In the puffing gusty nights,
when the lighthouse sways under storm clouds,
and the sea with its burning eyes climbs on the rocks,
you sit silently, thinking—
about Liz—who betrayed you that time—
and the fated, howling longing that exiled you out here
in the storm-beaten Scilly Islands.
And you mumble something to yourself
during the long watches on stormy nights
while the beacon throws its light a hundred miles out in the storm.
translated by Robert Bly
20th Century Swedish poetry
A Sketch from 1844 by Tomas Tranströmer
William Turner’s face is weather-brown
he has set up his easel far out among the breakers.
We follow the silver-green cable down in the depths.
He wades out in the shelving kingdom of death.
A train rolls in. Come closer.
Rain, rain travels over us.
translated by Robin Fulton
Late May by Tomas Tranströmer
Apple trees and cherry trees in bloom help the town to soar
in the sweet dirty May night, white life-jacket, my thoughts range out.
Grasses and weeds with silent stubborn wing-beats.
The letter-box shines calmly, what’s written can’t be taken back.
Soft cool wind gets through my shirt and gropes for my heart.
Apple trees and cherry trees, they laugh silently at Solomon
they blossom in my tunnel. I need them
not to forget but to remember.
translated by Robin Fulton
December Evening 1972 by Tomas Tranströmer
Here I come, the invisible man, perhaps employed
by a Great Memory to live right now. And I am driving past
the locked-up white church—a wooden saint is standing in there
smiling, helpless, as if they had taken away his glasses.
He is alone. Everything else is now, now, now. The law of gravity pressing us
against our work by day and against our beds by night. The war.
translated by Robin Fulton
from About History by Tomas Tranströmer
Out on the open ground not far from the building
an abandoned newspaper has lain for months, full of events.
It grows old through nights and days in rain and sun,
on the way to becoming a plant, a cabbage-head, on the way to being
united with the earth.
Just as memory is slowly transmuted into your own self.
translated by Robin Fulton
LOVE ME by Maria Wine
Love me
but do not come too near
leave room for love
to laugh at its happiness
always let some of my blond hair
be free
translated by Nadia Christensen
From July 1990 by Tomas Tranströmer
It was a funeral
and I felt that the dead man
was reading my thoughts
better than I could.
The organ was silent, the birds sang.
The grave out in the sunshine.
My friend’s voice belonged
on the far side of the minutes.
I drove home seen-through
by the glitter of the summer day
by rain and quietness
seen-through by the moon.
translated by Robin Fulton
After Someone’s Death by Tomas Tranströmer
Once there was a shock
which left behind a long pale glimmering comet’s tail.
It contains us. It makes TV pictures blurred.
It deposits itself as cold drops on the aerials.
You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun
among groves where last year’s leaves still hang.
They are like pages torn from old telephone directories–
the subscribers’ names are eaten up by the cold.
It is still beautiful to feel your heart throbbing.
But often the shadow feels more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armour of black dragon scales.
translated by Robin Fulton
Love Me by Maria Wine
Love me
but do not come too near
leave room for love
to laugh at its happiness
always let some of my blond hair
be free
translated by Nadia Christensen
Dusk In The Country by Harry Martinson
The riddle silently sees its image. It spins evening
among the motionless reeds.
There is a frailty no one notices
there, in the web of grass.
Silent cattle stare with green eyes.
They mosey in evening calm down to the water.
And the lake holds its immense spoon
up to all the mouths.
translated by Robert Bly
Leonard Durso 