[Some of these poems are either composed in English by Erna or translated by Erna herself.]

In a new era

In a new era
to the far shore,
to the heart desire,
You will go,
You have many new days.

Over the waters in a new era
to be together on ancient coasts, 
You will go,
You have many new days.

In my thoughts I am with you
On your great journey
sending along light words,
You have a heavy lot to bear.

I walk as in a dream these days

I walk as in a dream these days,
without much thought I know
one day I will wake up there, in reality.

Now I listen, there isn't anymore
anyone there from my days.

The is a window nailed shut and sand,
and in the slow breeze of eternity
sway a few grass stalks.

Love me!

Love me, love me!...
What's -- me?
Is there still -- me?
I think -- it is.
Then I remember -- 
there is no more -- me.
Love me, love me!
What is still there
what I think is -- me.

Be smart

Be smart (you said)
just for yourself --
you could catch a salmon
first hand,
dig clams -- 
just like truffles
are potatoes,
make a chowder.
Then what more?
Lay on your back
or tummy,
don't bother 
even to cover yourself
let nature take over.
Come on this ferry one day
from Vancouver here over
(there's plenty of it here...)

Flowerbeds

Now, in all the wide flowerbeds, 
in all tree-free places in the park,
roses were abloom   
with blossoms, like red, pink and
golden clouds,
and she (Rita) sat on the heavy bench --
waiting.
Rita forced herself not to stand up
not to rush to the other bench. 
Why to the other? From/of restlessness.
There near the other bench the patch of 
the roses clung nearer.

I did not know

I did not know
that a human's heart is so wide --
from shoulder to shoulder,
and when it's cut
you lie in a sea of blood
with a wound -- from shoulder to shoulder.

I did not know
that a human's heart is so deep
as the deepest well
filled with melting lead
burning like hell
in your chest a volcano's crater.

I loved you

I loved you
Because I thought
You loved me.
Now you will love me
Because
I loved you.

Your portrait 

Your portrait on the wall.
Jumper, black
and hair,  black,
an even, reddish colour
all around, brick red
like a warm fire.
Your face in the centre, quiet
pale golden, young rose,
a young rose, alone
wrapped in your petals, 
in deeply serious, gentle goodness.
Your portrait on the wall
rings with warm fire
from dark eyes.
Your time, my time
daily, warming the winter through.

Visitors, clouds 

Soft, clear, sun-filled day
wafts of warm, silent breezes.
Across the hill, on the forest’s southern side, 
clouds are gathering. As though from a different shore…
    They gather around, seem familiar,
    as though they all had grown
    long ago, in  another forest’s southern side
    long ago, in another harvest-time morning.
Reflecting white in a river in the motherland,
having come, travelled across oceans,
for no particular reason, just like old relatives,
to come see and have a chat -see how things are here.
    Visitors, clouds, you, from a different shore,
    thank you for your sombreness on this fine day.
    Long, long ago times, most precious language,
    the heart had a drink from that good joy of old. 

I’d like to go to the mountains

I’d like to go up into the mountains
to look for time past
If it’s left here already,
it might still be there.
Seated at the little old mill wheel
half lazy, half active
year in, year out, the mountain dweller 
half lazily, half actively turns (the wheel)
he might be stuck there.
A farmer passes by
and blows his pipe smoke onto it,
like onto an apple tree branch,
so that it blossoms long and blessedly.
The plainsman, however, 
at some evil hour
wants to push the mountains away,
to see the sun rise, and set
at the horizon, to change everything.
But that is not allowed.
In uniform peacefulness, 
locked and hemmed in by the mountains,
year in year out, the mountain man there
goes up the winding path,
goes down the winding path
and time has not rushed off anywhere.
Whipped up by sharp streams.
scolded by rocky cliff voices
the old fellow could still be there,
stored away in rooms of spruce.

A vision

A silence so oppressive -
Seems about to burst with a hellish noise, 
and strew the world full of fragments,
which will have become one, united:
Because the walls will crumble.

Liberated art images will stand naked - 
stone, marble, bronze -
will loosen their limbs, change positions,
smiling at the open sky
will take up their poses again and
will transmit their messages in peace.

Music, released from closed concert halls,
will flow in waves, over the ruins of walls
like millions of pantheons.
Sand, glass, concrete and precious stones will sparkle in the sun.
 People will sit in little groups,
chatting and offering each other fruits.
And then -
Then they will grab shovels, and trowels, and saws
	and, wailing terribly,
	will build walls, walls, walls.

