Email Rita Dahl
Translated by Miia Toivio
A gull breaks the glass globe of the night and its sad
roaming the chimneys. Darkness like a shirt
put on sticks from the voices. After this, sleeping follows, a typical way to spend a
smooth rhythm of snoring builds a light blanket for the morning to
pace. Lights light up along the roads, longing eyes; trespassing the
As loud as the bird’s cry rises the sound of the raging motors, in
Measure the waste around the world
A lemonfly flew in from the window
When you least expected
Seit ich ihn gesehen, glaub` ich blind zu sein
I had grieved for long,
The cry bored deep holes in my selves
They hung on the branches like headless dolls
You lulled yourself to deep, shallow sleep
How a yellow opened my eyes
Water-soaked, clinging to each other,
I never thought I`d get over it
Fences too high to be exceeded
Houses, apartments, people
You yourself lulled yourself to deep shallow
I who am the mute hooded crow, bird of the cold
You the truthspeaker, bellylaugher.
The bus gives a jolt and you`re off:
the vast safari of apathy rides
the shadow in the greyness of life walks through a shining
Empty speech fills the space,
standard nasal voice.
You slaughter plenty of young meat, uninvited
your heart is cruising in the open sea, sidetones take over.
The Knight Rider gets on at the next stop
joyfully howls around, gets a reply.
Stops at traffic signs, you stone the bus dead.
A stop steps to you like a branded calf and starts to speak.
You answer as usual
to a calf.
For years I have tried to remove a lump from my throat. Spitting,
shouting hasn’t helped at all. The lump has grown through my head
at the top like giant feelers.
I am noticed on the street. I scamper even on the most simple
lost at well-equipped supermarkets. I end up at the fruit
banana and cucumber. Coins fall from my pockets onto corridors,
detectives, those overbearing beggars, follow my track. At the
am incapable of acting.
I can´t . . .this harsh language, light words. I hardly know the yellow
press. I don`t know who I´m talking to, often talking to the wrong
the tv the dazzling speakers try to break into my rooms. I switch
channels, leave the noise.
Head towards a complete vacuum. I am a hard bone in the society´s
in the pattern.
I pierce my neck and I know, I am a creature of time,
it decides not to gush and withdraws
by itself like a tomb of the streets I walk these shores where
however the floriculturist is
dead I am dreaming of a cooling breeze on my face, of seamed
nights and the sunny ball
whistling into the well of the sea and
time wears on, wears me out
I am more sure of the importance of encounters.
There is a point shining in the window of the opposite house, a
object, growing and shrinking. I sit on a chair and gnaw at a stone.
I eat but the cupboard is inexhaustible. I sit on a chair and I
remains in the eyes. Days I rise, sit at the window and eat, nights
flash by me, the apple tree under the window grows, but the point
The apple tree under my window seeks the hands of heaven. My hands
small, they can hardly fit the contents of this room. Multiple
I have tried to reach the yield of my tree, but the fruits are
fall down to earth before I can catch them. I am able to descend
the stairs and pick the apples, but when I return the stairs have
so high that I can´t go back anymore.
The park roams the town, the blue field,
a door creaks in the grass,
my feet glide,
stride through a landscape, a green door,
in the archway the St Matthew Passion echoes,
grass covers the walls
nature sticks its head out from a window,
on the street a small heart is bouncing,
its days are never over,
spring is always new, new when looking at another,
ceaselessly crashing into walls
above the ground I sail the waves of a feeling
walk lightly like the clouds, on the street
an adored eye breaks out.