Tomas Tranströmer Poems
|3.||From the Island, 1860||5/21/2016|
|4.||From the Snowmelt of '66||5/21/2016|
|9.||The Half-Finished Heaven||5/21/2016|
|10.||The Blue House||10/8/2015|
|11.||November In The Former Ddr||10/7/2011|
|15.||The Indoors Is Endless||10/7/2011|
|16.||After A Death||10/7/2011|
After A Death
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
translated by Robert Bly
The Indoors Is Endless
It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
hoists his death-mask and sails off.
The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
The wild geese are flying northwards.
Here is the north, here is Stockholm
swimming palaces and hovels.