Tomas Tranströmer Poems
|1.||The Blue House||10/8/2015|
|4.||From the Island, 1860||5/21/2016|
|5.||From the Snowmelt of '66||5/21/2016|
|10.||The Half-Finished Heaven||5/21/2016|
|12.||November In The Former Ddr||10/7/2011|
|16.||After A Death||10/7/2011|
|17.||The Indoors Is Endless||10/7/2011|
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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.
The logs in the royal fireplace
collapse from Attention to At Ease.
Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,
but the city wells breathe heavily.
Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas
are carried by night over the North Bridge.
The cobblestones make them stagger
mamselles loafers gentlemen.
The Under Secretary leans forward and draws an X
and her ear-drops dangle like swords of Damocles.
As a mottled butterfly is invisible against the ground
so the demon merges with the opened newspaper.
A helmet worn by no one has taken power.
The mother-turtle flees flying under the water.