Poem.a (Online Version)

POEM.
A — contemporary poetry, prose, drawings, journals, comics related to the Arctic

artArctica
Published by artArctica ry. Helsinki, Finland. 2016.
poem.a is licensed under a Creative Commons 4.0 by-nd license.

All individual works are under copyright by their creators and permission should be sought
individually for use of any piece of material from this anthology.
Editing by Laonikos Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis (www.laonikos.com)

Graphic design, cover design by Lorenzö (www.lzo.fr)
Cover image: KUUSIKKO by NANA (www.nanaillustration.com)
www.artarctica.com / [email protected]
“How do people imagine the
landscapes they find themselves
in? How does the land shape the
imaginations of the people who
dwell in it? How does desire itself,
the desire to comprehend, shape
knowledge?”
― Barry López, Arctic Dreams
the book
poem.a is a collection of printed artistic material connected to

the Arctic. Some of the works were written by people who live in the
Arctic, others by people who made the Arctic their home, and yet
others by people who are (simply?) inspired by the Arctic. The initial
idea was to create a poetry collection — however, as the project
grew and we started receiving more and more interesting
submissions, we expanded our concept to include anything that can
be printed within the limitations of the book format we had chosen.
What you now hold in your hands includes poems, prose,
journal entries, drawings, mixed art, and a comic. The material
included is presented in English, French, Finnish, Swedish, and
Norwegian, and it constitutes a selection of works from twenty-nine
artists and eleven different countries.
This book was inspired by the enthusiasm we received when
producing our first festival in 2016. We hope you enjoy it, and
perhaps, like an unexpected snowflake marks the beginning of
winter on a dark afternoon on a busy street in some northern city,
you discover through these pages an aspect of the Arctic which has
waited for you all along, and which you didn't know you've always
liked.
— Laonikos & Lorenzö Helsinki 2016

the project
artArctica is a group of artists with a passion for the Arctic,

currently based in Helsinki and with a network spanning across the
Arctic. As a community of creatives, our vision is to inspire
understanding across cultures and raise awareness about the
environment through our passion for the Arctic. We do this through
the arts, discussions, research, and story-telling. We blog, organize
wilderness expeditions, workshops and performances — we thrive
on adventure, artistic exchange, and dialogue.
The project’s main focus is producing artArctica festival, an
international and multi-disciplinary event presenting diverse
perspectives on what is the Arctic. Our first production in February
2016 was a wonderful three-day festival, which involved over forty
artists from eight different Arctic countries.
poem.a (like our festival) is neither a comprehensive nor
exhaustive presentation of arts about the Arctic. Our aim here is
simply to create a little printed kaleidoscope of various artforms,
exploring the question which has driven all of our community's
actions so far: what can the Arctic mean to people who live in it,
people inspired by it, people who experience it?
— Alicia, Katarina, Laonikos
P.S. If you want to be involved in our future projects and publications, get in touch!
the thanks
We would like to thank the following people for supporting our first
festival through our mesenaatti.me crowdfunding campaign:
Mari Aaltonen, Hannele Ahola, Mariana Araujo, Esther Berelowitsch, Carmen

Braden, Dana Burns, Renāte Burova, Liam Elliot, Matteo Giovannini, Tiinaliisa
Granholm, Hanna Guttorm, Johanna Hakala-Kähäri, Jussi Riku Helander, Virpi
Helanen, Marjut Helminen, Timo Järvenpää, Antti Kalliomäki, Carita Keinänen,
Harri Kemi, Kaisu Koivisto, Esko Koponen, Siiri Korhonen, René Kristensen, Jarkko
Lahti, Susanna Lahti, Helena Lehtinen, Sirkka Leppänen, Teemu Liimatainen, Elina
Luiro, Cara Lundqvist, Minna Lyytinen, Pete Mäkelä, Ulla Mäkelä, Eija Mäkivuoti,
Eevakaisa Mäntyranta, Karen McLeod, Mirja Merikari, Jukka Nevalainen,
Marianne Nieminen, Eugénia Nogueiro, Totti Pajamäki, Maaret Parviainen,
Johanna Pitkänen, Johanna Rekola, Samuli Ronkainen, Catarina Ryöppy, Johana
Sandqvist, Anni Savolainen, Seija Sjöblom, Sonja Sorjonen, Aleš Trtnik, Camilla
Unfried, Hanna Vainio, Elise Vaumourin, Inuunnguaq Zeeb.
And a massive thanks to all the artists who so generously submitted

their work to be included in this wonderful collection:
Rebecca Barfoot, Esther Berelowitsch, Laetitia Bischoff, Rosamaria Bolom, Phil

Burns, Eva Desimpelaere, Lisa Erdman, Tuomas Ernamo, Lily Gontard, Lana
Hansen, Roope Hattu, Heidi Hehn, Timo Järvenpää, Vili Korkula, Ruth Lera,
Joanna Lilley, Christelle Mas, Katherine J. Munro (kjmunro), Jenni Nirhamo, Sarun
Pinyarat, Kira Poutanen, Laonikos Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis, Clea Roberts, David
Rothenberg, Kaj Rönnberg, Kasper Salonen, Jessica Simon, Nana Sjöblom
(NANA), Anja Skoglund, Joe Zucchiatti, Martin Åkesson.
the table of contents
In The Electric Night (Or, Can This Be Winter?) (Gontard, Lily).....17
Why She Stayed (Roberts, Clea)..............................................18
the frosted roof (kjmunro).........................................................21
KUUTTI JA KASVIT (NANA)..................................................... 22
ice fisherman (kjmunro)........................................................... 24
October 6th, Longyearbyen (Rothenberg, David)........................26
Arbre / Puu (Mas, Christelle)................................................... 28
Jää (Hattu, Roope).................................................................. 32
October 8th, Fourteenth of July Bay, Krossfjorden, Spitsbergen
(Rothenberg, David)............................................................33
October 9th, Sallyhamnen (Rothenberg, David).......................... 35
Dypper hendene i vannet (Skoglund, Anja)................................ 37
KUUSIKKO (NANA)............................................................... 38
Lisa's Finland (Erdman, Lisa).................................................... 39
the sound of rain now (Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis, Laonikos)........42
VARFÖR TILL GRÖNLAND? — OCH MITT I VINTERN?
(Rönnberg, Kaj).................................................................. 45
Falling in Sheer Snow (Lilley, Joanna)........................................ 52
Todellisuuden jälkiä (Bolom, Rosamaria).................................... 54
October 10th, Moffen Island (Rothenberg, David).......................55
October 14th, sailing toward Magdalena Fjord (Rothenberg, D.). 56
Heron Song (Gontard, Lily)...................................................... 59
the lost art of conversation (Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis, Laonikos)..59
Ten-mile Cabin (Lilley, Joanna).................................................. 60
Sens lent / Hidas aisti (Mas, Christelle)..................................... 61
MAMA (NANA).....................................................................63
Imagine the Arctic (Korkula, Vili)..............................................64
KUUTTI JA KALAT (NANA)......................................................67
Moisson blanche / Valkoinen sato (Mas, Christelle)....................68
Seven Packs of Sugar (Simon, Jessica)......................................72
snow machines drone (kjmunro)............................................... 84
Olkiluodon shakrat (Salonen, Kasper).......................................86
KUUTTI JA AURINKO (NANA)................................................. 89
Siren Arctica (Burns, Phil)........................................................ 90
The rut (Zucchiatti, Joe)........................................................... 91
Horizontale / Vaakasuora (Mas, Christelle)...............................92
Velkua (Järvenpää, Timo)........................................................96
October 18th, Ny Ålesund, Arctic Science Village
(Rothenberg, David)............................................................ 99
Dans un creux d’arbre / Puun onkaloon (Mas, Christelle)..........100
Rats (Zucchiatti, Joe)............................................................. 102
You Will Not Die (Lilley, Joanna)............................................103
Bjørka feller seg selv i sorg (Skoglund, Anja)...........................104
The mystery of just that (Lera, Ruth).........................................106
Yukon Summer (Zucchiatti, Joe)..............................................107
Il est un vent / On olemassa tuuli (Berelowitsch, Esther).............111
Jungfruskär (Järvenpää, Timo)
(trans. Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis)....................................... 124
Tulipalopakkanen (Ernamo, Tuomas)....................................... 127
Neige centrifuge / Keskipakoinen lumi (Mas, Christelle)............128
Finnexia® — fictitious advertisement (Erdman, Lisa)
(visual layout by Sarun Pinyarat).........................................131
Amulet (Hansen, Lana).......................................................... 132
October 19th, Barentsburg (Rothenberg, David).......................134
October 17th, Blomstrandhalvøya, Krossfjorden (Rothenberg, D)135
The Last Great Auk (Lilley, Joanna).......................................... 137
Hiljaisuuden musiikkia (Desimpelaere, Eva)..............................140
Cold Snap (Roberts, Clea)..................................................... 141
and the Lord Taketh (Zucchiatti, Joe)........................................146
Päätimme lähteä (Hattu, Roope).............................................147
after a cranberry (kjmunro).................................................... 148
The Red Surge of Justice (Hehn, Heidi)....................................150
KUUTTI JA LUMPEENKUKKA (NANA)..................................... 153
Over oss brenner atmosfæren (Skoglund, Anja)........................154
The Runaway (Gontard, Lily).................................................. 155
NUTUKKAAT (NANA)..........................................................157
nature's christmas lights (Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis, Laonikos)....159
The Third Coast (Lilley, Joanna)..............................................160
Tuliainen (Ernamo, Tuomas)................................................... 161
One for a whining weather reporter (Zucchiatti, Joe).................162
Neige luminaire / Lumi valaiseva (Mas, Christelle)...................164
Max’s Spruce Tip Adventure (Simon, Jessica)...........................166
fresh snow (kjmunro)............................................................. 170
Langt under de blå klippene slår det ukjente (Skoglund, Anja)....172
Riverine (Roberts, Clea)......................................................... 174
October 20th (Rothenberg, David)..........................................175
Boneless (Zucchiatti, Joe)....................................................... 177
I Met God In The Snow (Åkeson, Martin)................................. 179
the index (by artist)
Åkesson, Martin (SE/FI)

I Met God In The Snow......................................................... 179
Berelowitsch, Esther (FR/FI) — Bischoff, Laetitia (FR) —

Poutanen, Kira (FI)
Il est un vent / On olemassa tuuli...........................................111
Bolom, Rosamaria (MEX/FI)

Todellisuuden jälkiä................................................................ 54
Burns, Phil (USA)

Siren Arctica.......................................................................... 90
Desimpelaere, Eva (BE/FI)

Hiljaisuuden musiikkia..........................................................140
Erdman, Lisa (USA/FI)

Finnexia® — fictitious advertisement
(visual layout by Sarun Pinyarat)........................................131
Lisa's Finland......................................................................... 39
Ernamo, Tuomas (FI)

Tuliainen............................................................................. 161
Tulipalopakkanen................................................................. 127
Gontard, Lily (CA)

Heron Song........................................................................... 59
In The Electric Night (Or, Can This Be Winter?)..........................17
The Runaway....................................................................... 155
Hansen, Lana (GRL)

Amulet................................................................................ 132
Hattu, Roope (FI)

Jää....................................................................................... 32
Päätimme lähteä.................................................................. 147
Hehn, Heidi (CA)
The Red Surge of Justice........................................................ 150
Järvenpää, Timo (FI)

Jungfruskär (trans. Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis)..........................124
Velkua.................................................................................. 96
kjmunro (CA)
after a cranberry.................................................................. 148
fresh snow........................................................................... 170
ice fisherman......................................................................... 24
snow machines drone............................................................. 84
the frosted roof...................................................................... 21
Korkula, Vili (FI)

Imagine the Arctic.................................................................. 64
Lera, Ruth (USA)

The mystery of just that.......................................................... 106
Lilley, Joanna (UK/CA)

Falling in Sheer Snow............................................................. 52
Ten-mile Cabin....................................................................... 60
The Last Great Auk............................................................... 137
The Third Coast.................................................................... 160
You Will Not Die.................................................................. 103
Mas, Christelle (FR/FI)

Arbre / Puu........................................................................... 28
Dans un creux d’arbre / Puun onkaloon.................................. 100
Horizontale / Vaakasuora....................................................... 92
Moisson blanche / Valkoinen sato............................................ 68
Neige centrifuge / Keskipakoinen lumi...................................128
Neige luminaire / Lumi valaiseva........................................... 164
Sens lent / Hidas aisti............................................................. 61
NANA (FI/CH)
KUUSIKKO............................................................................ 38
KUUTTI JA AURINKO.............................................................. 89
KUUTTI JA KALAT................................................................... 67
KUUTTI JA KASVIT.................................................................. 22
KUUTTI JA LUMPEENKUKKA.................................................. 153
MAMA................................................................................. 63
NUTUKKAAT....................................................................... 157
Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis, Laonikos (GR/FI)

nature's christmas lights.........................................................159
the lost art of conversation....................................................... 59
the sound of rain now............................................................. 42
Roberts, Clea (CA)

Cold Snap........................................................................... 141
Riverine.............................................................................. 174
Why She Stayed.................................................................... 18
Rönnberg, Kaj (FI)

VARFÖR TILL GRÖNLAND? — OCH MITT I VINTERN?................45
Rothenberg, David (USA)

