Finland by Diego Pansani


In Finland I learn fast

about the extremes:

I arrive in summer

but winter stalks us all

in the double windows

in the fireplaces

in electric heating, gas,

in the saunas

in the Ukrainians holding children to cross the lane

in the thick clothes hanging on hangers

in heavy boots in the hall

in Rikka’s eyes, green and phosphorescent,

Like the aurora borealis.


In Finland I learn fast that

The poem is always within the poetry.

Runo, Runous.


In Finland I don’t usually think

a lot about my immobility

in old age or on my right leg

every day more crestfallen:

Elderly people in Finland are elegantly abandoned

and almost all of them have a kind of old age scooter.


It’s Sunday in Finland

and I get drunk on the porch.

The birds have already come into the yard.

and the neighbor across the street collects the clothes.

Her steps are slow and steady. Like the sun here.

It’s Sunday in Finland

and I already visited the cemetery

that looks like a big bonsai.

An old woman was trimming some gnarled branches in her memory vault:

a son, a mother, a great love, who knows.

Maybe there is a good place to work in Finland,

practice the language of silence daily.

And dig the earth to replenish it with flowers

what the spirits chew from our ancestors. Or theirs.

It’s Sunday in Finland

and Pedro sends me a kind of tale

about a metaphysical ball

that scares the birds.

if he were here

surely we would be at the lake

swimming with the ducks.

– There’s a lot of duck shit here, man.

Then we would make a poem about it

And we would call it Sunday in Finland.

In the end, that’s all we have left.


And everything is fine

As long as I still have one more Sahti

And a stupid will

Of flying.

Setembro, 2022.


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