Wednesday, 26 February 2020

The Masters

In the Governorate of Estonia, serfdom was abolished in 1816 (in comparison, in the whole Russian Empire it was abolished in 1861), however the land was not redistributed among the peasants and the corvée labor was preserved (until 1876). The American Civil was fought from 1861 to 1865, with slavery abolished by the Thirteenth Amendment in 1865. The poems if about the changing face of the colonialism.

We were the good masters,
taking Christ and glass beads
to uneducated savages.
Their lords became our henchmen.

The hostile tribes
felt the impotence
or hatchets and clubs.
Back crooked, they waiting for us
as if for hail, a thunder
they have never experienced.

We gave them cold,
as cold is good.
We taught them to read
Bible and count money,
because these are good as well.
We forced them to build houses,
until cities sprouted.
Plaza de Armas, Central Square –
the castles and fortresses
showed our power
and the savages understood
that these are good.

Their little castles
of palm leaves, earth and dung,
thick logs, rocks and corrogated iron,
modern blocks, aluminum, glass,
roof tiles and drywall
absorbed our power.

The savages learned to write poetry.
They used our alphabet to compose their epics.
They too religion from us, and it was good.
They took our habits and way of life,
made wigs of Samson’s hair
and held country fairs.

We, the masters, retreated.
Our parachute men
rose to Algerians sky and flew away.
Dandellions had flowered
and a rotting couch stood on the porch.

The the cicada could fiddle
on their miserable folk instruments.
A festival tramped on the memory
of our power.
“Come back!” a Little Master called,
and we went,
leaving the chapels for bush and grass.

We ceased to live
but didn’t die.
As an ivy we sucked the last strenght
from the old walls.
In our stables they built restaurants
and the tribes fought as in the olden days.

We were the good masters,
but the goodness did not maintain our power.
We are tired,
but we cannot leave.

We cannot call us the good ones,
because savages are not bad any more.
The peculiar pagan faiths
are honored again.

So we hide the stuffed pygmys
to the restricted collections
of ethnographical museums.
We send apologies to Central Africa.
We bow our head in mourings
for the Iranian nuclear scientists.
We celebrate holocaust day
and demand Israel to recognise Palestine.
We talk of xenophobia and privay policy.

Great American companies
honestly hint
the they are guilty of eating the bees.
The tongue of Rolling Stones
is still swollen
after licking the honey
of the developing countries.

We call ourselver West
and West, it’s the light coloured people.
Never trust a blonde.
The blaze of evil blue eyes
rises over Davos.

Our skiis have the power
when we slide down the hills.
White hell, white kingdom.
If we cannot be the masters of good,
we are the masters of evil.

We tramp to the mud
everybody who tells
that our Hitler was less or a bastard
than Stalin or Mao.
We’re antifa just to maintain
the power of fascism.
We buy canned food
from biomarkets
and take an airplane to converence
to discuss climate change,
caused by technology –
technology, it’s us.

We are the bad masters,
but we rule the world.
We are tired,
but not ready to leave.

The bigger our guilt,
the more powerful we are.

No need for dumbbells
and education
to be a sexist pig.
Your ancestry is enough
to be evil and strong.

The white master, walking on tiptoes –
your flat muscles
conceal an amazing power.
Oh, white lady, prophessing trouble,
a girl with history,
you have seven billion children,
who must obey to your wisdom.

It’s you who knows how to live.
You’re old.
Your the lady of the house.
Your man is the master.
Lips sticky with apple juice
you talk of your guilt,
bigger that the others have.

Plaza de Armas, Central Square –
with alphabets learned from the masters
the savages paint slogans there.

Plaza de Armas, Central Square –
you, the savages, gulp the guilt of your masters
like stolen honey.
Your tongues get swollen,
but your chest if puffy of bride.
You’re young,
and you are not leaving.

You have seven billion children.

The Hole of Rock’n’roll

Same socks for the fouth day,
lips red as settings sun,
tale so free and puffy,
hand holding a coffee cup with beer –
so I stand on the planet.

The last gurgles of a male choir.
A tradition if fullfilled,
and there is no more to come.

The last song festival or Oktoberfest,
the last Canterbury festival,
the last summe solstice,
the last war in Afganistan.

There are moment I have no idea
which handle to pull.
How to influence the world machine
so it won’t crush me?

A toothbrush it the only item
connecting me and humanity.
I spit the deep thoughts
into the sink
and get myselft ready.

It’s almost evening
when they drive us somewhere.
It’s almost empty, the community hall
where the native are shown
a poet,
who’s on an unpaid leave
for the fifth year in row,
needed by everybody,
invited to events –
like a big black butterfly
it the ceiling of it’s own room.

And then it’s over
as is never to repeat itself.
The buttles shed their hats
to honour the youth.
And there you stand,
just by the counter,
young and hot
like a iron in gas state.

Now there’s no shame
to be famous,
to laugh and swagger,
make fool of myself
and then sport profoundness,
to the be first fish to grow legs,
to stands of a bar table
and after that
just tell her: “Let’s leave this place”.

The coolness rises from the dark river
throught thin branches.
It’s not summer yet, but the juices are flowing.
You get naked
to the pleasure of all anglers.
And I choose the path
back to nature.

The people are are in the bus again,
the fallen friends and laughed about.
All of the rise from the dead –
an army of zombies takes the stage.

The girl looks as if
she carries a pussycat in her purse.
Somewhat shy,
somewhat confident.

