Poem: In Memory

This is a rehashed poem that I wrote a fairly long while back. It’s rather dear to me, but if any of you, dearest readers (or followers) wish to tear it a new one, please go ahead in the comment section below. It used to be on another website, which I won’t share to save embarrassment. The poem sort of feels like an estranged child. And now I present it here for you.

My eyes opened in front of a bleeping, 
flashing and distorted television screen, 
Not within meditation chambers, 
deep literary intellectualism, 
or compelling conversation between friends, or relatives. 
Brainless enlightenment filled with idiotic laughter, 
and a lunatic dance followed by 
charade after charade for your teasing, 
only to please a Carnal existentialist feeling. 
Sharing women while burning bridges, 
Rebuilding cobblestone city streets 
Together –sharing a contact between 
passionate eyes to Passionate eyes, 
but these eyes weren’t your’s or mine. 
A cry of misunderstood love, 
repression, and most of all 
the decadent desire of your lips 
calling in between the racing street cars of the city alleys. 
A cry 
left written within the annals of this cyber space, 
that my generation begins to call home, 
where frantic cybermancers and urban shamans 
will do what they may, prying it open, but you 
won’t be one of them. 
For you are beautiful and weak with dismembered joy, 
and childish tantrums, which are appeased 
by goodnight kisses given by hookers. 
if you were to fall at my door, I would take you in, 
into my arms and welcome you, despite 
the nuclear fallout colored winter that passed. 
I would embrace without the fear of death 
or torturous insanity.


Poem: May My Lungs Burst with Joy

This was an automatic poem, the only editing that I did was to make sure that it makes at least a tiny bit of sense.

Smoke filled lies sodomized the innocence of the angels that gave us wings. We’re decrepit, senile as we rush towards the eternal light which hides a prison of sin. I am awake, my brain feels heavy, the walls crack, and the window greets the sun. I feel like loose change, ready to be discarded onto the street, into the sewage. Why? I cannot help but feel scared as my bones and organs feverishly palpitate. And it won’t stop, it won’t stop. I peek between the drapes and I examine the world through my skin. I am sweating, but the more moist I feel the harder it is to breathe. I wish to decry your lies, all of your lies. I wish to denounce your soul, but there’s no use! For I know your heart is filled with holes, holes that can never be filled. You’re an opportunistic infection, a tiny pathogen smaller than a speck of dust. I am immune to you, one day I will be immune to you. Then I shall renounce my name –may it break and shower us with microcosmic sanctity. Ostentatious, we shall metamorphose into a homology of love, and we shall wilt forever.



by Miki Korhonen,
he has swallowed
his sorrow.

Flash Fiction: The Monkey that Loved Capitalism

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, obviously. This is my attempt at writing a flash fiction in a NaNoWriMo-type of group. This is a story about a monkey and his briefcases. The rest is my fingers writing what my buttocks want to tell you, which means I haven’t arsed to edit this too much. Read at your own peril(?).

The traffic lights turned green freeing the green car to accelerate and zoom across the city. Hal Grimmich was the CEO of Big Operations, he was sitting at the back seat glaring at the chauffeur with great distaste. Hal Grimmich never liked being late from meetings, he was the head of the largest company in the world which made him the most important man in the world.

Though there was a very important detail that Mr. Grimmich hadn’t paid attention to. When he became the CEO of Big Operations, he started working to create an ultimate monopoly. The playing field was perfect, everyone was free to do anything they wished in the name of competition, a hard line laissez-faire attitude had been adopted by all. Soon Big Operations started running competing businesses out of business, or optionally buying them out.

English: Historic picture of operations in the...

Historic picture of operations in the Big Quarry (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the racing green car Mr. Grimmich was looking at the dozen briefcases that he had with him. He had covered himself with them. These briefcases contained the most important papers to him, all his property always stayed with him and he never left his belongings behind.

In one of the briefcases there was all the papers of the original Big Operations, which used to be a charity organization with a mission to help autistic children. When the earlier owner of Big Operations had the chance to merge the charity with a local business he had decided to change the whole organization into a full-fledged business with an aim to aid children in general.

Soon after the earlier owner of Big Operations had a car accident while going home from work, he avoided a stray cat and went off-road. No one heard of him since, and all the legends say he still drives around the countryside –trying to desperately find his way home.

There were a few shady business types that tried to make a quick buck out of the charity money, while the others tried to make money out of the children by making them work on making cheap counterfeit art in sweatshops around Europe. Somehow Big Operations survived all this and then came Hal Grimmich.

Big Operations started heading straight to the top where the people were rich and fat, but clean and powerful. Hal Grimmich was no small time player, but he had been a somewhat invisible venture capitalist with a big purse until he took control of Big Operations. And once he had set his footing with his new company he cut the business world with a knife. Once the cake was split he played the consumers against the weakened companies before eating the whole cake, consumers and all.