A Journey Far Above the Arctic Circle
October 6th, Longyearbyen.................................................. 26
October 8th, Fourteenth of July Bay, Krossfjorden, Spitsbergen. .33
October 9th, Sallyhamnen.................................................... 35
October 10th, Moffen Island................................................. 55
October 14th, sailing toward Magdalena Fjord...................... 56
October 17th, Blomstrandhalvøya, Krossfjorden....................135
October 18th, Ny Ålesund, Arctic Science Village...................99
October 19th, Barentsburg................................................. 134
October 20th.................................................................... 175
Salonen, Kasper (FI)

Olkiluodon shakrat................................................................. 86
Simon, Jessica (CA)
Max’s Spruce Tip Adventure.................................................. 166
Seven Packs of Sugar............................................................. 72
Skoglund, Anja (NO/DK)

Bjørka feller seg selv i sorg.................................................... 104
Dypper hendene i vannet........................................................ 37
Langt under de blå klippene slår det ukjente............................172
Over oss brenner atmosfæren................................................ 154
Zucchiatti, Joe (CA)

and the Lord Taketh.............................................................. 146
Boneless..............................................................................177
One for a whining weather reporter.......................................162
Rats.................................................................................... 102
The rut.................................................................................. 91
In The Electric Night We pulled toques down tight over our ears.
(Or, Can This Be Our breaths
Winter?) exploding opaque clouds before our mouths.
I couldn't see
your lips, the tip of your nose, the frost flowering
on your eyelashes.
We made our way

on top of the crusted snow, footsteps
sounding like the tearing of styrofoam cups.
Artificial.
The moon lit our path, blanched from the sky

the embroidered pinprick of Arcturus and Orion's belt.
The snow joined the horizon.
Quick snaps of ski bindings and we became gods
gliding across the heavens.
•
Why She Stayed Because she got
in on the potluck
circuit
and kept leaving

her pottery
behind.
Because the history

was like telegraph
wire—ubiquitous
and pliable,
just as likely to tangle
if you followed
it for long. Because there was
a freezer full
Because her of moose.
chainsaw was bigger
than his. Because she was
the white sheep
of the family.
Because she took

an axe to the frozen lake,
sweated hours
to cut the fishing hole
and in this way

felt the reliable deepness
of winter.
•
20
the frosted roof
raven flies from
magpie swoops toward
•
ice
fisherman
c
o
l
d
&
s
l
o
w
l
m
o
v
i
n
g
fishes
24
•
October 6th 78.2° N, 16°E
Longyearbyen
We are building a world that will never

compete with the vastness of Arctic ice. The
Last Sunday I walked the lonely streets of Tucson, names of the folding coastline are unpro-
city in the desert. It was a hundred and five nounceable and long, the archipelago of
degrees and no one else dared go out. One week Svalbard is full of towering peaks and
later I am 78° N in the Northernmost place in the unreachable canyons hardly ever touched
world reached by regular air service. It is 15° and by human feet. It seems endlessly beyond
snowing heavily. The white mountains have that the range of our ability to impact but it is all
looming arctic shape, where the base melds into endangered. The bears and whales grow
the sea and the summit dissolves into cloud, with toxic as their food concentrates all we have
the middle stages of black on white like some giant dumped into the environment, we are taught
illegible hieroglyphic. The world is like this, we are to weigh sadness as we learn all this beauty
privileged to be able to leap from one climate to is melting away.
the next with ease. It is always much bigger than
we are, and impervious in its beauty. That is the
terror of the sublime.
But nature remains more than anything we
can do to it. One hundred, one thousand,
one million years. It is nothing in the grand
In between I stopped to climb the marble slopes of scale of time. We are fourteen artists sailing
the new Oslo Opera House, a great white building on a hundred year old schooner into rough
forged out on the shore of the most populous of and windy seas, with as many computers,
Norway’s fjords, a spot always raw and under cameras, recorders, devices, none of which
construction. It is meant to be the North’s answer can capture anything of the rich majesty of
to the great curved shell’s of Sydney’s opera, and the world. We are supposed to possess
with its white blocks of carefully hewn rock it does special eyes, ears, and vision to be able, in
not disappoint. It is an artificial mountain by the our own ways, to represent some fragment
shore from whose summit one can see distant real of this beauty to help change the way
mountains, a pilgrimage site of the future, when people may see. It is an impossible task, but
this city will one day be beautiful. it is the least we can do since we have come
this far.
•
Arbre
Lac
Arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre
Arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre arbre
En planète,
Je suis assise.
Puu
Järvi
PuuPuuPuuPuuPuu
PuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuuPuu
Planeetalla
Minä istun.
•
30
Jää Jää
jää
luurankona, kehikkona
jää
jäämeren pohjaan jää

jää vain runko, luuranko
jää
ei hymyilevää hyljettä
ei aikojen alusta ollutta
mikrobi merenelävää
jää
rannalle ei jää
jää
jää
•
October 8th 79.2° N 12°E
Fourteenth of July Bay, Krossfjorden,
Spitsbergen
Rarely has a boat like this had so many
hard-drives and up-to-the-minute cameras,
with hundreds of images snapped and
recorded, set immediately on to the great
We are fourteen artists, two scientists, and a crew download of analysis and processing. The
of four sailing as close to the North Pole pack ice artists are all at work, puzzling, thinking,
as we can get away with. Aboard the M/S figuring out how to get beyond the two
Noorderlicht, a hundred-year old Dutch schooner, extremes: pure documentation, and blatant
we left Longyearbyen one week ago in the irony. “I will take a picture of me on the ice
Norwegian territory of Svalbard, the most nor- in a black suit, with flashlights on an arma-
therly point in the world with regular air service, ture illuminating my face,” says Tomas from
for several weeks traveling the Arctic through open Croatia. “It is an ego trip, I know.” A
sea and sheltered bays, stopping along the way to statement, a point. We don’t want to be
respond to the landscape in uniquely artistic ways. seen as tourists, but of course we are
tourists. Art tourists at the end of the world,
We have been out two nights, and already we trying to describe what will always be
have met a phenonemon of nature that cannot be greater than any description.
captured in an image. The aurora borealis is a
beautiful piece of natural performance art cannot I am afraid of voicing my own rather
be easily filmed or photographed. A time-lapse conservative musician views. It matters not to
photo reveals only fuzzy colors, and a moving me what is or is not art, but what is good art
image cannot get enough light to capture the or bad. Or more easily, what is better of
dynamic strangeness of it all. The Northern lights worse. You gonna wear a black suit on the
have been painted as hanging, shimmering white ice? All right, tell me the better or
curtains of multicolored fire, and old engravings worse ways of wearing that suit, surrounded
show an imaginary fierce luminosity that wants to by a crown of flashlights. Wear that suit like
leap from the page into our minds. Computer you mean it, not to make me laugh. It is too
enhanced contemporary images recreate the beautiful out here to laugh at, but I am
experience, but they too seem unreal, like motion- always ready to laugh with you, not at you,
capture animation. or your work.
It is the aurora that makes me more than smile, but
open my mouth into an astonished “O.” I have
seen it many times before but it is never less
beautiful or surprising than before. We can make
art out of it but we cannot ever replay it. The
images we snap and flash can only be the starting
point. Better to think of auroras and set up one’s
own arctic lights of the night, as did light
installation artist Raphaele Shirley:
I remember the eighteenth century, and the notion

of the sublime. That quality in nature that leaves us
in awe because it is always beyond the fact of our
gaze, the extent of our reach. We are as small as
it is great, as we seem hardly to make any mark
upon this grand arctic expanse. The sublime, said
the philosophers, is not as fine as the beautiful,
because it impresses us because of how giant it is,
and how impossible to touch. Beauty, instead, must
be something more, something we can choose to
contemplate, rather than be always humbled by.
And yet this giant beauty today seems ours

to pollute, to warm, to melt out of existence.
We must honor those facts of nature that are
greater than any ability of us to destroy, or
ignore. The force of the wilderness smacks
us across the face, and its grandeur must
always burn, in our hearts, in our thoughts.
34
•
79.7° N 11.2°E
October 9th
Sallyhamnen
Today I played my soprano saxophone aboard the

zodiac as we motored close to the whiteblue
tongue of a glacier. The scene was being filmed
by Italian artist Andrea Galvani for a giant
photograph he would later print at a gigantic size
from an old 4 x 5 single-load film camera. “This
digital image,” he says, “is like a Polaroid for
me.” I was wearing his Muji raincoat because it
looked much more cool than my own high-tech
gear. Everything was black. The boatmen lay
down on the floor of the zodiac so we wouldn’t be The lone saxophone tones echoed off the
seen, making it look like I was out there all alone. stark mountain walls. Once I figured out the
A wire ran from my saxophone into the sea to length of the reverberation I could time my
make it look like I was playing right into the water, phrases so a minimalist rhythm could be
down to the hydrophone to broadcast my sound to formed by the bouncing of the sounds off the
any whales who might be listening below. I have two mountains. The echo turned time into
done this many times before but this time, as space and made this one little instrument
winter approaches, there are no whales in the beat into the sides of the landscape, a
fjord. Plenty of blood-stained yellowish polar bears golden reflection dancing off the descending
but their attentions were elsewhere, decimating light. Snow continued to fall, beginning to
that stinky dead whale. collect on the bell of the horn and the floor
of the boat. The photographer was shouting
instructions at me from the kayak as it faded
away into the mist. All became soon
invisible, I forgot where I was and who this
music was for. A fulmar shrieked. A bear
roared in the distance. He climbed into the
still green water and started to swim.
•
Dypper hendene i vannet.
Strekker de tynne gresstråene
i usynlige strenger
som ternene holder med kalde nebb.
Skarven er bare en skygge der ute,
ikke mer enn en mørk tanke
og en glemt stemme.
Sauene breker i vannkanten,
en trekant av lengsel.
Krykkjenes oppbrutte rop i klippehyllen.
Havet kaster tømmerstokker på oss om natten.
•
Lisa's Finland I thought the longest word in the Finnish language
was 'lääkärikeskus' — but I was wrong.
When I first came to Finland

And I was riding on the bus to Pori,
I thought — wow… there’s so many trees.
When I first came to Finland

In the first few months,
I thought — wow… the air is really clean here.
In Finland, I think people are very honest.

I like that.
Sometimes, when I’m sitting with a group of people

And no one is talking
And there’s a long silence —
It makes me want to scream really loud.
Rakasta hetkinen, hetkinen kuu

Joka, joka, joka suu.
Rakasta hetkinen joka kuu
Että, että, että suu.
Rakasta hetkinen, hetkinen kuu

Joka, joka, joka suu.
Rakasta hetkinen joka kuu
Että, että, että suu.
I have no me and he
Or she and I.
I am with two guinea pigs and one-room apartments
Train tickets and dissertation thoughts.
I am a one-woman band
Traveling alone but with family
In her heart
And tight shoe muscles
Sometimes I am
An empty stomach
Wishing for a receiver of secrets
And birthday wishes.
We wait for a partner

But that Partner is really ourselves
All along.
Where is the fright that rises to the surface

Like good milk in the morning
Like a warm sauna
Wrapping us in comfort and temporary joy.
It’s time to stop chewing our fingernails

And meditate again —
Time to play the keyboard
As if we have important words to share.
40
•
the sound of rain now,
so soft on the snow —

•
almost like silence.
VARFÖR TILL GRÖNLAND? — OCH MITT I VINTERN?
Såhär skriver Märta Tikkanen i ”Storfångaren” (1989):
”Mycket liten blir en människa i Människornas land,

Kalaallit Nunaat,
kort hennes sekund bland iskristallerna.”
VARFÖR JUST TILL GRÖNLAND?
Mycket av det, som skrivs om främmande kulturer och miljöer, kan väl användas till att beskriva också
Grönland. Här ett träffande citat, som handlar om det arktiska Svalbard, men som lika väl kunde ha
skrivits om Grönland:
”Trots att jag i många år bott och arbetat i tropikerna, känns

arktiska latituder av någon gåtfull anledning som snäppet
förmer. Kanske är det respekten för de extrema villkor som
råder för alla levande varelser i polarregionerna som påverkar
attityderna?
”Här vid livets yttersta gräns står allt liv ansikte mot ansikte med
döden. Vid den minsta avvikelse från det normala lurar
undergång. Marginalerna är små, också för människan.
Sådant inger respekt för tingens ordning.”
Så skriver Håkan Eklund i HBL den 15.3.2008 i sin artikel ”Svalbard — ekoturistisk lustgård.” Vad
livsvillkoren beträffar är förhållandena på Svalbard och speciellt i de norra delarna av Grönland rätt
lika varandra.
Den arktiska naturen fascinerar. För att igen citera Märta Tikkanen:
”Naturens storslagenhet känns självklar, här finns inga

kompromisser. Det är tvärbrant, lodrätt, bråddjupt,
glasklart, himmelshögt, alla fåglar svarta eller vita.”
(ur ”Storfångaren”, 1989)
Såhär besvaras frågan ”varför Grönland?” av romanfiguren Susan Cheng i romanen ”Sarasvatin
hiekkaa” (”Sanden i Sarasvati”), skriven av finländaren Risto Isomäki, här i fri översättning från
finskan:
”Jag ville ha någonting klarare

