FinNALA
Newsletter
October 2012, Volume 5, Number 3
Publication of the Finnish North
American Literature Association
FinNALA Reading and
Writing Workshop Series at FinnFest 2013
FinNALA is hosting a reading and writing workshop series at FinnFest 2013
in Hancock/Houghton, MI. If you want to participate in it, please copy the form
below, fill it out and send it in an email to bethlvirtanen at yahoo.com. FinNALA
President Beth Virtanen will
forward our proposals as a group to the selection committee at FinnFest. Presentations will last for 50 minutes.
Name(s):
Mailing
Address:
City
ST ___
Zip Code
Phone:
E-mail:
Select one: Reading or
Writing Workshop
Title of presentation:
_________________________
Description (3 to 4
sentences):
--
Changes
On The Way
FinNALA
is currently undergoing a major self-examination. Over the past several months the
administrative team has raised a number of questions and concerns about the
future of the organization and how well-equipped we are to maintain our
structure and purpose in a fiercely-changing world.
Two
major changes can be reported to the membership at the present time.
First,
the Board of Advisors has been restructured and enlarged to provide for a more
diverse range of ideas and opinions with respect to FinNALA’s activities. While a number of former Advisors have agreed
to remain on the Board, they have been joined by some new faces.
The
new Board of Advisors consists of: Beth
Virtanen (President of FinNALA), G. K. Wuori (vice-president of FinNALA), John Stotesbury, Fran Wiidman, Lauri
Anderson, Ernest Hekkanen, Josef Aukee, Kaarina Brooks, Stephen Kuusisto, Raija
Taramaa, Kate Laity, and Marianne Wargelin.
Second,
the new Board of Advisors is already hard at work restructuring the FinNALA Mission
Statement. While there was nothing wrong
with the old statement, it was basically a bit too lean and simply did not
cover some things we’ve been doing that we do, indeed, think we ought to be
doing. The time table right now is for a
draft of a new statement to be presented to the Board for their comments and
amendments, with a final draft ultimately to be presented to the Board for a
vote.
Please
note that we are small enough that we welcome comments from anyone. The old mission statement is still on the
FinNALA website. Feel free to take a
look at it and don’t hesitate to send any suggestions or ideas for the mission
statement to gkwuori at hotmail dot com.
--
K.
A. Laity has had a flurry of publications this quarter: Chastity Flame,
her sexy spy thriller novel and her dark fiction short story collection Unquiet
Dreams, both from Tirgearr Publishing. Her alternative history/speculative
fiction novel Owl Stretching is out from Immanion Press and she has
edited an anthology Weird Noir for Fox Spirit Books. See the complete
list of new publications at www.kalaity.com.
--
Ernest Hekkanen
has a new book, Flesh and Spirit: The Rasputin
Meditations, which was published in September. The fall issue of The New Orphic Review, of
which he is editor-in-chief, was published in early October.
--
Nancy
Mattson has two new books out, Finns and Amazons and Lines from Karelia. You can read about them at the
publisher’s website here: http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/finns.html
and here: http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/karelia.html
Nancy also has a website with
information about both books, including links to online reviews of Finns and
Amazons : http://nancymattsonpoetry.blogspot.co.uk/p/finns-and-amazons.html
--
Lauri
Anderson lectured on Finnish-American
literature and read from his own
work at a Roads Scholar meeting at the
Finnish-American Heritage Center at Finlandia University on Sept.
26-27. The following week he was a guest writer at Iowa Wesleyan University in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa. He visited
four different classes and at a forum spoke to the entire campus community
about his writing. He spent one day with a blind Nigerian Communications
professor and ate a Nigerian feast. Another day he met a "hippie professor"
(in his words) who had a PhD in literature but who had never
graduated with a Bachelor's Degree. The guy spoke eight languages
fluently, including Basque. Lauri just completed his ninth book, which will be published
in the spring or early summer, in time for FinnFest at Finlandia in Hancock,
Michigan in June.
--
Life is an Amazing Song is
an enchanting book about Finland and Sweden during and after the Russian war.
