Politics without mercy, demonic world events, power without responsibility, nature takes flight.
National Insecurity
Tomas Transtromer, translated by Robin Fulton.
Tranströmer’s poem is like an enigmatic telegram: How to connect the dots?
The ear-drops of those in charge dangle as danger is imminent and ever-present. The newspaper opened tells of the work of the devil. Those in authority wear the helmet but do not take responsibility. No wonder the mother turtle flees to protect its young.
A moment frozen in time, stopped in its tracks:
In 1990, Tranströmer suffered a stroke that left him unable to speak. But he continued to write.
In April and Silence he takes his mind for a walk in the cruelest month. The water in the ditch is sluggish and has no reflection.
Only the yellow flowers shine.
And the words to be said are out of reach.
Here are two translations from the Swedish. The changes seem minor but significant.
Not knowing Swedish I cannot tell which seems truer to the poet’s original. (See below for those of who you can read Swedish.)
I think I prefer Crane’s translation. I like forsaken, cradles, glimmers.
Which do you prefer?
And this is an extra treat from Solitary Swedish Houses How wonderful is this surprise?
April Och Tystnad
Våren ligger öde.
Det sammetsmörka diket
krälar vid min sida
utan spegelbilder.
Det enda som lyser
är gula blommor.
Jag bärs i min skugga
som en fiol
i sin svarta låda.
Det enda jag vill säga
glimmar utom räckhåll
som silvret
hos pantlånaren.
Thanks Josie, I hadn’t read any of his work before. Thank you for introducing him to me.
I think you’ll like his poems Clive. They are wonderfully terse and enigmatic. Like little telegraphs of poetry. Let me know if you find a favorite.
Here’s one you might like:
Morning Bird Songs
I wake up my car;
pollen covers the windshield.
I put my dark glasses on.
The bird songs all turn dark.
Meanwhile, someone is buying a paper
at the railroad station
not far from a big freight car
reddened all over with rust.
It shimmers in the sun.
The whole universe is full.
A cool corridor cuts through the spring warmth;
a man comes hurrying past
describing how someone right up in the main office
has been telling lies about him.
Through a backdoor in the landscape
the magpie arrives,
black and white, bird of the death-goddess.
A blackbird flies back and forth
until the whole scene becomes a charcoal drawing,
except for the white clothes on the line:
A Palestrina choir.
The whole universe is full!
Fantastic to feel how my poem is growing
While I myself am shrinking.
It’s getting bigger, it’s taking my place,
it’s pressing against me.
It has shoved me out of the nest.
The poem is finished.
Tomas Transtromer, translated by Robert Bly.
Wonderful to read these I love Tomas Transtromer. There is a purity and sparseness about is work. Thanks Josie
Spare, pure and true like ice water from a mountain spring.