Email Rita Dahl


Rita Dahl

Translated by Miia Toivio

1. A gull breaks the glass globe of the night and its sad spawningcall begins roaming the chimneys. Darkness like a shirt that must be put on sticks from the voices. After this, sleeping follows, a typical way to spend a night. The smooth rhythm of snoring builds a light blanket for the morning to begin its pace. Lights light up along the roads, longing eyes; trespassing the city begins. As loud as the bird’s cry rises the sound of the raging motors, in which we believe.

Go on
Gentle heart
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,
years, minutes
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 steeljungle.
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, coughing or
shouting hasn’t helped at all. The lump has grown through my head and it sways
at the top like giant feelers.
I am noticed on the street. I scamper even on the most simple stairs. I get
lost at well-equipped supermarkets. I end up at the fruit department, between
banana and cucumber. Coins fall from my pockets onto corridors, store
detectives, those overbearing beggars, follow my track. At the cash register, I
am incapable of acting.

I can´t . . .this harsh language, light words. I hardly know the yellow of the
press. I don`t know who I´m talking to, often talking to the wrong people. In
the tv the dazzling speakers try to break into my rooms. I switch off
the channels, leave the noise.
Head towards a complete vacuum. I am a hard bone in the society´s machinery. A
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 flowers flourish
however the floriculturist is
dead I am dreaming of a cooling breeze on my face, of seamed
continuation of
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 miraculous
object, growing and shrinking. I sit on a chair and gnaw at a stone. I eat and
I eat but the cupboard is inexhaustible. I sit on a chair and I stare, the point
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 stays.

The apple tree under my window seeks the hands of heaven. My hands are
small, they can hardly fit the contents of this room. Multiple times
I have tried to reach the yield of my tree, but the fruits are heavy and
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 grown
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
of buildings,
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
of buildings,
above the ground I sail the waves of a feeling
walk lightly like the clouds, on the street
an adored eye breaks out.