It is a wonderful memoir of a young boy's life until he arrives in America at
age 17. The book has earned 5-star ratings in several newspaper reviews. The South
Boston paper wrote that "the book is much better written than a
typical memoir." It is a perfect gift for the Holiday season and will be
treasured by family and friends. Happy
holidays from the author, John (Juha)
Raikkonen. The book’s website is here: http://www.lifesamazingsong.com/
--
Rough
Beast
Albert
Vetere Lannon
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
--W.B.
Yeats, The Second Coming
the
center cannot hold
cannot hold, the center
cannot
hold mere
anarchy is loosed, on the loose
and
what rough beast, red-eyed and slavering
slouches crawls marches
to
be born?
I
saw the beast in San Francisco a half-century ago
nightsticks and fire hoses
I
saw the beast in Birmingham a generation ago
and
in Vietnam in Laos Cambodia
I
saw the beast last year and the
year before that
and
before that in Iraq Afghanistan
I
saw the beast yesterday in Phoenix when the governor
signed in blood fangs dripping red
I
saw the beast along the border ravenous thirsty
seeking the blood and meat of
children
I
saw the beast on television laughing
ranting screaming praying
I
saw the beast in Berlin Moscow Washington
Waco Wounded
Knee Bisbee
I
saw the beast in
Tiananmen Square Lidice
Dallas Memphis L.A. Golgotha
I
saw the beast in skins of silver brown black
scalps and tea bags hanging from a crucifix
I
saw the beast in
your eyes and in my own
red-eyed
and slavering staring at me
in Zucotti Park, in
Oakland
the
center cannot hold
cannot hold, the center
cannot
hold mere
anarchy is loosed, on the loose
and
that rough beast, red-eyed and slavering
slouches crawls marches
in
jackboots
being
born again.
“Rough
Beast” took first prize in poetry at the Society of
Southwestern Authors 2011 competition.
Albert Vetere Lannon will be organizing a Group Poem in the Finnish
tradition at the opening reception of FinnFest 2012 in Tucson.
--
Writer's
Block
Lauri Anderson
He put off writing his next book for so long that the characters
died of old age and neglect before he started. Then in the first sentence
he himself died in mid-
--
Trust in Your Experience (but
refill the prescription anyway)
Jim
Heikkinen (09-27-2012)
Pull down the bill of gray Nike baseball cap
Greasy sunlight
Eyes on walking
(Am I getting arthritis in my foot like the doctor
promised I would in 1986?)
While transversing a median,
head strikes the steel crossbeam
Of a highway sign that wasn’t there two day ago
think;
thought; have thunk
Suicidal, again,
Drunk, again,
a sun-bleached woman takes a running leap
Off a mountainside,
Falls, falls, falls
Before landing in a bush
20 meters below.
What are dead cockroaches
Doing scattered across this bricked over shoreline?
A green ball bobs lazily on low tidewaters
Plastic jellyfish cling to partially exposed rocks
this Arabian Gulf
A
few months later
Semi-recovered,
again,
The
woman passes by the same cliff edge spot
And
sees only a single bush below
This
frame is empty
This
sign unfinished
--
Winter
Lisbeth Holt
There’s winter in my
soul of late
I try to brush the
snowflakes aside
Yet as I gingerly step
over the permafrost,
I fear this winter is
here to stay:
There may not ever be
another spring for me.
I peer through
thickening cobwebs
Or are they strings of
sleet, arrows of fate,
Wisps of wind streaking
by?
My unsteady gait as I
hesitate
Takes me ever northward.
Should I, dare I, will I
somehow embrace
This solitary walk into
the Unknown?
I try to calm my
heartbeats
Hammering tinnily in my
chest
I apply makeup to my
pallid face
I smile like a mannequin
in my mirror
And fail to pretend
nothing has changed.
This should be a song of
gratitude
I have no right to cry,
To gnash my teeth
in silent fury.