This journey is forever.
The yellow gold of late summer
flowing by the windows
and I am not aware
if it’s this or the next autumn on the way.

Three rows to the front
sits a crestfallen Icaros,
looking at me as if to say:
“You ain’t gonna catch that sun.”

All lifetime with the same pair of socks,
wings fluttering
like an impotent Pegasus.
The rich tits of the world
force into the submissive face –
still I manage to get up
and escape to the wilderness.

Where could I find a paper so clean
that all the words wouldn’t seem dirty?
How awry must the park bench be
so that the humans
would drop from it?
Whoops and whoops
like candies in a factory.

Honest questions pulsate in my head.
I take a mouth full of moonshine
and forget it all.

Now it’s time.
Now I’m really here.
Right here in this moment,
directly and knowing nothings.

I’m surrounded by snowdrift
and dandellions,
rosehips are in bloom
and the lindend trees shed gold,
as if they don’t pity
the yellow billowing rye fields.

And I feel –
I just have to take one step
to cross this green hill
and there, in front me
it opens –
the hole of rock’n’roll.

In dividio

Individual. In dividio. Indivisible.
How much have I tryed to give
to earn from your
indivisible radiance?

I see a slender tower
of a distant church
partially hidden by trees.
It’s a tall spruce.

I walk, a yellow garbage bin in my hand
to the back of the plot of my country house,
where deer and village dogs
look for bread and fish scraps,
rotten bananas,
exotics from overseas,
ashes and diamonds.

Through the years
I tryed to provide you
with best pieces of myself,
never asking
if you prefer bread of fish scraps,
poetry or earrings,
dinners or a shoulder rub.

Individual. In dividio. Indivisible.
Somewhere there’s a beautiful apple,
but those who bite on it
are just random worms.

I put the yellow bin
on the concrete cover of the well.
Now empty, it is blowns away
overwhelmed by the breath of the world.

The lake across the street
is trying to break out of itself,
to grow into a sea.

The lake resembles me today –
defiance in it’s gray blood.

Individual. In dividio. Indivisible.
Constantly distressed to find peace.
And so
it’s impossible to light bonfires
in the windows of strangers.
And so
it’s not possible to earn
windless years.

Only then
when you come as knife
against my scales,
against my dry fish skin,
a piece of my is released
on your salty tongue.

My soul, where do you flow?

My soul, where do you flow?
Down to the river and hill,
by the road of nameless sorrow.

My soul, where do you flow?
Through the bitter throat of a dandellion,
to blow myself into the wind.

My soul, where do you flow?
By the mirror smooth
pubic glaciers or London girls.

My soul, where do you flow?
In the thick bush of network cables
looking for oblivion.

My soul, where do you flow?
In narrow old trenches,
through the bog to Australia!

My soul, where do you flow?
In the spring of headless hens
Knocking on the sky.


Voices getting dull and mute
in the buzzing of oveloaded batteries
of a child.

Voices we even don’t notice
when we make those.

Loud music
flowing out of open pores
as the sweat of young hearts.

Monotonous voices
forming the light-footed cardiogram
of our days.

And right then these are the brightest
when we have no time
to listen –
and when we finally do it
it’s all too loud.

The buzzing of pubs
in the middle of walls
of the old town.
The humming of cars or freeways.
The shrieks and shouts
from the playgrounds,
forgotten meaning of these,
forgotten by the ones
who are scared to become children again.

Voices getting dull and mute
in the ears, deafened by years.

Too much wisdom.
To many experiences.

If only we could life forever –
I guess the the moment would arise
when we remember all of it at once
and then really
stretch over the ocean of time.

If only it would be possible
to live forever –
until now I didn’t get
why we need it so much.

The buzzing of pubs
in the middle of walls
of the old town.
The hungry smack on the water,
a pike ready to spawn
in the river of the very old town.

Loud pumping music
in the shopping window
of a very young person
pacing by.
Go ahead, you can see it all,
you can recognise
your own ears, hungry for sounds,
sincere and shameless.

Voices becoming silence.

But not now.
Not just yet.
You can listen now.

Any voice, any sound
is better then silence.

Saturday, 1 February 2020

Jõeäärsed tapatalgud

Vaata, nurgas rahvakunstnik
segab suus kokteili.
Pepsit Coca-Colaga.
Teised joovad veini.

Kell on võrdlemisi palju,
pilk on süütu, looriga.
Naljakas ei ole, siiski
õhtu imet sooritab.

Švipsis neiud saavad naisteks,
kõigil tarvis tantsida,
kõigile on elult vaja
üllatusi santida.

Saba lühem olla võiks ja
peldik värskelt kasitud.
Vanaema surres oli
elamisest väsinud.

Anoreksia, askeetlus –
terve ilm on häiritud.
Nälgind vaimus tõuseb veetlus,
kui beljaš on näritud.

Kuidas tunda ära, millist
unistust peab teostama?
Tühisus on liiga mõnus,
kipub elu reostama.

Kuidas teha nii, et iga
hetk võiks olla pühalik?
Vaid sandaalid jalas valgel
väljal seista üha siis,

kui on vaikind viimne tehas,
ajalugu lõppenud.
Kuidas elus nõnda teha,
et näeks surmas sõpra uut?

Midagi sa ära karda,
koidab lõpu hakatus.
Seal, kus jõgi tasa voolab,
ees on tapatalgud ju.