och redigare, enklare, renare,
vildare, friare, mindre tillslätat,
skrovligare.”
Förutom den storslagna naturen möter vi på Grönland den säregna kulturen och människornas sätt att
leva sina liv. ”Amazing,” häpnadsväckande, får man ofta konstatera. Søren Vestergaard Mikkelsen,
som bott och arbetat på Grönland i över 30 år, berättar om sitt förhållande till landet ungefär så här (i
fri översättning från danskan):
”Det arktiska samhällslivet är annorlunda, förnyande, över-raskande och
andligt berikande. Efter alla dessa år på Grönland blir jag ännu t.o.m.
flera gånger i veckan förbluffad över händelser och situationer jag inte
trodde var möjliga. Grönländarnas sätt att planera är helt annat än
européernas. Ofta tror man att det går åt helvetet, men grönländarna
landar alltid med fötterna före, trots att det kan se hopplöst ut. Det
förunderliga o c h oförutsebara har sitt ursprung i naturen, som har satt
djupa spår i generna här i landet. Man har helt enkelt genom årtusenden
fått vänja sig vid att mångt och mycket inte kan planläggas. Man har
underkastat sig naturens nycker.”
Citatet är ur boken ”Den grønlandske drøm: POLARPARADISET — Et folk på kant med fremtiden” av
Jan Cortzen, utgiven år 2010. Vidare ett annat citat ur boken:
”Ett kulturellt drag som kännetecknar den

grönländska befolkningen är en generell
ödmjukhet inför livet och andra människor.
Dessutom har man ett nära förhållande till
naturen, som upplevs som något för alla
gemensamt.”
VARFÖR TILL GRÖNLAND MITT I VINTERN?
Till kyla, snö och storm? Är det verkligen beckmörkt under ’mørkertiden’, under den tid som på finska
kallas ’kaamos’?
Orsakerna till att resa till Grönland mitt i vintern är många. En orsak är att få uppleva en ordentlig
vinter, med köld och snö. Hundslädsaktiviteter, som förr i tiden var ett absolut måste för människornas
överlevnad i denna arktiska miljö, hör till den grönländska vintern. En oskiljaktig del av den
grönländska kulturen och en av ”The Big Five” på Grönland, för att citera den grönländska
turistinformationen.
Aurora Borealis, norrskenet, är ett fenomen, som här också räknas till ”The Big Five.” Såhär beskrivs i
turistinformationen norrskenet och människan som dess betraktare:
”Norrskenet böljar sig sammetslent över

himlavalvet och påminner oss om rymdens
gränslösa storhet och vår egen obetydlighet.
När man står där, med fötterna stadigt på
jorden i den grönländska snön med huvudet
bakåtlutat och blir betagen av den ärggröna
ridå som sträcker sig över himlen ovanför en,
känner man sig liten och ödmjuk. Man fattar
plötsligt begreppet oändlighet, man fattar
begreppet tidlöshet.”
(fri översättning från danskan)
Norrskenet lyser ofta upp människornas tillvaro vintertid på Grönland, mest nattetid, men stundom
även under dagen. Om himlen är täckt av moln, men molntäcket inte är alltför tjockt, kan norrskenet
skönjas genom molnen. Det ser ut som ett flammande, flimrande grönt ljus sett genom ett matt
”mjölkglas.” Franz Berliner konstaterar i boken Människornas Land (1967):
”Men det var inte alldeles
mörkt under den mörka tiden
om vintern. Stjärnorna satt på
himlen och snön lyste vit och
blå i stjärnljuset. Ofta hängde
en stor vintermåne över
fjället.”
Under vintern på Grönland kan man av ”The Big Five” även uppleva isbergen, förutom den säregna
kulturen och de enastående människorna, hundarna och hundslädarna samt norrskenet. Vintern är inte
bästa tid för att uppleva den femte av ”The Big Five”: valarna. Den bästa tiden för att uppleva dem är
på våren och försommaren.
Så här efteråt ter sig hela mitt grönländska vinteräventyr som ett lyckokast. ”Våga vinna”, är ett talesätt
som härmed besannades. ”Att våga är att tappa fotfästet för en stund, att inte våga är att tappa sin själ, ”
är ett annat, som väl passar in i sammanhanget. Det massiva undrandet, som omedelbart sätter igång
under vistelsen på plats, utmanar en till att så grundligt som möjligt försöka reda ut de otaliga
frågetecknen. Man försöker nå förståelse med hjälp av att läsa allt relevant man kommer över, man
frågar så mycket man hinner och täcks, man ställer upp egna hypoteser och försöker komma med
förklaringar. Efteråt, hemkommen igen, behövs det en hel del tid att reda upp allt ihop, sina
erfarenheter och intryck. Saker skall ordnas in i sina rätta sammanhang, få en betydelse, förstås på ett
förklarligt sätt.
Här till slut ett citat lånat av Anna-Lena Laurén infört i HBL den 16.4.2008. Såhär skriver hon om
Ryssland, men textfragmentet kan lika väl tillämpas på t.ex. just Grönland:
”Landet är en intellektuell utmaning, bjuder
på tuggmotstånd. Man måste anstränga
sig och ta tid på sig för att förstå landet.
Jag har lärt mig att man inte ska tro att
man kan förstå allt i en främmande kultur.
Och framför allt har jag insett att jag kan
tycka om landet trots att det finns mycket
som jag inte förstår… Man måste ta sig
igenom ett tjockt lager av händelser för att
begripa olika fenomen.”
50
•
Falling
The ski pole has you in a half-Nelson,

painless. You drop backwards
between spruce shafts.
unreliable element, never staying.

Your head looks up at thick blue sky
that is the context you are in,
a stopped gush of yellow waxy sap.

Farther, smooth gold aspens shoot.
All you see now are tree stalks
sideways,
grasp rough, dusty bark,
a taste your tongue can’t articulate.
in Sheer Snow
Snow fixes you, wedges your widest parts.

You didn’t grow up with snow angels
watching over you. Snow was an
the human tantrum.

You spend hours in this forest
that ends days away. Close up,
in the snow. These are your roots,

your only grip on the Earth.
You grab a tawny spruce trunk
•
Todellisuuden Maailmassa löydämme arkaaisia jalanjälkiä
jälkiä muiden tekemiä jälkiä
jotka kertovat erilaisista todellisuuksista
mikä oli tärkeää ennen

mikä on tärkeää nyt
mihin mennään jos luovumme unelmista?
Mitä jos unohdamme kaiken opitun ja aloitamme uudelleen vaiheesta nolla?
...5...4...3...
Maailmassa löydämme arkaaisia jalanjälkiä

muiden tekemiä jälkiä
jotka kertovat erilaisista todellisuuksista
mikä oli tärkeää ennen

mikä on tärkeää nyt
mihin mennään jos luovumme unelmista?
Mitä jos unohdamme kaiken opitun ja aloitamme uudelleen vaiheesta nolla?
2...1...0
Sitten ehkä olisimme toisia ennakkoluulottomia olentoja
•
October 10th 80°N, 14.5°E
Moffen Island
Heini Aho, a Finnish artist, attaches her
video camera to a tripod on the white
windswept plain of the Reinsdyrflya, a flat
From this completely flat island on the horizon we expanses surrounded by the distant white
see nothing, as if we are deposited in some alien peaks beyond the Liefdefjord, or Fjord of
sea. It is strangely warm and moist, nothing like Love. Then she poses in front of the camera
the endless winter one might imagine at the end of and rapidly dresses and undresses herself
the road of darkness. Through September it is with piles of hats, scarves, coats, gloves,
forbidden to land on this island in case breeding and fleeces. When she’s down to a black
walruses and seabirds might be disturbed. By turtleneck and balaclava she looks like some
October the law permits us, and it is now possible kind of arctic ninja performing some strange
to walk right up to huddled walruses and tap them ritual that is not explained.
on the shoulder, inject them with tranquilizers, and
take a sample of something. But we’re not
scientists, so we don’t do that, though we do
approach close enough to feel their eyes looking On the islands flat snow-covered plain are
right at us, squinting, trying to see something of old glass bottles with clear liquid inside that
interest. Eye of the walrus — doesn’t sound as hasn’t frozen. Vodka? Turpentine? We can’t
romantic as ‘eye of the whale,’ and I don’t know smell it, we can hardly tell. There are
how humans have been changed or touched by it. spheres the size of soccer balls, made of
plastic, metal, buoys for fishing nets. “Once I
picked up one of those,” says our leader
Jan, “and instead I found it was a human
The tiny human forms traipse across the white skull.” If you die up here no one will come to
landscape, looking for something, as always, an take your body out.
idea, a creative spark, a mood borne out
loneliness that might find a place in the civilized
world after we return.
•
October 14th 79.6°N, 11°E
sailing toward Magdalena Fjord
The bell rings on deck, that means there’s

something to see. “Ayeaah,” says the captain, We watch the bears eating and playing for
usually a man of few words, “seven polar bears hours. It’s impossible to pull our eyes away.
eating an old whale carcass. I have only seen The raw reality of nature holds us transfixed.
something like this a few times in all my journeys A couple of us remember Werner Herzog’s
in the North.” line in Grizzly Man, where the great director
announces, coldly, “People think nature is
beautiful, but I do not agree. To me it is
nothing but a realm of cruelty, survival, and
the relentless search for food.” With his
beautiful documentaries Herzog shows that
Every artist rushes to our cabins, grabs our latest- notion is just a pose, for he loves nature and
model cameras, and runs up on deck. The bears has truly succeeded in revealing it in art,
don’t seem interested in us, that slimy whale cutting far beyond the clichés and the preset
backbone looks so delicious. We can smell it stories of the wild we are all so used to.
easily a few hundred yards away, it’s probably
been there for months. “Ooohhh…” someone says,
“it looks like something out of a Matthew Barney
film.” “Hey,” someone else has a bright idea, “let’s
put those binoculars over a camera lens, see what
kind of effect comes out.”
I tell you those things and all of them are
true. But we are artists, not tourists, so it
Sure, I could tell you them all: the sea was rough, should not be enough to be impressed by
the cameras and computers were pitching to the walruses and polar bears. But we all love
floor. Wine glasses were breaking, milk spilled the polar bears! Their bloody faces smile as
onto the floor. Waves from the sea sprayed us they chew on rancid whale meat. You don’t
head to toe in the tiny zodiac as we made rough become an artist by denying any tourist
landings on shore. The light is indescribable, the instincts. We all want to see and love the
snowy peaks stretched into the distance forever. world. Just as artists in the Age of Explo-
The immense loneliness zeros straight in on the ration were the only ones to offer up images
sublime, where the land is great because we are grand and graphic enough to show people
so small. back home what the far reaches of the globe
can offer, today we must cut through a world
saturated with images and stories to see if
there can still be a fresh way of expressing
one’s experiences on the journey, careening
through the sea and back and forth from the
frozen, empty land.
•
the lost art of losing a fear of emptiness
conversation
and upon returning

to the dusty reality of being
one has traversed

already
Heron Song
the longest road
to seeing
the blunt knife

and the uncarved rock
the unbleached sophistication

of hearing beauty
in those almost silent mornings

of snowfall choreography.
•
Ten-mile Cabin I felt a bit like that too, the dog,
wanting to be told what to do
while trees were being timbered,
hauled through snow to the jetty.
One limbing. One standing
on the trunk while another sawed.
I fathomed a job for myself eventually;
I pulled the logs up from the lake
to the cabin in the plastic pulk,
the dog coming up and down
with me, both of us slipping
in the same spot. Every time.
In the dark in a bunk at last,

giving up on the wood stove,
I was a baby in my thick, fat
sleeping bag, lying on my back,
eyes in a bundle of body.
I recollected oblivious, umbilical
warmth, a mass of comfort,
when nothing was upside down,
not even me.
Skiing sixteen kilometres home

