a plain word when she finds her prize,
But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves
That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks
About their hole—He made all these and more,
Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else?
He could not, Himself, make a second self
To be His mate; as well have made Himself:
He would not make what He mislikes or slights,
An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains:
But did, in envy, listlessness or sport,
Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be—
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few,
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while,
Things He admires and mocks too,—that is it.
Because, so brave, so better though they be,
It nothing skills if He begin to plague.
Look, now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash,
Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived,
Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,—
Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all,
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain;
Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme,
And wanton, wishing I were born a bird.
Put case, unable to be what I wish,
I yet could make a live bird out of clay:
Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban
Able to fly?—for, there, see, he hath wings,
And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire,
And there, a sting to do his foes offence,
There, and I will that he begin to live,
Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns
Of grigs high up that make the merry din,
Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not.
In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay,
And he lay stupid-like,—why, I should laugh;
And if he, spying me, should fall to weep,
Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong,
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,—
Well, as the chance were, this might take or else
Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry,
And give the mankin three sound legs for one,
Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg
And lessoned he was mine and merely clay.
Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme,
Drinking the mash, with brain become alive,
Making and marring clay at will? So He.

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him,
Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.
'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs
That march now from the mountain to the sea;
'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.
'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;
'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm,
And two worms he whose nippers end in red;
As it likes me each time, I do: so He.

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main,
Placable if His mind and ways were guessed,
But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!
Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,
And envieth that, so helped, such things do more
Than He who made them! What consoles but this?
That they, unless through Him, do nought at all,
And must submit: what other use in things?
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint
That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay
When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue:
Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay
Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt:
Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth
"I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing,
I make the cry my maker cannot make
With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!'
Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?
Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that,
What knows,—the something over Setebos
That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought,
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.
There may be something quiet o'er His head,
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief,
Since both derive from weakness in some way.
I joy because the quails come; would not joy
Could I bring quails here when I have a mind:
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch,
But never spends much thought nor care that way.
It may look up, work up,—the worse for those
It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos
The many-handed as a cuttle-fish,
Who, making Himself feared through what He does,
Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar
To what is quiet and hath happy life;
Next looks down here, and out of very spite
Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real,
These good things to match those as hips do grapes.
'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport.
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books
Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle:
Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped,
Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words;
Has peeled a wand and called it by a name;
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe
The eyed skin of a supple oncelot;
And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole,
A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch,
Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye,
And saith she is Miranda and my wife:
'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane
He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge;
Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared,
Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame,
And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge
In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban;
A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.
'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way,
Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.
His dam held that the Quiet made all things
Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so.
Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.
Had He meant other, while His hand was in,
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,
Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow,
Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint
Like an orc's armour? Ay,—so spoil His sport!
He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.
Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why?
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast
Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose,
But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate
Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.
Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,
Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,
By no means for the love of what is worked.
'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world
When all goes right, in this safe summer-time,
And he wants little, hungers, aches not much,
Than trying what to do with wit and strength.
'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs,
And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk,
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each,
And set up endwise certain spikes of tree,
And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top,
Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill.
No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake;
'Shall some day knock it down again: so He.

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!
One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope.
He hath a spite against me, that I know,
Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?
So it is, all the same, as well I find.
'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm
With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises
Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave,
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,
And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.
'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)
Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade:
Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!
'Dug up a newt He may have envied once
And turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone.
Please Him and hinder this?—What Prosper does?
Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!
There is the sport: discover how or die!
All need not die, for of the things o' the isle
Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees;
Those at His mercy,—why, they please Him most
When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!
Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.
You must not know His ways, and play Him off,
Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself:
'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears
But steals the nut from underneath my thumb,
And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:
'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise,
Curls up into a ball, pretending death
For fright at my approach: the two ways please.
But what would move my choler more than this,
That either creature counted on its life
To-morrow and next day and all days to come,
Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart,
"Because he did so yesterday with me,
And otherwise with such another brute,
So must he do henceforth and always."—Ay?
Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means!
'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus,
And we shall have to live in fear of Him
So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change,
If He have done His best, make no new world
To please Him more, so leave off watching this,—
If He surprise not even the Quiet's self
Some strange day,—or, suppose, grow into it
As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we,
And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.
His dam held different, that after death
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends:
Idly! He doth His worst in this our life,
Giving just respite lest we die through pain,
Saving last pain for worst,—with which, an end.
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself,
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,
Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both.
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball
On head and tail as if to save their lives:
Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,
And always, above all else, envies Him;
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,
Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,
And never speaks his mind save housed as now:
Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here,
O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?"
'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off,
Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,
Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste:
While myself lit a fire, and made a song
And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate
To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate
For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?"
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend,
Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime,
That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once!
Crickets stop hissing: not a bird—or, yes,
There scuds His raven that has told Him all!
It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move,
And fast invading fires begin! White blaze—
A tree's head snaps—and there, there, there, there, there,
His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!
Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!
'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip,
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month
One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]

