Tomas Tranströmer Poems

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.
...

It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
hoists his death-mask and sails off.

The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
...

They switch off the light and its white shade

glimmers for a moment before dissolving

like a tablet in a glass of darkness. Then up.
...

Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch.
It's a transitional place, in stalemate, neither country nor city.
Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap,
but the clocks are against it.
...

The Under Secretary leans forward and draws an X
and her ear-drops dangle like swords of Damocles.
...

The almighty cyclop’s-eye clouded over
and the grass shook itself in the coal dust.

Beaten black and blue by the night’s dreams
...

Despondency breaks off its course.
Anguish breaks off its course.
The vulture breaks off its flight.
...

2 A.M. moonlight. The train has stopped

out in a field. Far off sparks of light from a town,
...

Jag väcker bilen
som har vindrutan överdragen med frömjöl.
Jag sätter på mig solglasögonen.
Fågelsången mörknar.

Medan en annan man köper en tidning
på järnvägsstationen
i närheten av en stor godsvagn
som är alldeles röd av rost
och står flimrande i solen.

Inga tomrum någonstans här.

Tvärs genom vårvärmen en kall korridor
där någon kommer skyndande
och berättar att man förtalat honom
ända upp i styrelsen.

Genom en bakdörr i landskapet
kommer skatan
svart och vit, Hels fågel.
Och koltrasten som rör sig kors och tvärs
tills allt blir en kolteckning,
utom de vita kläderna på tvättstrecket:
en palestrinakör.

Inga tomrum någonstans här.

Fantastiskt att känna hur min dikt växer
medan jag själv krymper.
Den växer, den tar min plats.
Den tränger undan mig.
Den kastar mig ur boet.
Dikten är färdig.
...

I waken the car
whose windscreen is coated with pollen.
I put on my sunglasses.
The birdsong darkens.

Meanwhile another man buys a paper
at the railway station
close to a large goods wagon
which is all red with rust
and stands flickering in the sun.

No blank space anywhere here.

Straight through the spring warmth a cold corridor
where someone comes running
and tells how up at head office
they slandered him.

Through a back door in the landscape
comes the magpie
black and white.
And the blackbird darting to and fro
till everything becomes a charcoal drawing,
except the white clothes on the washing-line:
a palestrina chorus.

No blank space anywhere here.

Fantastic to feel how my poem grows
while I myself shrink.
It grows, it takes my place.
It pushes me aside.
It throws me out of the nest.
The poem is ready.
...