on flat white lakes and rises sloping
back to even fields, or lakes.
We couldn’t tell.
Everything was constant, broad:
the snow, the sun, the sky.
I kept stopping
to take my hat offering
so I could hear the silence better.
60
•
Sens lent
Dedans
L’extérieur mou
Sa texture se fond
Dans mes liquides
Le paysage me vit
L’intérieur est sens
Le temps de s’étend
L’ailleurs se marie
Le rêve plein
Hidas aisti
Sisäpuolella
Pehmeä ulkopuoli
Sen rakenne sulaa
Nesteisiini
Maisema näki minut
Sisäpuoli on suunta
Hetki venyy
Toiseus sulautuu
Täysi uni
•
Imagine the Arctic Imagine a land, wide and grand, full of dance of the snowflakes,
you glance far, your eye takes an insight of the artic night.
Intense might of darkness, absence of light enhances your
senses, your sense of life will guide you and you will arrive to a
place where none of your race have ever been. In the summer
evergreen but in the winter full of snow, frost and ice, you're
alone, lost but wise enough to realize how tough life is here. So
rough that one might fear, to go even near a place like that when
summer days are past, the snowfields are vast and the snow it
will last longer than your will. Snow can easily kill but also
provide a shelter to hide. You enter and while there's winter and
night, it's warm inside, so cozy and nice. The fire ignites as you
realize the polarity of arctic nature, its beauty. A question will
arise: what is your wager? What is your duty in this time of
need? In this time of greed? In this time of feeling real questions
worth dealing, appealing to us all, revealing what's the toll of
ignorance? The absence of truth is huge, hence creating a root
of offence against nature and humanity. Are we losing our sanity
to the vanity of oppression of nature for the sake of incomes to
take? The world runs on this fake idea. Once we'll make that
clear, it starts to disappear and then we're half way there but to
be fair we should be aware, that half way is only half way.
Imagine a land, wide and grand. Imagine you stand on a strand on a brand new grass so
green that it needs to be seen to be believed. And to feel all around you how life awakes, the
baby polar bear and the first steps it takes. The melting lakes, the sound a floe makes, when it
collides into another and the waves in the water when a seal swims by and the birds on their
wings in the sky. They sing the arctic song of spring, it's an offering, an offspring off the ring of
life, you sing and cough dim dark days, off away, the sun rays win you onto their side always,
they light all days and nights, you're dazed and hyped that’s right, flying high, rising up to the
heights of life! It's the might nature and nature fights and so should we, for the artic and the
north I mean. Life is a stream, let’s let it flow! There's no reason to go any other way and I say
we should go there today.
Imagine a land, wide and grand. Now imagine a demand on its way,
imagine a hand that wants to take, use, exploit, rape, abuse and
avoid all responsibility and decency! A common sense of reason! It's
treason against nature, treason against man, treason against the world
god damn! To take what you don't earn like that, you can't learn like
that if you yearn only for profit, and leave nothing of it. You leave
nothing, you leave nothing, you leave nothing behind! In your mind it's
right but your heart, it cries for the evil toil, for the lies, for the nature
that dies for your oil. The depleted soil, the land you spoil, the life you
foil, you can't boil away the mess you create today. Confess your ways
of mischief off your chest, feel free to do this, not like the rest, you can
do your best, there's no time to rest! It's the final test. Will nature
survive? And will you do something about it in your life? Will you
fight? 'Coz you'll have to. If you do nothing, they will win. And it's the
end of everything.
•
Moisson blanche
Bloc nubile
Horizon altier
Plans lactés
Je réverbère
Temple amphibie
Grève aurorale
Calme turbulent
Sur les lais laiteux
Circule un frisson marbreux
Sans borne
Large incarnat
Valkoinen sato
Naimaikäinen massa
Ylpeä horisontti
Maitoiset aikeet
Heijastun
Sammakoiden temppeli
Revontulten hiekkaranta
Levoton tyyneys
Maitomaisilla jättömailla
Kiertää marmorinen väristys
Rajaton
Heleänpunainen avomeri
•
70
Heron, heron, heron, heron, heron,
a formation of grey poles erected
in a migratory memory.
From somewhere south, these elegant
heron, heron, heron, heron, heron
on opening
wings like sickles raised
high before slicing at shafts of wheat.
If iron could ascend, like heron, heron,
heron, opening
its great wings, shifting
from unremarkable grey
pole of bone, sinew, blood and flesh,
to the beauty of feather,
elegant neck extended
toward memory.
•
Seven Buddy was hauling twin tanks of heating fuel up the Dempster
Packs Highway and pulled into the Klondike River Lodge to top up the gas
of tank. All day a spring storm from the south had been blowing in at
Sugar forty kilometres an hour, gusting to fifty. It wasn’t cold, being only
minus four, but wave upon wave of snow grains pierced the weave
of his knit cap and canvas coat. He turned his back on the wind
and faced the Lodge. That’s when he saw her, inside, through the
window, blowing over a steaming hot cup.
She looked great, her hair all soft and matted in the collars of
her coats — insulated coveralls of blue cotton duck under a thick
down parka with snorkel hood. He had the impression she wasn’t a
small girl, but one with big worries, judging from the way she
flopped against the booth. Suddenly the waitress appeared, and
blocked his view.
The gas pump clicked off and he went inside. Other than a
couple of tourists with neon new winter gear and a Yukon map,
coffee girl was the only customer. There was a cardboard sign on
her table: INUVIK. He was going her way.
He took a seat at the counter where he could watch her in his
periphery. The corners of her mouth were down and there was a
little pinch of concern at the bridge of her nose. She swiped a stack
of sugar packets — two for her coffee, five for her pocket.
“Coffee, Buddy?” the waitress asked.
People never had to ask him his name. He turned his cup
upright, and ordered a burger.
Coffee girl pulled out a change purse and dumped the contents
on the table. He could tell from the sound of the coins she pushed
back and forth that she didn’t have more than five bucks on her: a
toonie, heavy like a poker chip, a couple of loons, some quarters
and a few light weight pennies. They scraped the table as she
turned each one over, three times.
His plate arrived. He couldn’t eat while she went hungry. “Ask
her what she wants,” he said, thumbing toward the window seat
and putting his credit card on the counter.
The waitress, a fountain of coffee, relayed the message.
Indignant, coffee girl declared, “I’m not a charity case!” and
confronted him. “What are you playing at, buddy?” Clearly, she
didn’t take help well.
“I, um… ah, saw your sign there.” Usually he didn’t take
passengers, being far more comfortable with his own company, but
today, the storm, he couldn’t leave her here all alone. “You need a
ride?”
Her mood changed in a flash and she pulled up a stool. “Ah,
buddy, let me tell ya…”
“Moment.” He slid his untouched plate toward the waitress.
“Sorry. Can you make our orders to go?” A few minutes later she
brought out their meals and packed them in a shopping bag while
he paid.
His passenger zipped up her coveralls and parka, pulled a
tuque over her ears, stuffed her thinly gloved hands into oversized
sheepskin work gloves and slung a medium-sized bag over her
shoulder. It bounced against where he guessed her hips would be
under all those down feathers.
Outside, he lit a cigarette. The south wind had picked up, but
he could still see a few snow poles at 30 metre intervals. The power
lines wailed. Maybe, this once, the wind would ease off further up
the road. He unlocked the passenger door, which banged against
the side of the cab.
She struggled up the high steps then clacked her boots together
to shake the snow loose before swinging her legs into place. He
liked that, that she didn’t track it all over his personal space.
•••
She let go of her hood, pressed tightly around her face, and
grabbed the hand rail beside the door. It was awkward, especially
when her ass was right in his face and she knew he was looking.
She hated her dependence, on a man at that, but she didn’t have a
choice. “Umm, I really appreciate this,” she said, more to herself
than him. “If I’m not in Inuvik in two days, I’ll lose my job.” She’d
get there, in overstuffed comfort it looked like, as she nestled into a
seat the size of a Laz-E-Boy.
It didn’t matter that she’d kicked the snow off her boots. Along
with a twisted length of rope, half a dozen sizes of chemical hot
pads littered the foot well, and as many Bounty wrappers. She
pulled off the one stuck to her boot.
There was a pile of junk on the dash: GPS device, satellite
radio, a filthy travel mug, an empty Crown Royal bag, thermos,
and water bottle filled with…she popped the cap and sniffed…
water, thank God. On the glove box was a no smoking sticker, but
the ashtray under the CB radio overflowed.
Behind her, a black-out curtain was drawn across the sleeper. A
streamer of mini flags from some sport club she didn’t recognize
hung from the curtain rod. The whole impression was of her
husband’s den, shrunken to the size of a passport photo booth. She
slipped out of her boots and kept her feet off the floor.
He handed her the shopping bag of fast food, which she’d
have put on the console armrest that separated their seats, but the
cushioned top was up, spewing receipts and a clip board wedged
between log books and CDs, mostly Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett.
She clutched the food to her lap.
•••
Buddy settled in behind the steering wheel and cracked his