The briefcases were in truth trophies for Hal Grimmich, to remind him that it was he who had monopolized the world under Big Operations. Hal Grimmich had changed the world into a wild-eyed utopia where he owned the poor, he owned the unemployed, he owned the middle class, and he own the rich. Government was shut down as Big Operations bought all the politicians and bureaucrats out of the picture as well, now the old government halls were used to promote synergy in a democratic manner. Everybody who did well in Big Operations received smiley stickers.

What Hal Grimmich didn’t know was that he was owned by Big Operations as much as anyone else. No one was free of Big Operations. As the mega corporation held the world together, if anything was to bring Big Operations down it was armageddon or Big Operations itself. Not even Hal Grimmich combined with the rest of the executive board had enough power to destroy Big Operations, even though they did hold all the power in the world.

The earth’s air had turned so heavy that minutes felt like hours. Breathing was a pain, not because of pollution but stress. There was no love for love was always bought by the highest bidder and sold by the most broken of souls. Hal Grimmich had never had anything close to love for free or for a price, but he did have a very puerile relationship with money –some kind of love, perhaps.

And money was owned by Big Operations, transaction as a concept was owned by them as well. Even all the metaphysical had died out, and god had gone bankrupt in the face of Big Operations. If the situation wouldn’t have been so under control by something non-human, maybe Hal Grimmich could have felt like a god.

But Hal Grimmich was late, sitting in the back seat of the green speeding car and he would never get his time back. There was no way to trade the world back to the people anymore either. The world was pure though, at last. At last.

Could a Poem Claim a Nationality

English: The Poem

The Poem (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For quite some while I have been playing with a certain thought. It struck me when I was thinking of writing a poem in Finnish after being in a short and uninteresting exchange of thoughts on Twitter. A journalist was trying to find Finnish government-funded artists on the social media. I was of no help.

Even if I was to successfully publish a collection of stashed poetry before applying for a government grant, I know for sure that I would never be allowed to have that money, at least not if I applied for it with creative writing in mind. The problem is language, there is no readership for someone who writes in English in a country like Finland.

In Finland everyone learns to speak and read English from a fairly tender age, but only the few odd ones in the bunch go to such lengths that they would want to use the language actively. The only Finnish journals that come out regularly in English are The Helsinki Times and Six Degrees –at least to my knowledge. I am not taking into account the free journals that exist.

Now, the government grant is there to promote Finnish art and literature. Socialism at its best I care say –ha ha. But here is where the thought came to me, what is Finnish art and literature to begin with? How does a poem claim a certain nationality? Or does a poem even have to claim a certain nationality to promote the arts in said nationality?

There were two things that came to mind first, language and setting. I’d like you, my dear reader to take a moment to reflect on what kind of a story or poem would be local to you, in a way that it would bring the tears or cheer of growing up. Once you have thought of a setting, imagine it being described in another language (let’s assume we know all the languages in the world). Does the the setting change, or does it retain the same feeling as it did in your mother tongue?

Personally I couldn’t extract Catalonia out of a poem set in Tarragona if it was in English, Catalan, Finnish, or even Spanish. If an English poem describes a Spanish festival, catching the feelings in the air or bringing out the deeply intimate scene of the locals into life then I could even call it a Spanish poem written in English.

Ernest Hemingway wrote a lot about Spain as everyone familiar with the man knows. Of course he wrote them in English as he was American, but wouldn’t the short stories of the Spanish Civil War be as much Spanish as they are American when he captures the broken toreador? I don’t know how he would have seen it.

The winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature 1956, Juan Ramón Jiménez wrote one of my all-time favorite books Platero y Yo (Spanish for Platero and I). When I first read that great book it was a Finnish translation and it didn’t stop the early 20th Century Spain from coming to life. Even in Finnish that book remained very Spanish. As I am writing this I can only question how would it have turned out if Mr. Jiménez had planned the book to be in Finnish to begin with, would it have changed into a Finnish poem by a Spanish poet? Who knows.

When I write a poem or a story I somehow do see them being Finnish as I cannot escape my heritage even when I could be considered an international. I don’t really ever see having a Finnish readership and I see it even less likely that other Finns would consider my writing Finnish.

Before I began writing this blog post, I wrote a micropoem, once in Finnish, once in Spanish, and once in English. I tried to avoid making an interconnected translation. I did do my best to emulate a kind of typical Finnish styled poem, especially when it comes to the mood. Here it is first in Finnish, then Spanish, and finally in English.

Pihan halkeileva puu kuoriutuu uuteen elämään,
silmissäsi on kyyneliä.
ne leijuvat puun luokse ja yhdistyvät

El árbol hendido del jardín ha nacido de nuevo,
en tus ojos cerrados veo lágrimas
uniendo con las gotas de rocío
en la mañana –húmeda.

The tree in the yard that was split in half
hatches into existence anew.
the dew tears in your eyes,
float off to join the wet morning.

I don’t know what to make of it. Could I consider that a Finnish poem in three different languages? I’d love to hear what you, the reader, thinks.