The way of the heart

The closer I get
bridges begin to wobble
and tunnels glimmer,
loads shift,
traffic lights start flashing erratically, 
the world that had been peaceful
starts attacking without warning.
I hold on to flowers,
clutch at speeding trains
I walk through walls searching for sentry points,
but doggedly, hurriedly
I come closer to you
without war plans
without weapons
just with a fierce fighting spirit.
It has gone on for ages now
and the minutes go so slowly
the heart falters in the light of such happiness
but
in secure pride
it swings again like a magnetic needle
towards its north pole,
towards its south pole
and trembles
but unwavering
it shows its side of the world.
It must be obeyed,
its path must be followed
no war plans
no weapons.

Traces of Hours 

I run around from place to place
in this green world.
I do not approaching your home --
let it stay warm in the centre like a heart,
which you will not see.

Take the ferry

Take this ferry one day 
from Vancouver
and come over
to the beaches of the island.
Make a garland
for yourself
out of sheer grass, sand
and roses.
One supposes
this is a tourist worthy land.
Walk in thongs along the strand,
listen to the songs of birds
out of the branches
and your heart.

Endless beauty

There is endless beauty before us, Ken! 
Or it may turn to be the doom. 
I don't know if we can choose... 
Or we have to go blind. If we go... 
I don't know if we are so strong, 
that we can go, and not -- fall to dust.

You are waiting

You are waiting for me to smile
To tell you if I loved you
I could no smile
For one who
Is buried 
To death
Cannot smile.

In front of me you put
your hands on the shoulders
of other women
to show me --
how easy it was
to be friendly
and happy.
I knew
you were wrong.
Never you could 
put your hands
on my shoulders
easy and friendly 
and happy.
Your hands would burn
and melt would my shoulders
in pain.

Time

With the golden sand of the minutes
The time covers up those days
When we were near each other
In a million factive ways
First (of all?) – there was the time –
Your pure and delicate whistling
As somewhere high from the skyes
Behind, when I was banging
Very hungrily and lonely
The recreation hall’s piano keys:
And there in the minute long time//dreaming
There came the heaven to us
Of being so close together
As (you can never)//no one can be on the earth
Bewildered, shy and (though) eager
Afterwards wandered//met our eyes
– only to discover –
So heavenly near as in the music
We never can be on the earth
Through golden sand of the minutes
Bewildered, shy an eager
Still can see your eyes
The time pours over our days
As flood that over us rises

It seems to me

It seems to me
A Xmas tree
Is near you
When you look at me:
The warm trembling glow of the candle lights...
The unspoken wishes flow in a song
Sincere, childish and soft
And down to the mankind
Comes holy night
The mildest of all the nights
It seems to me 
Once met I that
Under the breath
Of a Xmas tree
It might be hundred years ago
But still your hands
Are holding though
The unseeable presents for me.

Rock me

Rock me, rock me in your hands
The clock ticks mildly and the sands 
Are flowing in hot waves far in the desert
Only the waves of golden sands
Rock me, rock me in your hands
They are kind and cuddle me mildly
They protect me from the sands
Flowing in dead waves over our minutes.

What can I do for you? 

You gave me back the world
As a birthday present
I got the world’s greatest city from you –
What can I do for you?
I got the trees with a thousand winds
With a million wheels all laughing
From you
What can I do for you? 

You gave me back the world
The same old and
A quite new world
What can I do for you?
As a birthday present
I got the world’s
Greatest city, from you!
What can I do for you?
What can I do for you? 

I got the trees with
A thousand winds
In Hyde Park, from you
And avenues and streets with
A million wheels
All laughing, from you.
What can I do for you? 

[variant]:
You gave me back the world
An empty time had stolen from me
I got the trees with a thousand winds
All laughing – from you
What can I do for you?
As a Christmas present
I got the world's largest
City from you
With bridges and streets
And a million wheels all
Laughing from you.
What can I do for you? 

My heart 

I enjoy my heart
I love my heart
I love I hope I have my heart
It’s as alive as a bird that sings
It’s as alive as child that cries
It’s as alive as a tooth that aches
I love my heart
It’s so alive. 

Parting 

Tomorrow we will part!
I felt you crying in your bed
Crying alone in the dark
Bitterly, bitterly, desperately
Did you forgive me
My pride and all
Did you come back
To my love and all?
I heard you crying bitterly,
Parody [travesty]
I felt you creeping away from me
Creeping away from me furtively. 

A hundred years 

Hundred years have passed
My heart is hard and stale
Could the softness of your kisses
Still wake her
Or they would fail
In this deserted dryness?
O, she is awake she is
Awake as a bird. 