window for as long as it took for his last drag. “No worries, I’ll get
you to Inuvik,” he said, shifting into gear. The exhaust valve
belched, the brake line hissed, the tires bit into the snow and they
rolled out into the night on the Yukon’s only highway north of the
Arctic Circle.
She peeled back a corner of one of the tinfoil-wrapped
packages, burger, which she gave to him, and opened the other.
“Thanks buddy,” she said through a mouthful of scrambled egg.
“What’s your name, anyway? I can’t keep calling you…”
“Buddy.”
“Really?” She snorted and covered her mouth.
Always the same reaction. “Like Buddy Ebsen. You’re probably
too young to remember the TV detective Barnaby Jones. My mom
was a real fan. What about you? What do they call you?”
“Chickie.”
“What?” It was his turn to dribble. “Who names their kid, their
daughter, Chickie?”
“They named me Charlotte, but I’m called Chickie.” She rattled
the carton of fries in his direction. “Charlotte, Charlie, Chuck,
Chuckie. You know how it goes. Then, one day, I’m sneaking a
cookie or something and my dad says, ‘You better watch yourself,
Chickie’. After that, I was Chickie for life.” She swallowed the last
of her Denver sandwich.
“Ah, does that feel good. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten since
yesterday.” He stopped picking at her fries. “I’ll tell you Buddy, I’ve
had an awful time lately. You’re the first person to show me any
kindness.” She dug out a faded hankie from her purse.
“See, I got this job offer and things are looking good. Then in
Fort Nelson my husband splits with some slut in my car for a joy
ride to Mexico or something. He stole all my cash and cleaned out
our bank account, so I’ve got no vehicle, no money, and no way to
get to work.” She blew her nose. “I’ve been wearing these clothes
for a week and I haven’t had a shower in days.” She turned away,
a gloomy reflection in the darkened glass. “There’s no one I can
call for help. And the waitress acted like I was going to steal the
cutlery.”
“Hey, you got troubles? Write them down here.” He’d pulled
out the clipboard.
“What’s this?” she asked. Suspicion tugged at her eyebrow.
“The cry sheet. Sure it’s meant for mechanical troubles, but so
what. Pour your heart out.”
“Very funny.” She flung the board on the dash and lit a
carefully saved cigarette. Obviously, thought Buddy, she thinks the
sticker is a joke. The moment she exhaled blue, he turned green.
Without warning, he heaved, cranked down his window and
hurled, vomit sucked away by the vacuum of the wind.
“Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t want that burger anyway.” He
squeezed the water bottle and swilled out his mouth. “Didn’t you
see the sign?” He tapped the sticker on the glove box. “Passengers
don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, but you sm…”
“Because I know enough to open the window.” He rolled his
back up again.
“Sorry.” She stubbed out the filter in the ashtray and sulked. He
felt bad. Until she plugged in earbuds from what turned out to be a
thousand-song music library, and started singing — the wrong
words, off key and out of tune. She kept that up all the way to
Engineer Creek.
That was when Old Joe radioed. The reception was terrible.
Between southerly gusts and the strangled Shania Twain beside
him, he understood: “…At Eagle Plains…off the road…tomorrow.
Copy?”
He pressed the talk button to ask for a repeat, and instead
transmitted Chickie squealing, “That don’t impress me much!”
He yanked the wires from her head, “Quiet!” and pressed talk
again.
“You don’t have to be rude!” Even with her back to him, her
complaints were broadcast to all ears on the LADD.
“What you got there, Bud?” Joe squawked. “Special load?”
Loud and clear.
Great. Now every trucker, airport and weigh station on the
Dempster knew. “Just give me an update.” Static squelch filled the
truck. “…closure north of …” To his relief Chickie, plugged into her
music, hadn’t heard that. Unfortunately, there was no more chatter
on the radio to keep him company.
Across the Uplands, the wind flared with nothing to dampen it.
The tread marks ahead blew in fast and snow blinded his lights a
car length ahead. Boxed like a punching bag, for forty kilometres
he bounced from the tire tracks and countered into the wind. His
arms ached from fighting the wheel. Chickie hummed in her sleep.
One more hill, the worst section of twisted grade, and he’d be
on top of the Plateau with the worst behind him. He geared down;
the torque throbbed through the chassis.
At that moment, the radio crackled to life out of a dark spot. He
barely made out Diesel Dave’s voice: “Where ya to, Buddy?”
“Past the airstrip, just about at Shithouse Hill. You?” He spurred
his rig into the climb. It shuddered in protest.
“We’ll catch you up at the geology pull out by Ogilvie Ridge.”
Chickie awoke, disoriented. “Where are we?” In the dim dash
lights, she looked cute and confused. “Where are we?” Make that
afraid. She grabbed the mike of the radio and pushed talk.
“Mayday, mayday! Can anybody hear us?”
Buddy snatched the mike from her hand. “You think this is the
high seas? Even then, no one calls mayday but me.” He toggled the
talk switch to cancel her distress call, no response. “Great. The
radio’s dead.” The satellite gadgets had given out miles back.
“Well,” said Chickie, “Maybe you can take me to the nearest
gas station or lodge before you set me on the road and say ‘Walk,
bitch’.” The nearest service station was at Eagle Plains — 65 long
kilometres away. He couldn’t just dump her.
About two-thirds of the way up the hill, the road banked into a
steep “S.” A fresh blast of weather smacked them. “Jesus, Buddy!
Can’t you stick to the right side of the road?” Chickie braced
against her seat.
“And risk going into the overplow?” Smooth, wide shoulders on
both sides of the road looked deceptively solid. In reality it was
soft, loose snow plowed into the ditch by highway graders. “If I do,
we’ll tip.” The road levelled off and he veered back over the centre
line.
They plodded on, slow, silent and alone. Buddy doubted many
rigs had left the Klondike River Lodge after them, and he didn’t
expect to encounter any oncoming traffic. The odometer seemed to
stand still. They rolled on, ten minutes, twenty, forty-five. The snow
poles seemed mighty far apart.
“Buddy!” Chickie shook his arm. She’d been peering into the
snow storm. “There’s a sign. ‘Rest Area 2 km’.” Tiny drifts resisted
his tires.
“You sure?”
Chickie craned her neck to look back. “Holy shit, Buddy. We’re
barely moving.”
“I can’t go any faster. The wind’s kicking up too much snow to
see. And if I slow down, we’ll drift to a standstill.”
They crawled ahead wordlessly, until Chickie tucked her jeans
into her socks, rooted through her purse until she found an extra
wool pair to wear and put her feet in her boots. She did up her
snowsuit, got into her parka and pulled on his safety jacket. With a
roll of survey tape (what wasn’t in her purse?) she tore off lengthy
strips which she tied around her left wrist. Done, she straightened
the reflective cross on her back, picked up one end of the rope at
her feet and tied it around her waist. On the other end she tied a
loop.
In the front pocket of her parka were a headlamp and a bicycle
spoke light on a string. She wrapped the lamp strap around her
right sleeve, like an armband, and reached back to fix the red light
to the collar of Buddy’s coat. “If you lose sight of the ribbons,” she
waved them like pom poms, “I’ve fallen through a drift.” She
opened the door latch.
“Are you crazy? You’re not going to walk me in.”
“Okay. I’ll drive. You walk us in.” She jumped out with the coil
of rope in hand. “You have a spot light out here?” He flicked it on.
A dipstick for the fuel tanks was clipped to the side of the truck and
he heard her remove it. She held it as a probe. “Try not to run me
over,” she said, then slammed the door shut.
“Try not to run us off the road.” His heart raced and the truck
almost stalled. Chickie appeared in the circle of light and hooked
onto the bumper. She played out the half-inch poly line, all that
connected him with the blinking red flasher in the X on his coat and
the survey tape battering his windscreen.
A cyclone of snow eddied around her at the edge of the
darkness. The wind hit her as hard as it hit the load they were
hauling. Like a blade of grass she bent low and bobbed upright.
The faint depressions where, before this storm, rubber had hit the
road were her only marker. One hour rolled into another, one foot
ahead of the other, one snow pole after another, for over 700
metres. At last, her light caught the glint of reflective flashes on a
guard rail.
She raised her left arm, a silhouette of a right turn signal, and
lifted her dipstick probe until it connected with the corrugated steel
rail. With that she led them safely off road and into the pullout. She
signalled “Stop” and collapsed against the bumper.
As fast as he could, he put the truck in neutral and set the
brake, then jumped out of the cab to loosen the rope and scoop her
up. With all the extra coats, she weighed almost as much as him.
Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and startling in her pale wind-
burned face. “You just saved our asses, Chickie. Don’t die on me
now.” Her reply was a weak brief smile.
He packed her into the cab, and swept aside the sleeper
curtains. It was tough getting her seated on the bunk, bulky as she
was and cramped as he was, straddling the console between the
seats, steering column and gear shift jabbing his back, bumping his
head on the roof of the cab.
He peeled off the safety jacket and unzipped her parka. The
inside was damp, just like the back of her coveralls. He flicked all
the heat vents toward her. Even the warm breeze made her shiver.
“Stay there. I’ll get you something to drink.” He shook the thermos.
Empty.
Then he remembered the Alaska drivers talking about
hypothermia and how sugar helped. The bottle still held a few
fingers of water, lukewarm from where it had sat near the
windshield vent. He searched her parka for the sugar she’d taken
from the café, added three packets and shook the bottle vigorously.
He popped the cap and put the bottle in her paw-like hands. “Drink
up.” Like a blind puppy she put the nipple in her mouth and sucked,
initially tentative, then thirsty and eager.
From the top of the sweet water to the bottom, she perked up
enough to help him undress her. He could pull her out of her parka
and coverall sleeves easily enough, but as he opened the zippers
along her legs, cakes of snow tumbled out from where it had
worked its way through the tiny gaps of her zippers. Against her
body, it had melted and seeped up the seams of her jeans. She
wriggled the sodden cloth below her hips, while he eased off her
boots, also stuffed with snow. Her thighs were a prickly rash of
chilled gooseflesh. Her socks bunched around waxy white toes. He
tucked her feet under his sweater and clenched from the frigid
shock. As quickly as he could he got her into a pair of wool socks
and set of long johns from the heap of clothes at the foot of his bed.
They weren’t the freshest, but they were dry. He covered her up to
the small of her back.
“Put your arms up.” Her sweater, thermals, and t-shirt felt
clammy as he peeled her to the modesty layer. Good God, a hot
pink bra. Chickie covered herself with her arms, chattering cold
and clutching at the warm colour. Buddy tore the wrapper off a
large heat pad he carried for his sciatica and stuck it across her
lumbar before pulling the longjohns up around her shoulders and
tucking her arms into the sleeves. He did up most of the buttons,
and wrapped his thickest wool blanket around her.
Exhausted, Buddy rested, pressed against her. Even through the
layers, he felt heat seep out between his ribs. The sugar was
80
wearing off, her eyelids drooped; she slumped against him. He
jostled her, gently; she moaned. He had to add heat. “Here.” He
snatched the Crown Royal bag from the dash, stuffed it with a
handful of hotshots and closed her clumsy fingers around it.
“Squeeze this.” While she pressed the bundle, he straightened the
bedding and folded back the covers. Then he stripped to his shorts.
“Come. Lie down now.” He wrapped one arm around her; the
other protected her head and neck as he eased her into the nest of
warm blankets. She ended up in a fetal position, facing away from
him. He curled around her, adjusted his arm underneath, and
pulled her close. Her breath warmed, her muscles relaxed, she
dropped the Crown Royal bag. He picked up the velvet heating
pad and pressed it against her navel. His other hand held a single
hot pad over her heart and the satin pink cup of her breast. Her
hair, against his face, smelled of blowing snow and winds gusting
to 100 kilometres an hour. “I’ve got you Chickie. Just hang on ’til
morning.”
She did. He’d never been so thrilled to feel a woman’s warmth.
He squeezed her tight; she elbowed him in the ribs. “I appreciate
what you did for me, Buddy, but get your hand off my tits.” Yup,
she was fine, a-ok, firing on all cylinders. “And turn away!”
Like it mattered now; he’d seen near every inch of her. He tried
to explain; he was only trying to help. “Thanks, but the only help I
need now is a little privacy so I can get dressed.” He turned aside,
unseeing, although he could hear her pull up her jeans, hear her
mutter about bra and panties, “and god knows what else.” She
stomped into her boots, flung her parka over her shoulders,
whipping his chest with the zipper in the process.
She pushed the door. Without the wind it opened too easily
and she tumbled into the clear spring sunshine. The muffled
applause of four or five people brought Buddy, curious, from the
driver’s side. He stomped through the drift and rounded the front of
his rig, where the other refugees from the storm had parked on this
tiny pad of gravel in the tundra and swarmed around Chickie.
Buddy recognized Old Joe pulling her to her feet and dusting her
off with his oily gloves. “Are we glad to see you. You too, Buddy,”
he added. “Scared us shitless when your radio died.” He offered
Chickie a two litre bottle full of water. “You the Chatty Cathy we
been listening to?”
“Chickie.” She drank a healthy squirt.
“Sorry, Chatty Chickie.” Buddy was beside her now. Joe kept
talking. “You got my respect, Chickie. Theirs too, I bet.” As one, the
couple turned in the direction he’d nodded.
Bumper-to-bumper, three rigs were lined up behind theirs. The
lead driver, in jeans, T-shirt and diesel-soaked company jacket,
stepped forward with his hand out. Dave. “That’s some girl you got
there, Bud.” He smiled; the credit was all hers. “You didn’t just walk
Buddy in, miss. You walked us all in.”
Chickie’s face was chalk, she’d had no idea they’d led a
convoy. She trembled and reached to Buddy for support.
“Took a lot out of her,” he told the boys and led her back
inside. She dove under the covers. He cleaned himself up a little.
Outside, Diesel rustled up some oatmeal and coffee cooked over a
tiger torch and in a few minutes served breakfast through the
window. Buddy poured the last two packs of sugar into Chickie’s
coffee. When she came out for the cup, she said, “Thanks for not
running me over,” and kissed him — so fast he could hardly react.
Too fast. He gathered her to him, saying, “Thanks for not
running us off the road,” and kissed her back. It didn’t matter how
the rest of her felt; her lips were warm.
•
snow machines drone
in the distance
mosquitoes
•
Olkiluodon shakrat
kylmää sotaa ikiunta vastaan.
nämä päivät säännöstelevät valoaan
kuin raakamateriaaleja—
jäljelle jäävät vain vitaminoitujen lintujen hökkelikylät

Yggdrasillin oksilla, nuo kaikkien paitsi tuulen hylkäämät,
ja bensiinin kyllästämät mikrokokot tuikkivat pimeään päivään.
kärpässienet lähettävät galaksin korvakäytäviin radioaaltoja
jotka heijastuvat
harmaana kukkivan kaupunkiin—
jokainen olohuone kuin oopiumluola

vaikka ikkunalaudalla väpättää vain rustiikkikynttilän pehmeä vaihtoehtovalo.
ulkoilman purevuus tekee kaikista sisällä kissoja, olemme tarkkaavaisia mutta pöllyissä
kun katsomme lähestyvien pyhien unta
maailman reunalla (missä ikinä se milloinkin on).
tykit jylisevät kaukana kaukana sisällämme, aina muka muualla.

Olkiluodon shakrat hyrisevät vahingonilosta
kun ihmiskunta leikkii sieluoksiineilla, on meditoivinaan vartin päivässä,
vaihtaa vain tuttinsa tupakkaan.
verkkokaupat paniikista lihavina
ja alamailla Talvivaara—
myrkylliset sateenkaaret uivat otsikoihin

ja väsymys painaa halkaistua kansaa
hankikannon rajoilla.
•
Siren Arctica Frozen yet Thawing
Vast yet Vanishing
Desolate yet teaming
Icy yet Steaming
Distant yet Reaching

Darkness yet Gleaming
Impenetrable but Retreating
Timeless yet Fleeting
Once Balanced now Teetering

Silent now Screaming
Once Abundant now Depleting
Without our Action...
Our Defeating....
90
•
The rut Every cell in his body lurched
in recognition when he heard
that nasal beller through the trees,
yet as the young bull moose charges
through forest, stream and willow
it occurs to him that
he has no idea what it is
he is charging towards
just that something must be done about
this surging in his loins
arriving dumbfounded
on a shore desolate
but for a Frenchman cutting firewood
at his cabin on the lake
so plunges in
breaking through the year's first skim of ice
in an ungainly, spastic dance
dragging his dink through the cold, cold waters
until the swelling subsides
and hears the old bulls in the hills

laughing in sympathy
at the overzealous virgin
too young to know the difference
between the whining of a beat-up chainsaw
and the sacred songs of love
•
Horizontale
Le bois m’égare
Eclair
Les canaux s’écartent
Circulation verte
Eclair
Position
En végétale
Je décolle
Vaakasuora
metsä eksyttää minut
Salama
Kanavat haarautuvat
Vihreä kiertokulku
Salama
Asennossa
Kasvina
Irtoan maasta
•
Velkua I
Kuun sirppi
veren tahraama
aamun kajossa.
Meren jäinen kansi
kutsuu, viettelee.
Merisumun raskas hengitys
Hetkessä maailma katoaa
peittää kulkijan.
Olet täysin yksin,

äänettömässä
ympyrää pyöreämmässä
kammiossa,
johon johtavat
vain yhdet jäljet.
Tuo kammio
saa jokaisen nöyräksi
— jokaisen.
II
Vanhat partasuumiehet
ennen niin kovin uhmakkaat
nyt sovinnaisuuden kahlitsemat.
Vitriinistään seuraavat,
miten Pohjoisen luomiskertomusta luetaan
takaperin.
Niin moni vallan mykistämä

kuihtunut lupaus
kuivunut unelma.
Nyt on naisten aika!

Nouskoon Rauni ja Mielikki
takaisin jumalten joukkoon.
Pohjan-Akka paikalleen.
Palauttakaa meidät polulle,
joka kestää kävellä,
ihmisyyden kadulle
joka ei ole kullalla kivetty.
Tarinoiden taikaan,
naurun pehmeään syliin.
Kytkekää rasismin hurtat,
palauttakaa toiseuden merkitys.
Poistakaa
kauhut kauneuden tieltä
okaat kukkien lomasta.
III
Koivut taipuvat,
etsivät tukea
sateen harmaasta sylistä
Pohjoisen henkäysten
ruskettama luonto odottaa hievahtamatta
marraskuun alakulon
sisäänmarssia.
Etelässä horisontin vetoketju

raottaa näkyviin
kapean kaistaleen sinertävää.
Tiaisten parvi
keskeyttää hyvin alkaneen
synkistelyni.
"Voi sinua pöyhkeää houkkaa"

ne tirskuvat.
"Ei talvi ole sinun
näennäistä henkistymistäsi
varten olemassa.
Se on puhdistautumisen aikaa.
Jokaisella puulla on paikkansa
vain sinä olet eksyksissä."
•
October 18th
Ny Ålesund, Arctic Science Village
In Ny Ålesund, a former mining village that is now

an international center for climate research, most
of the two hundred researchers and technicians
have left for the season. But at the Alfred Wegener
Polar Institute, a German engineer still remains, for
a whole year in this inaccessible outpost, to repeat
The German engineer speaks extremely
the same experiments every day. In one he re-
precisely. He will not answer any questions
leases a large white weather balloon, each day at
around which he has even the slightest
1pm, which rises and drifts into the stratosphere
doubt. “Why do the stars here in the North
before exploding when it gets too high, but not
flicker with such visible multiple spectra of
before transmitting essential data from its dis-
color?” I ask, “shimmering from red then to
posable radio which will never be found. Then at
green and to blue.”
night he shoots a high energy laser beam straight
up into the clouds, of such power that even a tiny
“I know of what you speak,” he nods. “But I
fraction of its bright beam is diffused back through
do not know enough astronomy to say
the cloud cover and can be registered by the
anything more.”
naked eye. The beam bounces through the
building inside a complex and irregular rectilinear “And what,” I point, “is that big wooden
box, down to the floor off a large telescope mirror, contrabass case doing next to the laser
then straight up through a hole in the roof. The mirror, the beaten-up box that says ‘Berliner
green ray heading skyward looks like it is strong Philharmoniker Orchester’ on it?”
enough to reach the moon.
“Oh,” he smiles. “Usually there is an
instrument in there, but not right now. It is
not mine.”
•
Dans un creux d’arbre
J’appose ma joue
Au lichen
Creux d’arbre tutélaire
Cachette au milieu du frimas
100
Puun onkaloon
Lasken poskeni
Jäkälälle
Suojaavan puun onkalo
Piilopaikka huurteen keskellä
•
Rats They ran the testing anyway,
though the conclusion seemed forgone:
that lab rats dressed in polyester underpants
copulated with less frequency
than their cotton-clad counterparts
knowing this,
I still steel myself
for the next six months
of this goddamned Yukon winter
with a pair of skin-tight, space-aged long johns
and a Polar Fleece sweater
shorn from a polyethylene sheep
shrink-wrapped in plastic like a mass market sausage

