Esa Hirvonen: The Hunger of the Urals – 3 poems

Poems by Esa Hirvonen

AIYAH LEH

Oh England your lost empire, Indian spice trade,
liao lah, all the long gone gods, Liverpool hits
stones of Stonehenge have seen a lot, still staying stoned,
where are your prophets now
they speak singlish now lalalaa and long for curry,
manglish they sing shilalaa

Oh Celts, Eires, when the greatest of anglosaxons, David Beckham scores
and walks alone, what happens to the language, fish and chips,
oh Ireland your potatoes and independence, stout and black Irish,
who threw the first bomb, oh me who so self sure studied your language
should have stopped psychedelics back then o´reddy: heresceafta heap?
Ic eom Hroðgares ar ond ombiht. Ne seah ic elþeodige!
þus manige men modiglicran, are the strangers in an odd mood…

Whatever they talk about in the London Underground, oysters with tabasco,
lemon or even mint jelly, Victoria Station by night, bum a dime, go North,
Beowulf orders kebab, a hundred thousands didgeridoos memorise your youth, oh-ha, oh endless (Yorkshire pudding) green meadows and scary sheep,
beauty of the wool and this night, when we walk from the moors to Loftus,
whip girl waiting in The Shakespeare pub in Durham City, chains in my bag,
kil-kal, oh if this could all be just a dream, King of Denmark in Christiania
lies on strawberry fields and blueberry hills and does not think, aiyah,
cannot wait any no more, must go o´reddy.

Oh Hadrianus your spa lasted longer than your wall
and still they drink ale here, not Litina Barbera d´asti Superiore
and oh me, who is taken to the Lion and Parrot to sober up,
þus manige men modiglicran, all my loved ones, who have forgotten me,
aiyah, tape is running o´reddy, I´m recording on my back now,
Abbey Road is calling, must go o´reddy, what are we leaving behind us,
even the brave ones are afraid now, aiyah leh, gimme more drum,
cause tonight I´ll drink my last grand and return to Finland….

Translated by Bob Beagrie & Andrew Willoughby

PENGUINS

We get lost on the first day.
Friendly gentlemen from a remote alley
want so desperately to guide us.
Heads are turning at the bar,
the females wonder who we are,
the lads take only one look
and concentrate on the African cup,
an important game against Cameroon.
I´ve never felt myself
so white.

“Visiting without companion would be foolish.
If a black friend is happy to escort you,
you should have no problems.”

I give a couple of rands to a legless beggar,
when the tenth guy comes to tell me that
“we are good people, but all the others
in this bar wnts to rob you”.
I no longer dare to leave my babe
alone at the table,
even with my bladder full.

A while ago everyonev was
a slave of Cape Town.
Now they are building work centres the women,
Mary is helping the whole block with her hostel,
100 000 new flats for the homeless,
Mandela´s favourite chef teaches
the unemployed for the Cape´s tourist restaurants.

Khayelitsha, Guguletu, Katutura.
All are hoping for better tomorrows
and in the meantime to get by.
Angry rap is playing in the ambocap.
We are stared at like the penguins
of Simon´s Town.

Here a life costs just a ferw quid
and everything else is almost nothing.

Translated by Bob Beagrie & Andrew Willoughby

HOW I MET MY FOX AGAIN IN URALS

Jur-jar kumuska, Jur-jar kumuska!
Shouts and songs fill the village of Aljonastsi
grandmas in their national costumes are offering
udmurtian moonshine and a ringdance.

Kumuska is supposed to be downed in one,
when you have had enough
you reject the offer twice
and third time taste just a bit.

No one told me
so I´m turning glasses over and go around
until I´m returned to the beginning.

I´m a young boy again
on my first shaman trip
but also that old bearded man who drew
a strange figure on the land in my vision,
same symbol is set with deer bone
in wooden udmurtian jewelry.

By the river Kama I continue my journey
I´m again the smooth cheeked lad
who lost his longtailed power animal
met a young maiden in the forest and found a spring.

From the spring arose a naked woman and man,
pipe and bottle, I hear a maiden´s voice:
Drink this spring to the bottom.

Drums are booming and campfire is humming,
I´m laying still, my eyes shut,
somebody thinks I´ve passed out.
I get up, take a sip of shaman vodka,
shout Jur-jar, walk with certain steps through
the fire and dive into the waves of Kama.

I get up from the water a bearded wise man,
though I still get lost in the wilderness and cities
and believe all that young women teach.

Translated by Bob Beagrie & Andrew Willoughby