(a poem in five parts)


TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH
a "freestyle"
interpretation of several poems by Tomas Transtromer.

Nocturne

I cry to you in the night, the house
full of street sounds, we're awake
and drunk. House, light, stillness,
women's clothes on the floor, this is
our island life. Men stare at me

in the fruitless weather, spend
their hard money on fish and fowl.
The way into pain is quicker than
the way out of it. The village keeps
track of forbidden mysteries.

Outside in the garden a gate hides
melons in striped clothing. We
tread loudly toward the winter.
There is theatrical noise and kissing.
Love isn't reasonable! The birds know.

I wait for summer, I want to build
churches and schools without clocks,
with windows open to wind. In spring
there is no dreaming about the sea,
we have forgotten to begin with forgiveness.


Tuesday

Winter lingers with the same
smells, crowding into my closet.
This is the light that descends
every year, the same fields of rain.

The sky hides behind the house,
unraveling the garden. A train
passes with red blasts of sound,
digging for secrets in the earth.

I brace myself for nighttime, lamenting
under my skin. I say the same
thing I've always said, while
the darkness gleams silver again.


Night Reasoning

I dreamed I was freezing in summer.
Planets raised their voices, a violin pushed back the sky.
Waves of color hesitated under glass, I took a deep breath
of silence. Light poured from a tunnel, a dozen white roses
leaned against a wall. Tender eyes gazed across the ice.
Miracles skated toward me.


Nightbook

I land here at midnight
and in one startling moment
grass grows perfectly.

Running upstairs, I shut myself
in the farthest room of night,
signalling until morning.

People without freedom
are waiting for answers.

Behind me,
the blue sky whitens.

At this time of day
nothing is longer than a minute,
even when I am finally free of breath.


Journey

A man wanders the world,
hands shaking with tragedy.
He wishes for an hour of daylight
to lie down on the untouched
hillside. Shadows remind
him of bread and seed, places of
worship beneath the sky.

The house of mourning is
without variation. Amnesia beckons
in the grass. Amnesia. A boy
leaps with swinging limbs
beyond a handmade lake,
while his village dreams
the sad story of forgetting.

Longer than north is the man
whose home has blue windows,
barred gates and broken locks.
The stars are so close and still. Look,
he is flying away.