and bloodless as same
the technologically advanced, anti-bacterial fibres

wicking the moisture away from my body
so that I stay above all things
dry, warm
and comfortable
•
You Will Not Die You will not die with bear spray in one hand
but with a harmonica you will blow wheezily.
Our friends will not call to offer me help,
sit with me through light nights,
ask me if I’m going back to England.
I will not have to make those phone calls.
You will not make the local headlines for two,
three years. There will be no coroner’s
recommendations, no court case.
Helicopters will not hurt you.
Helicopters will not find you.
I will keep you until you are shorter,
until your hairline rises at last
and you think my glasses are yours.
You will stay with me until your hearing
is as bad as mine. I will listen to you play
until I’ve made up words to sing.
I will lie in bed dreaming to the tempo
of your snoring. I will lie in bed believing
one day you will be older than me.
•
Bjørka feller seg selv i sorg.
Synker under jorda på en eneste kort sommer.
Soløyet vandrer søkende over himmelen,
vinden hvisker ønskene sine over bølgekammene,
risler som vann gjennom vardesteinene
pirker seg inn i hullene vi har i hjertet.
•
The mystery of just that It can be hard to know if the point is to make the unknown known
Or to let the known become unknown
The mystery of just that
There is so much that we know

That deserves to be unlearned
The sense of who we are

Where we are going
Why we are here
Mostly all a fraud
I let the birds sing me to sleep

As if my consciousness was their business at all
The dreams come all through the night

And my audacity to think they are for me continues
Maybe the mystery is meant to be left a mystery

The sense that there is purpose
A misleading force
And we all scream why

In our own way we all scream
The only place abundance lives is in the mundane
A finger scratching the skin
Where the itch perpetuates the human experience
Bringing brief relief
Until the knee starts to creak
And the foot cramps up
Then our head asks another question
That the heart can’t possible answer
It seems like the snow will last forever this year

The deep freeze penetrating the lichen moss floor
The caribou digging to discover their beds where their food lies
Groups of them wandering aweless through the icy desert
The cold only inches from their skin
Lighter than the touch of hundreds of mosquitoes on attack
The mystery their very being
Tomorrow I will most likely awake from slumber

But possibly I won’t
Perhaps I didn’t today
This may already be the other side
My heart would be broken though if this were true
Without the lights and angel’s wings it seems empty
The loneliness and confusion too real
One day it will be easier

That day may even be today
One day we will not be filled with doubt

Until we are again
If I think today is not the day then I really don’t understand
That it is all a mystery at all
The unknown stays in its corner
I can visit it there
I can sit by its side and gently stroke its long golden locks
Until my hand cracks from the dryness
Of searching so hard and so long
The mystery lies in the soles of my feet

As they scratch against the branches on the earth’s floor
Searching for the enlivened roots
Stretching to the lava core
The mystery flows through us around us and in us
We don’t need it to stay in the corner
It can dance in the middle of the dance floor
Arms stretched high

Exposed
With no answers
This year is even more of a mystery then last

We are older and more confused than ever
This confusion slowly becoming our oldest and most trusted friend
We can sit in silence with it
Our eye twinkles being the only words needed
The quakes came all night

Breaking the earth under my feet
Shaking the caribou up into the hills
It can be hard to know if the point is to make the unknown known

Or to let the known become unknown
The mystery of just that
•
110
Il est un vent On olemassa tuuli
Comme un vol charnière Kuin käänteentekevä lento
Un rapace en difficulté Lämpötilojen risteyksessä
Au carrefour des températures Saaliinsa varjossa
En ombre avec sa proie Taisteleva petolintu
••• •••
La folie des jaunes Keltaisen huimaus

Avant le coucher de soleil Ennen auringonlaskua
La glace se ravive Jää herää

Et craque Murtuu
S’empare des brumes au sol Tarrautuu maan sumuun
Les ocres entrent Okran sävyt

En clash violacé Iskeytyvät violettiin
Quel est l’astre qui s’occupe Mikä taivaankappale

Des crépuscules et des aurores Tarkoin viivoin
D’un trait rigoureux Ohjaa iltahämärää, aamun kajoa

Quelle trajectoire assume-t-il? Mitä reittiä se noudattaa?
••• •••
Flocons Hiutaleet
Les milliers de portes Mielikuvituksen satuun

D’un conte fantastique Avautuvat tuhat ovea
Autant de clignements d’œil Tuhat silmänräpäytystä
S’épanchent Vuotavat ja
S’effeuillent au sol Putoavat hiutaleina maahan
Comme on biaise une perspective Sen vääristyneeseen perspektiivii
••• •••
Le soleil crible Aurinko lävistää

Les branches en hiver Talven oksat
Elles chauffent Ne lämpenevät

Elles cèdent Luovuttavat hetkeksi
Histoire de quelques heures Muutamaksi tunniksi vain
••• •••
Un front d’artillerie bleu Sinisen etulinjan tykistö

A l’assaut d’un jour Päivän iskussa
Triomphant Voittoisana
Au cœur d’une foret Äidillisen
Maternante Metsän sydämessä
Le soleil se fait Aurinko

Signe Kurkistaa
Bleu jaune rouge choyé Ihaillen

Admiré Sinistä, keltaista, punaista
Sur les coiffes samis Matkaa tekevien
D’hommes et de femmes Miesten ja naisten
Voyageurs Hatuissa
Le ciel s’est gonflé Taivas on turvonnut
Toute la journée Koko päivän
Il a déversé la grêle Syöksynyt rakeensa

Et le printemps Kevät on
S’est retiré de l’hiver Viimein vetäytynyt talvesta
••• •••
Eclaircir l’orage Hanhiaura

Cisailler les marges valaisee myrskyn
Eclabousser le ciel leikkaa laidat ja
D’une colonie d’oies värittää taivaan
Il persiste tant de contrastes Kilometrien välissä

D’un kilomètre à l’autre Silti niin valtavia eroja
Des chapes sans issue Pilvipeitteitä, joissa ei

Aux rédemptions météorologiques sään katumukselle ole tilaa
••• •••
Les nuages crèvent Pilvet puhkeavat

En une percée élastique Sysimusta
Un noir de chine Murenee palloiksi
Se démonte en globes
Des bribes de ciel Taivaan riekaleita

Presque d’or de joie Melkein ilon kultaamia
••• •••
114
Sillon d’aquarelle Taivaan akvarelliurat
Et hautes traînes Niiden korkeat laahukset
Ecume Kuohu
Aux pores des monts Tuntureiden huokosissa
••• •••
Elle est un crocus Nainen on krookus,

Un éveil Herääminen
Des émeraudes pour corolles Smaragditeriöt
Des yeux pédoncules Silmät kuin kukanvarret
Elle prendra le prénom d’un vent Hän valitsee itselleen tuulen nimen
••• •••
La neige ne fond pas Lumi ei sula

(Elle s’aspire) (Se imeytyy)
Puis remonte Ja nousee sitten uudestaan pintaan
Comme un remord Kuin katumus
Elle est le cocher Se on tuulen

Du vent Ja mykkyyden
Et de la surdité Ajuri
Le couvercle Vedenalaisten
Des murmures Kuiskausten
Sous-marins Kansi
Apatride, Kodittomana
Elle ne vit que clairsemée Se elää siellä täällä
Eparse et éconduite Pirstaleina
Par la glace Erotettuna jäästä
En ton visage Kasvoissasi
Ruisselle pulppuaa
Le premier sang Sulavan lumen
D’une fonte Ensimmäinen veri
Des neiges
Sur tes joues Poskillasi

Vibre la caresse Värisee
Des roches boursouflées Rosoisen kallion hyväily
En tes yeux Silmissäsi

Il est si tôt Aamu on niin varhainen,
Que persiste autant Että säilyvät
Une lune qu’un soleil Sekä aurinko että kuu
••• •••
Il est un jargon de mains et de laine Käden ja villojen kieli

Une série de passes Sarja liikkeitä
Les jambes en pont Tasapainoilijan kerintäkoneen alla
La laine en autoroute Jalat siltana
Sous le rasoir d’une funambule Moottoritienä villa
Un équilibre pyramidal Hajareisin kuin pyramidi

Saisi d’accroches Hän saa
La nuque des brebis Karitsojen niskat
Penchée en caresse Taipumaan hyväilyyn
Avec les différentes poses
De sa tondeuse.
Un jaune Keltainen
Ecaillé Halkeaa
De rose Vaaleanpunaisen
Croissant Tieltä
Lune Kuun
Deux pointes Teroitetut
Acérées Sakarat
Tournées Kääntyvät
Vers la canopée Puiden latvustoon
••• •••
Crépuscule Iltarusko
Il y a des lunes On olemassa kuu

Qui s'approchent Joka puiden välistä
Par des rosés d'ivoire Norsunluun vaaleanpunalla
Des pourpres cambrés Lähestyy
Des feux gémis Vaikeroivien tulien
Par la découpe des arbres en crête. Kaarevia purppuran sävyjä
Il existe des marines On olemassa merinaisia

Qui frappent à la porte Jotka koputtavat
Des villages perdus Kadonneiden kylien
Par leur cime Oviin
Leur promettant Lupaavat lahjaksi
La grivoiserie comme richesse Pelkkää kurittomuutta
••• •••
Il est des rideaux On verhoja,
Qui s'accaparent Jotka peittävät
Les pieds et les champs Jalat ja pellot,
Les routes et les luzernes Tiet ja sinimailaset
Comme une pleine goulée Kuin täyteläinen kulaus
Une étreinte indigeste Kuin sietämättömän kova puristus
••• •••
Oiseaux Linnut
Buses Hiirihaukat
Fuseaux Värttinät
Des arbres Puiden ympärillä
En plein sol Maassa

Une figure Höyhenten piirtämä
Aux plumes démises Kuva
Les chanteurs Laulajat

N'ont plus d'heure Laulavat nyt rajattomasti
Ils repoussent Siirtävät päivien ääriviivoja
La ligne des jours
120
•
Yukon This could be all there is:
Summer this freak day in April
which begins
struggling to stay above zero
like a teenager wrestling his carcass out of bed,
then climbs, relentless,
to a miraculous 21 degrees
the neighbourhood toddlers,

six months shackled in snow suits and Sorels
with blood as thick as porridge,
strip naked and race through the sprinkler
this could be all of summer that we see this year
the sunshine blazing off the vinyl siding

as raging white heat,
scorching grass the colour of sauerkraut
while on the north-facing side of the street,

buried still beneath a foot of snow,
the neighbours shake their heads
and try to laugh this could be all there is
shrieking, filling up the kiddie pool,

splashing the water
that by tomorrow morning
will be covered by a quarter-inch of ice
but it is warm now

it is warm
it is warm now it is warm
it is so
unbelievably
warm
•
Jungfruskär
Kultarinta pudottelee nuotteja

lehdesniityn latvuksesta
Äänet jäävät soimaan lehtokielojen kelloissa
Harmonia täyttyy
muiden mestarilaulajien äänistä.
Rannan niityillä kaikki kosmoksen värit.
Tuulen laskiessa kukkien tuoksu

saattaa kulkijan unimaailmaan,
aikaan ennen aikaa.
Tämän paratiisin nähnyt ymmärtää

että jumalaa ei ole.
Kaikki nämä muodot

Kaikki nämä äänet
Kaikki nämä värit
vain koska täällä siihen on mahdollisuus.
The icterine warbler drops some riffs
from the meadow treetops
its sounds are left ringing in solomon seals' bells.
the harmony completed

with other master singers' voices.
In the meadow by the shore, all the colours of the cosmos.
When the wind drops, the smell of flowers

transports passers-by into a dreamworld
of time before time.
If you've seen this paradise, you understand

there is no God.
All these forms

all these sounds
all these colours
here simply because it's possible for them to exist at all.
•
Tulipalopakkanen Kylmä säikäyttää nipistämällä varpaita,
poskia ja sormia. Koko ajan on huolehdittava,
ettei kylmettyminen tunkeudu syvemmälle. On
pakko pysyä liikkeellä. Kun tuntee luidensa
halkeavan kylmästä, voi pian nähdä tulen
jossain sivummalla. Sinne ei saa poiketa.
Täytyy pysyä sillä reitillä, jonka on suunnitellut
ennen kuin alkoi palella. Tulta, joka on
sivummalla, muut eivät voi nähdä. Se on tuli,
joka voi tuoda lohdun ja viedä samalla
hengen.
Ilma on sees. Aurinko ei näyttäydy vielä

viikkoon, mutta silti se valaisee utua, joka on
langennut maiseman ylle kuin lämmin huntu.
Päivä on kylmin kokemani, lämpöä on vain
taivaanrannan väreissä. Näkymästä voi
nauttia, mutta vaaraa ei sovi unohtaa. Tuosta
hunnusta saattaa pian kehkeytyä kaiken
kätkevä murku, ja silloin on tiedettävä suunta
tai jäätävä odottamaan usvan hälvenemistä.
Siihen voi mennä tunteja, päiviä. On
pidettävä mielessä, että vain sellainen tuli
lämmittää varmasti, jonka on itse sytyttänyt.
•
Neige centrifuge
Long rideau blanc
Se déchire
Infection
Cautérisation
Visions blanches
Océan
Jais scintillant
Silence
Couleurs lactées
Le rosier frissonne
Le cristal se sauve
Bourrasque
Râle brisé
Embryon nubile
Frémissement charnel
Forme plane
Stabilisée
Gaz
Profondeur
Keskipakoinen lumi
Pitkä valkea verho
Repeytyy
Tartunta
Kauterisaatio
Valkoiset visiot
Valtameri
Välkkyvä gagaatti
Hiljaisuus
Maitoiset värit
Ruusupensas kipittää
Kristalli pinkoo
Tuulenpuuska
Murtunut korina
Naimaikäinen alkio
Lihallinen vapina
Litteä muoto
Vakaantunut
Kaasu
Syvyys
•
130
Amulet We search
Immediate momental happiness
In our inside google world.
Is your amulet a plastic?
No !
Next stop
Co2 on strike
Let’s take a break