I’ve had the perfumed
splendor,
The babies soft and
tender
I’ve been able to
sweeten others’ lives
I’ve voyaged far and
wide
Through star-filled
skies
When one has done it
all,
The snowdrifts tall and
deep
Envelop the mortal
flesh;
The immortal soul flown:
a bird of paradise!
--
Song
of Equilibrium
--after Lars Gustafson
--after Lars Gustafson
Stephen Kuusisto
I often walk about saying I’m in equilibrium, saying that everything balances,
and I have a little song on my lips, and though its imperfect
it is mine--a forest ditty with words from the age of home made harps.
Of my singing I can say very little, it’s a quiet means of standing
and in this I am not joking. I whisper and murmur
hold and guess, pause at windows
trying a song of penitence before glass.
If there was more to my life I would say so.
I wake in the morning, sleep at night, my song unvarying.
When neighbors come they do not hear my singing,
but I’m working toward peace, softest words on my tongue,
in equilibrium, letting the sadnesses drift
and only I and the dogs can hear them.
I often walk about saying I’m in equilibrium, saying that everything balances,
and I have a little song on my lips, and though its imperfect
it is mine--a forest ditty with words from the age of home made harps.
Of my singing I can say very little, it’s a quiet means of standing
and in this I am not joking. I whisper and murmur
hold and guess, pause at windows
trying a song of penitence before glass.
If there was more to my life I would say so.
I wake in the morning, sleep at night, my song unvarying.
When neighbors come they do not hear my singing,
but I’m working toward peace, softest words on my tongue,
in equilibrium, letting the sadnesses drift
and only I and the dogs can hear them.
--
A poem by Sirpa T. Kaukinen from her soon-to-be-published
poetry book Greetings
from Canada – Terveisiä Kanadasta
Dancing
Sirpa Kaukinen
A long time ago,
at the Finn Hall, you asked me to dance.
I was unsure, but
you taught me to polka, waltz and tango,And I showed you how to rock ‘n’ roll.
We danced through our lives,
You leading, me following,
Me talking, you listening.
We are dancing still, now slower,
But we’ll dance together to the end.
Tanssimme
Sirpa KaukinenKauan aikaa sitten, Suomalaisella Haalilla,
Pyysit minua tanssiin.
Olin epävarma, mutta sinä opetit minulle
polkan,
Valssin ja tangon, ja minä sinulle rock
‘n’roll.
Tanssimme läpi elämämme,
Sinä vieden, minä seuraten,
Minä puhuen, sinä kuunnellen.
Tanssimme vieläkin, nyt hitaammin,
Mutta tanssimme yhdessä loppuun asti.
--
Watercolours and poems from Lapland and landscapes by Kari Holma
Akvarelleja ja runoja Lapista ja vaaramaisemista
 |
| Kari Holma, photograph used with permission |
Nauttia panoraamasta
kallion
kielekkeellä,
niin laajasta,
etten voi enää kosketella sitä
To enjoy panorama,
so huge,
upon the jutting
rock,
you can’t even touch it
 |
| Watercolor by Kari Holma, used with permission |
Towards
the Autumn
Colours fall from the
height,
as light as the leaves
of the autumn
to float on the waves of
the lake.
The straight backs of
birches
bow down to pick up,
the first snow always
surprises
a wanderer of the fell.
Shadows quickly shorten,
clouds fly like years.
To our darkness we
obtain
last rays of the light,
springs of the fell
brooks.
The colours of the
autumn
are deep-rooted.
Syksyä Kohden
Värit putoavat korkealta,
keveinä syksyn lehdet
järven laineille kellumaan
Koivujen suorat selät,
kumartuen poimimaan,
ensilumi yllättää aina
tunturin vaeltajan
Varjot lyhenevät nopeasti,
pilvet kiitäen
kuin vuodet
Kaamokseen ammennamme
valon viime säteistä,
tunturipuron lähteistä
Syksyn värit
syöpyneet sisimpäämme
--
Collapse
Changjiang Delta
10/27/2012
My son’s tractor trailer truck,
rolling toward
a turnpike, spouts a plume of burned fossils.
Across the street a withered barn seems still,
but a slight screech stops me in the driveway.