[viisiö]

Jos voisin auttaa sinua


Jos voisin auttaa sinua, toveri, tekisin niin
tekisin todella niin
rukoilisin puolestasi
hoitaisin sinulle selkään kunnon lihakset
veisin sinut sillalle
jonka ihmiset ajattelevat olevan kaunis
jos vain olisi pienikin mahdollisuus
että pitäisit siitä
hommaisin sinulle sen moottoripyörän
ja jos olisit laulaja
soittaisin laulujasi jukeboksista
auttaisin sinua astumaan
elämässäsi olevan halkeaman yli
kuolisin jälleen puolestasi ristillä
tekisin kaiken tämän vuoksesi
koska olen elämäsi Valtias
mutta olet etääntynyt minusta niin
että olen päättänyt saartaa sinut täällä
epämääräisillä ominaisuuksillani
sinä halusit aina olla rohkea ja aito
ja aloittaa suuren seikkailusi
murskaavalla yksinäisyydellä


- Leonard Cohen

[Unski Kumbayah]

Vaikka englantia hyvin osaankin, en osaa sanoa onko englanniksi kirjoitettu runo hyvä vai huono. Englanninkieliset sanat ei herätä pääkopassani minkäänlaisia värinöitä.

[Wagner]

Vaikka englantia hyvin osaankin, en osaa sanoa onko englanniksi kirjoitettu runo hyvä vai huono. Englanninkieliset sanat ei herätä pääkopassani minkäänlaisia värinöitä.

Sama juttu, mielummin luen ne suomeksi.

[Ian Curtis]

the fucking cops are fucking keen

to fucking keep it fucking clean

the fucking chief's a fucking swine

who fucking draws a fucking line

at fucking fun and fucking games

the fucking kids he fucking blames

are nowhere to be fucking found

anywhere in chicken town

the fucking scene is fucking sad

the fucking news is fucking bad

the fucking weed is fucking turf

the fucking speed is fucking surf

the fucking folks are fucking daft

don't make me fucking laugh

it fucking hurts to look around

everywhere in chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late

you fucking wait you fucking wait

you're fucking lost and fucking found

stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking view is fucking vile

for fucking miles and fucking miles

the fucking babies fucking cry

the fucking flowers fucking die

the fucking food is fucking muck

the fucking drains are fucking fucked

the colour scheme is fucking brown

everywhere in chicken town

the fucking pubs are fucking dull

the fucking clubs are fucking full

of fucking girls and fucking guys

with fucking murder in their eyes

a fucking bloke is fucking stabbed

waiting for a fucking cab

you fucking stay at fucking home

the fucking neighbors fucking moan

keep the fucking racket down

this is fucking chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late

you fucking wait you fucking wait

you're fucking lost and fucking found

stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking pies are fucking old

the fucking chips are fucking cold

the fucking beer is fucking flat

the fucking flats have fucking rats

the fucking clocks are fucking wrong

the fucking days are fucking long

it fucking gets you fucking down

evidently chicken town

[,,]

Tapani Kinnusella on muutama aika kova

Itsemurha

Liskot
ryömivät
nurkista.
Katosta
laskeutuu
tiikeri.
Otan
pillerin.
Seinät
nauravat.
Lattia
kaatuu.
Otan
oluen.
Puukko
voi
tappaa.

[,,]

ja toinen

Isältä Pojalle

Villon, Rabelais...
tarinan on jatkuttava,
Baudelaire, Artaud...
vittu, kalja tänne
ja äkkiä,
olen nähnyt kuvani,
armomurhatkaa kärsivät,
minä autan niitä joilla
on hätä,
on sota-aika
Hemingway ajaa ambulanssia,
murhatkaa kaikki,
ihminen on epäonnistunut
apina

[tsiiah]

Antiikin runoja rakkaudesta:

Kun olit raaka rypäle,
minulle et suostunut,
kypsänäkin karttelit.
Anna edes rusinaa.

-tuntematon

[Arkku Mandersson]

Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.