Is our life liquid
Is our relationship to earth
only bubble.
We liven and breathe here.
We have to be earth amulet
So
Let’s fly — let’s fly
way up, way down.
from my mind to yours.
You are my whole world and life
Let´s icebreak Co2phere
•
October 19th
Barentsburg
If you think it is strange there is a Russian town on Strangely, there are murals throughout the
Spitsbergen, remember that this land is not exactly town (of perhaps six hundred Russians, with
part of Norway. It really is a kind of no-man’s room for about a thousand more) of green
territory, not subject to any taxation, where and leafy summer scenes, images of a
historically a man could arrive from anywhere and landscape so far removed from where we
stake a claim. The American Longyear founded now stand that it is hard to understand why
Longyearbyen, the Russians had Pyramiden, now anyone would want to paint them here. Is
abandoned, and Barentsburg, still going strong. this some kind of wry Arctic joke? Or are
Long before climate change grabbed our attention these billboards advertising the land all the
the Arctic had tremendous strategic importance, residents will sometime soon go home to?
and the Germans bombed all of it in World War II.
They even had one far and remote weather station The bartender at the one foreigners’ hotel
that was the final place the Nazis surrendered in smiles when I ask her, “how long have you
September 1945. been here?”
Whereas Ny Ålesund is a curious modern science “My term is two years. The pay is good. But
town of satellite dishes, nationalistic research then I am getting out.”
buildings from nations as diverse as China, India,
Germany and France, Barentsburg looks like a
little slice of Siberia. You walk up to the city up In the middle of the night after hours of
hundreds of carefully constructed wooden steps, to vodka in the bright fluorescent bar we are
emerge on a plateau with crumbling concrete laughing in the dark, running down those
buildings, most built in the sixties through eighties perilous wood steps at top speed, slipping
but generally looking much older. The faded on rail tracks in the tunnels that lead from
grandeur of the Soviet time is out in full force, the mine. Around a corner we spy three
monuments everywhere you look. To the glory of coal-faced miners, returning from work. All
the coal miner! To the arctic socialist explorer hand of a sudden life here seems no longer a
in hand with a polar bear! A concrete apartment party, but risky, dirty work. We all go silent
building with a giant brick design of a Russian for a moment. But soon we start laughing
country maid. again and run back to our boat.
134
•
October 17th
Blomstrandhalvøya, Krossfjorden
In 1910 Ernest Mansfield was convinced that this

was going to be the site of the greatest marble
quarry in the world, so he set up the Northern
Exploration Company to cut all the stone out. He
named the spot New London. Some of his
machines remain right on the rails, having never
even been used. The whole project fell apart, there
was nothing worth taking.
The more we experience this distance the place,

the less it seems it’s a wilderness. Spitsbergen is
the warmest place in the Arctic, because it’s the
end of the gulf stream, so much of the sea
surrounding remains ice-free most of the year. The mining sputters on, the locals still hang
Already by 1700 the Dutch had killed all the onto it with pride. Greenpeace was up here
whales here, and after that came trappers, hunters, just before we arrived demanding that the
miners, still trying to extract something useful out of coal mines shut down. Of course they are
the landscape. What might remain most useful wasteful, hopeless, destined to fail like the
today is strategy — a few years ago a cable was quarry at Blomstrand. Coal mining has no
laid all the way from Norway under the sea, place in the Arctic, no place anywhere. If
bringing fast communication to the outside world. we work hard enough we’ll soon find better
There are now hundreds of scientists stationed up sources of energy: from the sun, the wind,
here keeping track of what will happen to a the waves.
warming world.
Is that a workable dream? Spitsbergen is full
of the graves of dreams that failed. The
beauty of the place is a success, it cannot be
tamed. Or is that only because we cannot
see deep into history?
•
The Last Great Auk The auk was great and known to all the auks
by the curve and groove of her beak, as every
auk was known on Eldey Island. Daughter
of Ooon and Aun they called her Akkao,
the deepest diver to the darkest water.
The lifelong mate she chose, Uckou,

was comical; Akkao loved to laugh, uk-uk.
Their first Egg was moony, draped
in seaweed shapes they would take
their baby's name from: Wrackuk.
They clustered close with all the auks

of Eldey, sharing the warming of their mottling
Egg, as summer eye patches returned
from winter's stripe. Wrackuk, born, was bold
and happy. Akkao taught him how to press
his tiny wings to his ribs, swoop deep to eat

shellcrackers. Uckou taught his son how to roll
and saunter on the rocks, making everyone laugh,
uk-uk. At summer's end, full-grown —almost— uk-uk,
Wrackuk saw a distant, unknown shape sliding
upon the water. He called to all the auks. The Elders

guggled as if they had ocean in their throats.
The wooden berg came close. Inside it:
long-backed, unfeathered ones with broken
beaks and sticks where wings should be.
The long-backs didn't land but they came again,
as the Elders said they would. Wrackuk watched
them every time. At last, the long-backs landed,
jumping to shallow water. Wrackuk said they'd topple,
uk-uk, with their tiny feet and narrow chests.
He mimicked their walk yet no one laughed.

Akkao called Wrackuk to come with her and Uckou
far from the shore and be as still as stone.
The long-backs' wings were strong and clawing.
They grabbed at Eecoh, Ackat, Uggo, Aggow
and others, thudding them to the rocks

to break their necks. They took five families,
throwing them, dead, into their wooden berg.
Wrackuk's uk-uks ended then. When the long-backs
came again, he couldn't stay still as stone.
He went close to break their wings with his beak.

The biggest long-back gripped Wrackuk at the throat
and squeezed until it snapped. The long-backs
took Wrackuk and three dozen others.
It was too early for the wintering but Akkao
and Uckou swam fast and blind to the greening

waters of the eastward sea. They were the only
ones to return to Eldey in the spring.
They tried to laugh, uk-uk, that their friends
were lost, or had found a better fishing pool.
Egg that year was female, they could tell.
They never left her, never let her cool.
They tried to tell each other Wrackuk's jokes
as they warmed her on the empty rocks.
Akkao and Uckou couldn't flee when
the long-backs came; they couldn't abandon

Egg. The long-backs strangled Uckou first. The crack
Akkao heard as they seized her wasn't her neck,
she knew, not yet. It was the sound of Egg
being crushed by a long-back's foot.
•
Hiljaisuuden musiikkia Kaukaa Pohjoisesta
kuuluu
Hiljaisuuden musiikkia
Rannalla
minä kuuntelen,
Ihmeissäni
Taivaalla
Pohjantähti, kirkas
tuhansia värejä
Taika
heijastuu jäästä
Kaukana natisee
Jatkan matkaa
140
•
Cold Snap I
The simple arguments

of juncos retract
into the forest.
The house settles

in the hungry air,
its short complaints
plucking
at our sleep.
Frost climbs up
the bedroom
windows.
This is the flora

of our slumber,
the bright boughs
we breathe out
in our dreams.
II
The narrow light

of morning;
the wavering syllables
of the radio
indigenous to the kitchen
where you fry

bacon for our sandwiches,
and the rising bread
smelling of nostalgia.
Let’s be an
old couple
someday—
the visible
and the invisible
economies drifting
between us.
III
Maybe
they’re heart
palpitations,
maybe it’s
a snowplow
scraping
the chip seal road.
You are
the only audience
to my frailty.
I want to be
a winter person;
I like the way

it implies
improvement.
IV
So cold
it squared
the truck’s wheels
and unstitched
the long sleeves
of our schedules,
the sound
of distant highways
folded then placed
on the doorstep.
Tell me
how to breathe
between
the painful
and the beautiful,
my lips,
my eyelids
slow with cold.
•
and the Lord Taketh Pour the warm, rich
bacon grease
into freshly fallen snow
like maple taffy
watch the starving magpie

peck suspiciously at the discoloration
expecting the sometimes necessary evil—
the salt and sulfur content—
of frozen dog piss
finding instead ambrosia
tucking in silently, aggressively

hardly believing his good fortune
much less expecting it to last
knowing that the gods of this earth
made the flesh of pigs a sin
so they could keep it to themselves
watch the raven always lurking

singing to somebody
about how back in the day
he let the sun loose from a caribou bag
still proclaiming godhood
despite being reduced to a diet
of kitchen scraps and garbage
forever ready
to snatch somebody else’s
good luck away
•
Päätimme Päätimme lähteä valloittamaan, malttamattomina pysymään paikoillaan.
lähteä Nyt olemme hautautuneet lumeen, vaipuneet "placebo" uneen.
Emme me osaa paimentaa tätä maisemaa, kaukana palaset liikkuu ja asetelma

odottaa.
Hetken vielä kaikki on paikoillaan, kunnes katoaa, uppoaa.
Olemme taantuneet, olemme vaipuneet eikä pohjoisen voimiin aarteisiin, syvällä

maan sisässä odottaviin saa kurottaa. Vaikka samalla lohkareet liikkuu ja
sisuksiaan paljastaa ja suuria palasia kuin vuoria pudottaa.
Mustassa kullassa valtioiden silmät, missä ovat sedimenttisen maan vapauden

vartijat, loitsujen taitajat, tundran armoilla vaeltajat?
Ei enää kulje viesti sukupolvelta toiselle.

Unohdettu kieli, alkoholilla turrutettu mieli.
Edistyksen askelia sähkön sinistä, kaupunki autioituu tehdas sammuu.
Esille kaivetaan menneisyyden muisto, sammuta valo syvän sinisen liekin palo!
Ja pimeyteen, mustaan häviää hylättynä asuttu talo.
Ja kun pimeys taas ottaa vallan täällä, vaipuu pois unet, taivas muuttaa värejään
syttyy sen sammuksissa olleet tulet.
•
after a cranberry moon red-stained fingers
•
The Red Surge of Softly danced the snow that night
Justice Where softly falling footsteps fell
While underneath the northern light
Began the tale that i now tell
Though not a man nor beast nor child

Did stir beneath that night so cold
The wolf did howl his song so wild
His primal call from times of old
There came a sudden blast so fierce

It broke the perfect solitude
And as the shot the night did pierce
The moon looked on as though subdued
T’was then that just one single sled

Dragged by thirteen raving husky dogs
Broke thru the icey veil ahead —
Slipped like a ghost ship from the fog
And then a second sled came forth

A man in red was at the head
T’was the famed legend of the north
Said to be the criminal’s dread
As both sleds raced into the night

The Mountie’s sled gained speed
Propelled by ‘le droit’ — the moral right
To protect the northern creed
150
But then a dropping cloud of grey
Hid the first sled from his sight
The Mountie strained to see his prey
Now swallowed by the night
After a time the Mountie slowed

The trail it seemed was lost
Tracks stopped where the Yukon River flowed
As though the first team had crossed
T’was then from the darkness the man

Flew upon his red-serged victim
It was part of his evil plan
To dispatch’im while he kicked’im
He launched at him with his knife

Hoping to catch his bare throat
But the Mountie who fought for his life
Was saved by the collar of his coat
Then tragedy played her card

When another man joined the fray
The Mountie who’d fought so hard
Could no longer save the day
And all for the love of a woman

Whose virtue the one had threatened
Had the Mountie gone after the villain
But had not on the second man reckoned
It was just a matter of time

Before the Mountie succumbed
And the two murderous kind
Laughed at the deed they’d done
They left him there in plain sight
On the blooded snow where he lay
Assured that their might was right
They continued on their way
But sometimes life would have you think

That you might have the upper hand
Free of the fear of the rotten stink
That comes from being an evil man
And so it was with our two outlaws

So sure they were free of blame
Thinking they had escaped the law’s jaws
With no remorse or shame
Then... from the fog behind them came

A powerful surge of red wind
The both of them stood still the same
As though they were there pinned
It took their very breaths away

And then left them for dead
So in the end He won the day
The spectre in Mountie Red
•
Over oss brenner atmosfæren
alltid fremmed, vi er halvt himmel selv
vi vet at vinden har bygd oss,
stjålet fra oss, stukket knappenåler i kinnene våre,
båret oss vuggende på hendene
i den lyse skabbrevnatten
der drømmene reiser
som grå skygger over asken.
De bleke tuene et svart ingenting.
Lyset fra døråpningen et taust kall
fra en tid som allikevel ikke er vår egen
øynene våre mørke skåler under stjernene
Og stjernene som ikke passer sammen
med stjernekartet, underlige bilder,
Nordstjernen løsnet i feil himmelretning,
trekker nordlysbåndet taust over himmelen.
•
The Runaway They liked to say that she left
the cold, dark north on a greyhound
bound for Edmonton
her backpack neatly stowed among parcels
destined for southern climes: leafy remnants
of the Vancouver Island rainforests,
peach-sweet Okanagan orchards. But
we know that isn't true.
•
nature's christmas lights retracing one’s steps on fresh snow
admiring the glimmering beauty

of snowflakes gliding earthwards
unhurried
outlining crudely the branches of a thousand pines
to feel the sun’s warmth in the crispy dry air

of an arctic february
and know that it’s there
(always)
to be in the presence of earth galore
a fleeting sensation
of grounding
in the wilderness within.
•
The Third Coast It took two nights, two days of aspens,
spruces, to reach Churchill by train.
I had a day; I couldn’t afford to stay.
All I wanted was to touch and taste the sea.
The rusting sign on the way to the beach
said there were polar bears. I didn’t take
my shoes and socks off; I quickly crouched
and dipped and touched cold fingers to my lips:
the sea was brackish, diluted by melting ice.
I sat in a white, wooden church while the noise

of a tour group left. Their guide waited at the door
for me. I explained I wasn’t in his group.
He sat me at the front of his bus regardless,
pretending not to hear me say I had no money.
The bus drove over snowless tundra, felling
arctic willow, neutering lichen. We stopped
to watch three polar bears: a mother
shouldering her cubs. Two Spanish men
lent me their binoculars. I saw the shadow
on the mother’s muzzle, her grubby teeth.
The Spaniards were small and beautiful as birds.