Drunk 

I am drunk
And now I feel
You are drunk
And you’re with me.
When you are drunk
You are more alive
Than when you aren’t
Because you don’t worry
When you are drunk
About your physical being
But enjoy your spirit's existence. 

Song of life 

My holy loneliness
With blues, and greens
And mountains.
O, world, my own
My lovely
World of dreams.
My dreams so true,
I sing with you
My song
My song of life!

Honey suckle

There is a danger 
A danger in the cool, fresh air 
In the windy, bright day 
There is a rock 
There is a rock in your way 
You know, you know it 
You don’t see it, You know. 
You don’t want to know it 
You want to see it. 
You want to see – there is 
No rock in your way. 
It’s honey suckles, just 
Honey suckles 
You want to touch it 
The rock in your way 
To prove – its just honey suckles 
To reach behind danger 
For the promise of the breath of honey suckles.

As you were

You can’t be always (here)
Be sometimes
Be once again
As you were
There is no time to nule[?]
That can change it

Sands of time

With the golden sand of the minutes
The time covers up those days
When we were near each other
In a million factual ways
First (of all?) – there was the time –
Your pure and delicate whistling
As somewhere high from the skyes
Behind, when I was banging
Very hungrily and lonely
The recreation hall’s piano keys:
And there in the minute long time//dreaming
There came the heaven to us
Of being so close together
As (you can never)//no one can be on the earth
Bewildered, shy and (though) eager
Afterwards wandered//met our eyes
– only to discover –
So heavenly near as in the music
We never can be on the earth
Through golden sand of the minutes
Bewildered, shy an eager
Still can see your eyes
The time pour over our days
As flood that over us rise

Thunderstorm  

A storm has come up!!
In the streets, onto fences, the sand, the rubbish is flying about,
candy papers, swimming trunks, cats - one big mess, 
something crashes from the roof, tearing through washing,
jam tins echoing 
from overturned garbage bins;
but over everything, past all the eaves and edges,
past the doors and windows - the whistling,
the howling of the sea!
That does one good!
That does one good! 
Parched for want of rage,
twisted, bent by all the politeness,
in this crazy frenzy	
as though plunged right into the swim.

At some event, or…other

[Dedicated to H.K.]

One by one, the lamps go out.
You're wrong, I tell myself.
it couldn't be,
It’s still light, as it was before.
But someone approaches
an acquaintance, fellow traveler,
“One by one, the lamps go out.”
he says,
and I know - it’s true.
It's getting darker.
it couldn't be,
there has to be some light somewhere.

“One by one, the lamps go out.”
he says,
and I can feel - he is not lying.
He can't lie anymore,
to try to fool himself,
that everything is bright as it was
the way I’m still trying to do…

“It shouldn’t be like this,”
he says
and I can feel that he is suffering.
It can’t be happening like this,
we can't just be left in the dark,]
there has to be some light here somewhere.

Maybe we could hold hands
in the dark…

But he is already gone -
into the dark.

As if filled with lead    

As if filled with lead - limbs
and spirit,
undone, by just one word, subtly concealed
What? Not exactly hate.
just the implication of blame.
So-
to be immobilised in
silence again,
to cover with civility, politeness,
sprinkle the little seeds of understanding
and overlay the given day with peace.
To melt the lead.

In this city

I glance into pubs
and warm, steaming eateries,
reading rooms and cafes
and I know -
this street is dead, spent,
its sunset hour is here,
people and buses go the other way, like crabs,
and smiles are strewn
all over the town like dead fish.
But my footsteps are tethered here,
I can't be anywhere else
I turn, turn around, come back,
and pick up fish
diligently –
in streets, doorways, stairs,
in half-empty and in crowded halls,
pushing through the biggest crowd
and gathering up fish,
till they all seem to have been collected,
until there is only stone and iron,
until there is only stone and glass,
only stone and sand,
until there is only water and sand,
only water, water…
I am by the sea -
fish are alive here,
but cunning, hidden,
planes are on the lookout for them
and then the alarm rings out on the shore –
living fish are dangerous
living smiles too.
But still-
one must return to the city,
must listen for when the alarm bell will ring out,
when the smiles will come back to life.

In the window of your house

The roof of the neighbour's house shines there wanly,
glitters in the moonlight, but behind it
the city switches on its lights,
and coming home over long distances,
planes, like slow bees,
suddenly heavy with their load,
over the roofs, look for home.
Your high window,
a safe place to sit,
to mourn the evening hour, celebrate it,
feel the world’s journey through the cosmos
one and all, together.
The park is below, the loudspeaker voices begin]
shouting the slogans of this life, its catchwords.
Lying there in your window
evaluating and judging
the neighbouring roof, the moon,
the city lights, the world’s journey.