I trudge on, but stop again when longer
creaks reach my ears. While I watch no cars pass.
I hear more groans before the structure lists
slightly to the right. Then, pulled by timbers
weighted with warped boards and split shingles, nails
weak with age relinquish their holds; their screams
yield to a whoosh as the descent quickens,
crescendoes to the ground, which hurls up clouds
of dust, hovering sullen, stubborn to
reveal a hayfield felled beside streams past.
Stricken with Alzheimer’s, my father tugs
down a living room blind. My daughters run
outside to stare at the ruin that’s done.
a turnpike, spouts a plume of burned fossils.
Across the street a withered barn seems still,
but a slight screech stops me in the driveway.
I trudge on, but stop again when longer
creaks reach my ears. While I watch no cars pass.
I hear more groans before the structure lists
slightly to the right. Then, pulled by timbers
weighted with warped boards and split shingles, nails
weak with age relinquish their holds; their screams
yield to a whoosh as the descent quickens,
crescendoes to the ground, which hurls up clouds
of dust, hovering sullen, stubborn to
reveal a hayfield felled beside streams past.
Stricken with Alzheimer’s, my father tugs
down a living room blind. My daughters run
outside to stare at the ruin that’s done.
Manchurian Advance
Changjiang Delta
10/27/2012
I place a 10 Yuan Hendrix
CD into my portable stereo
and kick off my Li Ning sneakers.
Sitting in a pivoting pleather
chair,I lean back and let the plastic
castors roll on the hardwood floor.
Electric rhythm and blues invade.
Seattle’s sonic son leads.
Experience fires artistic artillery.Rocketing bass riffs advance
with rampant regiments of drum rolls.
From a summer of ’69 stage, Jimi
throws flames of feedback, which sizzle
through Marshall Amp sentries, scorch
across time, and torch the autumn
of ‘07 Harbin apartment’s air.
Sun lights the tasseled tan
curtains behind the computer screen.
Bellbottom blue jeans dry
on the balcony. Outside, concrete dormitories
stained with coal ash form
ranks around iron statues.
--
Connections to the Past
Diane Dettmann
Perched on a boulder by the shore of Lake Superior, childhood
memories rumble through my mind. The fragments of rocks below my feet carry the
scent of moist sand—a memory of a nursery school sandbox so long ago. I
remember a room filled with children’s laughter, the sound of wooden puzzle
pieces clicking on the table, and an old man shuffling across the warped wooden
floor as his cigar smoke lingered in the air.
The
great lake’s moist touch triggers images of sunny afternoons adrift on Long
Lake in New Brighton, Minnesota with my father at the oars of a wooden boat
built by my Grandpa Kaurala’s skillful hands. Hours passed with my father and I
cradled in the rowboat, the lake disturbed only by the gentle breeze that
carried swimmers’ laughter along the water’s surface.
I
remember clutching a fishing rod in my hands. As I stared at the red and white
bobber, I hoped a sunfish would cut through the water’s surface. In the still
summer heat, dragonflies swirled around my head, their wings echoing words of
favorite bedtime stories blended with my mother’s voice reciting the Lord's
Prayer. My mother, father and those who came before them are gone and so is
my childhood. All that remains is an album of black and white photos and the
memories I carry in my heart.
 |
The Kaurala Family |
(Front Left-Right:) Hilja Lukkarila Kaurala, Paul Kaurala,
Miriam Dloniak Kaurala, Ora Folt Kaurala Back: Lauri Kaurala, Paul
Kaurala Esther Elleson Kaurala and Elsie Sarkela Kaurala)
Diane Dettmann’s the author of Twenty-Eight Snow Angels: A
Widow’s Story of Love, Loss and Renewal and Miriam Daughter of Finnish
Immigrants. She has shared her writing at local author events, festivals
and international conferences in Finland and Canada. Diane’s website: http://outskirtspress.com/snowangels
--
FinNALA Newsletter Editorial Team:
Beth L. Virtanen
Sirpa T. Kaukinen
G. K. Wuori.