They were going to a tundra cabin, far from town,
with cameras, pencils and paints.
I wanted to watch white bears from a window
with them. My bed that night was a seat
on the evening train. I sat for two days
going south again, trying to draw dark noses,
shaggy paws, a taste of wild white sea breath
on my tongue.
160
•
Tuliainen Kaupungissa tyhjä hetki on haaste, joka kiusallisesti paljastaa
tahdon heikkouden. Erämaassa hiljaisuus ja rauha pyyhkii
mieleni puhtaaksi. Vasta kotimatkalla kohdatessani ihmisten
varautuneisuuden käsitän, kuinka avara maisema on avannut
mieleni. On vaikeaa hyväksyä heidän taipumuksensa sulkea
pois toisensa ja kadota ajatuksiinsa.
Koen häivähdyksen ahdistuksesta, jota lähdin erämaahan

parantamaan. Ahdistusta, jonka olin ehtinyt jo unohtaa.
Kaupungissa hyvinvointi vaatii jatkuvaa työtä, tietoista
ylläpitämistä. Säilyttämällä yhteyden luontoon pystyn
helpottamaan tuota työtä. Siihen tarvitsen mielikuvia. Niinpä
minunkin on torjuttava muut ja palattava mielimaisemaani,
erämaahan, jotta saisin tuotua mukanani tyyneyden ja
avoimuuden, jonka sain siellä osakseni.
Suljen silmäni ja joka kerta näen maisemassa jotain, jota en

ole aiemmin nähnyt. Jotain uutta. Jotain, jonka aavistan
vaikuttaneen minuun jo ensi kertaa tätä maisemaa
katsellessani, mutta jota vielä en kyennyt tunnistamaan.
Maisema otti minut osakseen ja minä koin maiseman
kokonaisena. Se ei torjunut osia minusta, enkä minä eritellyt
sitä osiin.
Palaan maisemaan yhä uudelleen, silmät suljettuna. Edessäni

kohoaa tunturin rinne, valloittamattomana. Seison suksilla,
kumpuilevalla suolla, jonka piirteet matalalta tuleva valo
paljastaa. Suon takana tunturikoivikko kimaltelee kuurassa.
Koivikon seassa seisoo hallitsevina yksilöinä muutamia
synkkiä mäntyjä. Ainoana äänenä kuulen sydämeni
rauhallisen rytmin ja kehoani kiertävän veren kohinan. Tämä
muisto on tuliaiseni.
•
One for a whining Tell my boy that summer’s over
weather reporter as he sucks dusty water
from a faded green hose
Tell him those leaves are dead
caught up by the wind
and crackling in giddy conversation
ecstatic ducklings taking first flight from a pond
Tell him it’s grown dark and cold
when the moon burns cold blue at noon and beyond
and the frostbitten currents
on the bushes next door
taste like an ice cream flavor concocted by God
Go ahead,
talk to him:
tell him there’s something
better
than
now
•
Neige luminaire
Vue circulaire
Noyau giratoire
Particule spontanée
Rayon polaire
Intégration lunaire
Gorge septentrionale
Réveil polaire
Concrète
Lumi valaiseva
maisema kiertyvä
Kiertyvä keskus
Spontaani hiukkanen
Polaarinen säde
Kuun yhdentyminen
Pohjoinen rotko
Polaarinen herätys
Konkreettinen
•
Max’s My name is Max and I’m four. Sometimes when we’re in the
Spruce Tip sandbox and Mama goes in the house, she asks me to watch my
Adventure sister Marleen. Marleen is only two.
“Tell her a story, Max,” Mama said today. “But tell it loud. I
want to hear you, too.”
Marleen said, “Tell the spruce story, Max. The one I’m in.”
“Okay.” I gave her my pail and shovel. “We went on holiday in
June and it was hot in the Yukon. But the mountains still had snow
on them and the sun never went down.”
“I know!” Marleen counted on her fingers. “There was me, you,
Mama, Papa, our uncles and grandma and grandpa.” All her
fingers were spread out. “And we flew in a jumbo plane.”
“Marleen, I’m telling the story!” She turned her back to me, but
her ears were still listening. “We lived in three big RVs that we
drove to Dawson to visit friends. They lived in a log house and their
garden was all forest. They said we had to pick our dinner! From
spruce trees.”
“Like this one?” Marleen ran off to the leafy trees at the back of
the yard.
“No.” I’ve shown her, lots. “Look for the needle trees. With
branches that grow like spiky fingers.” She put her hands on her
hips. I gave her another clue.
“And tips like brand new paintbrushes wrapped in sticky brown
paper. Our friends showed us, and how to pick along the sides of
the branches to leave the ends to grow. We all spread out to pick.
First I helped grandpa. He picked outside the tree and I was
underneath. It was like being under a big skirt.
“Next I helped the uncles working on one big tree. We were so
busy they didn’t even see the baby moose.
“Like the one in our alphabet book?” said Marleen.
“With wiggly ears and everything. It said ‘uuhhwwaa’ and… .”
Marleen copied me. “What’s that mean?”
I shrugged. “Anyway, I followed it. The moose was fast up and
down the hills. I sunk into spongy moss. His long legs walked over
the fallen logs. I had to climb. His big shoulders pushed through
clumps of bushes that I crawled under. And the mosquitos didn’t
bother him a bit. My legs got tired and my arms got scratched on
the prickly bushes. With little pink flowers, like on your dress.”
Marleen pulled on her skirt. “Roses.”
“We were in the dark part of the forest now. The wind came
and the trees waved hard: zisch, zisch, zisch. Some branches
smacked my face. Clouds raced over the sun. It started to rain. The
moss was slippery and the trees turned black. ‘Wait for me,’ I said
to the moose. I couldn’t even see it anymore.
“I wondered that Mama hadn’t called me yet. Funny that she let
me explore this long, all alone.
“And I really was alone. And wet. And hungry. I sat under a
tree to think.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” Marleen was near a patch of trees we
planted after our holiday.
“Mostly, I was hungry. I’d never been this hungry before. That’s
when I saw where I was. The moose had taken me to a place full of
spruce trees! This was the best spot ever! And the wind blew the
mosquitos away. I got up and picked as many spruce tips as I
could. My pail filled fast. But my stomach was empty. It sounded
like the moose. I missed Mama.”
Marleen nodded. “She always has something nice to eat.”
Suddenly Mama leaned out of the open window. “What Max? I
can’t hear you.”
“Can we have something to eat?” I said as loud as I could.
“Finish the story, Max.” Marleen flapped her hands. “You’re
almost at my part.”
“I ate a handful of spruce tips from my pail. At first they
prickled my tongue. But, when I chewed on them they tasted like
Christmas. I laughed and laughed and made so much noise the sun
came out to see what was going on.
“I remember!” said Marleen. “I heard you and said ‘Mama!
Max!’ and then Papa and grandma and our friends and everyone
found you.”
“I was so happy I ran over to show you. ‘Look. I picked all
these for dinner!’
“Everyone cheered and Papa carried me home on his
shoulders. The uncles cleaned the spruce tips on dry cloths and our
friends cooked dinner. We had spruce tip cookies for dessert. Who
knew you could eat trees!”
“These trees, Max?” Marleen waved a branch from the holiday
trees at me.
“That’s them!”
“And they look ready to pick, too,” said Mama from upstairs.
“I’ll get my pail!”
•
fresh snow on both
170
sides of the fence fresh tracks
•
Langt under de blå klippene slår det ukjente
med sporen i det kjølige mørket
små hjerter banker uhørlig der nede
og kjenner på lukta av saltvann om natta
Jeg er bare et kort pust i dette landskapet,
som om noen hvisket navnet mitt
og gikk igjen
På havbunnen skraper krabbeklørne mot hverandre
•
Riverine This is what I want
at the end of the day:
a husband to wash
my back with bar soap
and a rough cloth,
the evening sun

to illuminate the
houseplants, and the pale
tap root of happiness

to find me. Let’s not
talk about the election

forecast or the quality
of our politicians
or how the forests

stand for it—they are
already rising
on the hillsides
like hackles.
I’ve got some beers.

Let’s walk to the river—
It has already
travelled so far.
•
October 20th
On shore beneath a glacier the wind whips up

around us, the most furious storm on the trip. It is
snow, it is rain, something in between that cuts the
skin. The artists are making their final gestures in
the field. Heini Aho is trying to build a final fire
sheltered beneath chunks of ice. Willy Somma is
running all around, jumping onto icebergs, photo-
graphing herself in flight. Some of us are huddled
in a snow cave, one of us, Amy Wiita, is actually
swimming, in a dry suit. The wind whips up, snow
is all over our faces, and we can’t believe that
soon we will be going home and this whole
confined world, this small group tossed together in
the swaying seas to observe, to wonder, to create,
will all be disbanded, and we will have to figure
out how to hold onto this journey back in our usual
lives of warmth and of light.
•
Boneless As a child growing up on the Aishihik River,
my favorite food was rabbit brains,
and on the days my father checked the snares,
my mother and aunties
would fill the kitchen with laughter
to see this little girl
shoveling back fried rabbit brains
like it was strawberry ice cream
Now my own daughters will only eat chicken,

and then only the breasts
Buy them individually frozen,

boneless, skinless,
12 to a cardboard box

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POEM.

A — contemporary poetry, prose, drawings, journals, comics related to the Arctic

Published by artArctica ry. Helsinki, Finland. 2016.

poem.a is licensed under a Creative Commons 4.0 by-nd license.

Editing by Laonikos Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis (www.laonikos.com)

poem.a is a collection of printed artistic material connected to

— Laonikos & Lorenzö Helsinki 2016

artArctica is a group of artists with a passion for the Arctic,

— Alicia, Katarina, Laonikos

Mari Aaltonen, Hannele Ahola, Mariana Araujo, Esther Berelowitsch, Carmen

And a massive thanks to all the artists who so generously submitted

Rebecca Barfoot, Esther Berelowitsch, Laetitia Bischoff, Rosamaria Bolom, Phil

Åkesson, Martin (SE/FI)

Berelowitsch, Esther (FR/FI) — Bischoff, Laetitia (FR) —

Bolom, Rosamaria (MEX/FI)

Burns, Phil (USA)

Desimpelaere, Eva (BE/FI)

Erdman, Lisa (USA/FI)

Ernamo, Tuomas (FI)

Gontard, Lily (CA)

Hansen, Lana (GRL)

Hattu, Roope (FI)

Järvenpää, Timo (FI)

Korkula, Vili (FI)

Lera, Ruth (USA)

Lilley, Joanna (UK/CA)

Mas, Christelle (FR/FI)

Psimikakis-Chalkokondylis, Laonikos (GR/FI)

Roberts, Clea (CA)

Rönnberg, Kaj (FI)

Rothenberg, David (USA)

Salonen, Kasper (FI)

Skoglund, Anja (NO/DK)

Zucchiatti, Joe (CA)

We made our way

The moon lit our path, blanched from the sky

and kept leaving

Because the history

Because she took

and in this way

We are building a world that will never

jäämeren pohjaan jää

I remember the eighteenth century, and the notion

And yet this giant beauty today seems ours

Today I played my soprano saxophone aboard the

When I first came to Finland

When I first came to Finland

In Finland, I think people are very honest.

Sometimes, when I’m sitting with a group of people

Rakasta hetkinen, hetkinen kuu

Rakasta hetkinen, hetkinen kuu

We wait for a partner

Where is the fright that rises to the surface

It’s time to stop chewing our fingernails

so soft on the snow —

Såhär skriver Märta Tikkanen i ”Storfångaren” (1989):

”Mycket liten blir en människa i Människornas land,

VARFÖR JUST TILL GRÖNLAND?

”Trots att jag i många år bott och arbetat i tropikerna, känns