Aspen in the window of the house  

The aspen, already spreading out in the darkness,
stretching up, stands
adorned in its green battle dress
the whole summer through
Lilac blossoms overhead, I tread
marvelling:
…The waters of the river Aiviekste are starting to recede along the shoreline
beneath blue and green dragonflies…
Time has gone by,
what do you look like now,
my companion from those halcyon days?
How? Where are you?
Hush. No one asks that.
It’s not even - mentioned.
Stay within the bounds, my heart.
Within the bounds.

Sounds of summer    

Summer has its own sounds,
its own rhythm:
the way the wheels turn in the street,
swarms of insects buzz,
water gurgles, becoming shallower,
uncovering the depths –
releasing reedy, muddy odours.
Everything in equilibrium,
a steady force relentlessly pulls
all of creation towards ripeness,
you have to surrender, to follow too.

Eternity is now    

Eternity is - now!
the morning told me
awakening before its own light,
with a star still on its cheek.
Eternity is - your hands, encountering everything,
your eyes - seeing,
your steps - touching the earth and the sea,
thoughts - growing through days, nights,
finding yourself near, far…
eternity is - now
the comings and the goings
while - you exist.

Poem    

A cypress, locking itself into the cloud,
glistens/spreads out against the morning sun.
Summer has arrived.
Ask the wind - where do the roads lead?
Roads always come back,
from castles in ruins they come back,
peter out furtively,
like streams 
over rocks and pebbles.
And begin, as streams begin,
with a few steps…
Ask the wind,
where do new roads lead?

I salute those flowers   

I salute those flowers,
growing by railway lines
near all kinds of crossroads,
bridges, embankments,
in between the cement and stones,
eternally thirsty
in that harshness
but with – a lot of sun.
They do not even merit a glance
from the busy seekers
roaming the highways for miracles.
You, flowers,
among the cement and stones,
in the sun under layers of dust]
sometimes waft a soft light
across my face,
bending in the rush of wind from sirens,
and straightening up again with patient rhythm
I acknowledge you, along windy fences,
along the world’s grand highways
among rocks.

The sea   

Coming nearer one can already feel the dampness in the air,
the wind brushes the face as though with gentle fingers…
And then - one can already inhale
real salty sea air.
But, when all that wide space opens up,
it’s hard to know anymore what to do -
whether to become a bird, a squawking seagull,
or become, house oneself in some seashell,
which the sea washes and washes,
rocks and rocks,
churns and churns,
grinds and pounds,
and who knows-
ills and empties yet again,
like some new bell,
wherein all the voices and whistles of sky and earth resound,
But when you catch sight of fishermen, anglers with their tackle,
then you sit down quietly on the rock
and, dipping your feet into the water, think:
Oh well, it is alright, the way it is.
And there will be fish for dinner.

To Sydney’s Martin Square sculpture

You bring the clouds down
on your faceted surfaces
allowing them to hover
near us
you make the sky
smile in our faces
roofs, windows, pinnacles,
all together are then reflected in you,
and our thoughts play;
you lighten oppressive heaviness
lifting us upward,
as in work, as in dance,
boldly, from the height of buildings,
to the depths of streets, equally
you sweet-talk us,
bringing hints of
other world cities
carry us to greet them.  

On Sydney’s suicide rock    

Insignificant, the size of your hand,
which you, with eager delight, strength,
reach out towards the ocean,
beckoning it to your embrace,
that it might rise up onto the high cliff
in waves blue-green, like wings,
come to meet you
across from the clouds, on the rock.

The ocean at your feet
lies, rocking just for itself.
It won’t ever climb into your arms,
as you stand there on the rock.

Yet for a moment, you feel,
for one minute the roar of the waves,
rising up with their sound
the ocean in your arms
as you stand there on the rock.

And you feel - that splendour
which you, human, can’t have
And you know - such a yearning
that it’s almost indecent, O human.

Look away from that darkness, unsated,
let the ocean be at your feet
and you alone high up on the rock.

The vast expanse of sea   

The vast expanse of sea
opens up white waves towards the wind
as though it were a field of flowers,
as though it were a field of flowers -
leaves, petals, where the wind plays
toying with such care,
as though stroking a child’s hair.

The wide expanse of sea
fairway of the sun, of storms,
just teasing the eyes,
arms reaching but a short distance
on the shore, where seagulls are napping.

The vast, far-reaching expanse of sea
streams through life,
flows forth, flows away, stirs one,
emboldens one, deserts one
it in its place - you in yours
portioning out the day.

Raining on the sea  

It was raining out at sea
and a rainbow had bent down to drink
through the storm clouds,
where mountains appeared
and another piece of sky showed through.
You cannot drink from the sea,
but maybe she drew the water
from those currents,
filtered by rain,
and the water, carrying
seeds for the earth, was alive.

It was raining on the sea,
there, at the crossroads of ships
the soul had gone to drink.

It was on that day  

It was on that day,
when Christ was standing in the doorway at David Jones
eating chips
(barefoot, bearded, bright)

It was on that day,
when all the girls were off down to the sea 
half-naked, and bare,
hair loose over their shoulders,
like Holy Marthas, Marias and Magdalenes.

That day, when the neat and elegant
salvation army played and sang in the street
and said, that they never go on strike,
you can come to them at any time
and sign up to God.

That day was full of many
holy visions,

lots of water, sun, seagulls,
lots of laughter and warm sand,

that day you were still with me.

A lover’s stroll

I stretch my hand towards the street - cars
crawl up into my palm
like flashing fireflies,
streaming fast, up to the eyes, over the shoulder…

I look up - houses
press their foreheads together.
The stone, with window spectacles
smiles broadly over the walls…

Standing on the pier - dizziness
wine still on the lips, a whole mountain of wine, 
a ship thrown in
like oysters with extraordinary flavours…

The ground disappearing underfoot,
without support I collapse onto the bench.  

Lovers    

After perilous and sad detours
we meet again,
as though setting off on a world trip,
we come together
and stand close,
as if we were trees,
rooted in the same earth,
soughing with one wind;
bending further apart
coming back closer,
every denial
is a new admission.
Two dolls in a puppet theatre
at the hands of one puppeteer,
till - he forgets to give us each a role,
till - some thread has unraveled,
and almost without noticing it
you’re dancing, bowing, smiling alone.

Windows	 

A multitude of lit-up windows
climb rapidly into the night sky
light up with oomph
and sway in the darkness,
gold, pink, blue blending,
depicting squares, rows,
precise skyscraper shapes.
And then, one by one, go out.
As though echoing the stars
gently petering out
following their example.
Are they extolling night or day,
earth or sky,
these new star signs?
What truths do you seek
slinking there, beneath their eyes?
Or in what window
is your evening star?
Morning star?

Mistaken identity

Today a stranger came into the yard
where, with the July sun fading,
in the shade of the maple tree, 
I was reading an ancient poem.

The sun, or the book’s bright page
dazzled  me - 
in the stranger’s face I saw your smile.

I knew how to recover, I didn't betray myself,
only suddenly, in that moment,
all the doves of the city took to the wing.

Like silver, like mother-of-pearl sifting through the air,
not wanting to land back down on the roof.

The air full of wings, like the trembling of dying butterflies,
like a lake full of deep pools,
relentlessly rippling all the long afternoon.

In a noisy train

I fell in love with your left cheek,
while riding on an electric train.
I found it soft beside me, 
and silence with a heavenly glow 
covered me and your cheek, 
while the train howled monstrously.
I fell in love with your left cheek,
while riding somewhere, as if to hell.

I would like to write about love
(Letter from the countryside)

I would like to write about love...  
A black beetle is crawling across the table. 
I would like to say it so that you feel it…
Sleep is coming so fast, that I can’t even hold up my head.
how brilliant it would be…
Cicadas are even chirping in the rain,  
and the frogs are sawing wood.

A day in spring

A spring day
with a bluish, milky smoke haze 
settles over the city,
seagulls hover 
away from the sea, on ships that 
are resting in the harbour, 
the gentle breeze carries them inland - 
in a sea of garden flowers.
With premonitions of summer heat,
eyes half-closed,
people walk in the streets, 
occasionally someone raises a cheek 
towards the sun 
and she, through the veil of clouds  
kisses him like a bride.

Near the cathedral

Through a rainy day
through loneliness
I lean against the ancient cathedral,
where my beloved’s brother
stands carved in stone
listens to me, tells me:
"...he chose you, 
amid the hustle and bustle of the market day, 
with a hundred passing faces,
with spring winds
stood up tall.
Dark, light alternating
in one’s flowing blood 
like auroras in the sky, 
that dawn and fade…
Already a fifth century is passing over me…
Don't mourn for the sake of an hour, 
come in, go out 
and perhaps, 
perhaps light one candle."