Sorrow Gondola
Sorrow Gondola
Tomas Tranströmer
Стихи шведского поэта, лауреата Нобелевской премии в области литературы (2011 год) Тумаса Транстрёмера в английском переводе.
Tomas Tranströmer is the author of nineteen collections of poetry in his native country of Sweden and is widely recognized as one of the country’s leading poets. Tranströmer is the recipient of many awards and honors in Sweden and worldwide, including the Swedish Award of the International Poetry Forum, the Bonnier Award for Poetry, the Neustadt International Prize for Literature, the Petrarch Prize in Germany, the Golden Wreath of the Struga Poetry Evenings and a Griffin Poetry Prize Lifetime Recognition Award in 2007. Many of his collections have been translated into English, including The Sorrow Gondola (Green Integer, 2010), The Great Enigma: Collected Poems (New Directions, 2006), and The Half-Finished Heaven: The Best Poems of Tomas Tranströmer (Graywolf Press, 2001).
April and Silence
Spring lies forsaken.
The velvet-dark ditch
crawls by my side
without reflections.
The only thing that shines
are yellow flowers.
I am cradled in my shadow
like a fiddle
in its black case.
The only thing I want to say
glimmers out of reach
like the silver
at the pawnbroker’s.
Insecurity’s Kingdom
The Under Secretary leans forward and draws an X
and her earrings dangle like Damocles’sword.
As a spotted butterfly turns invisible in a field
so the demon blends in with the spread-open newspaper.
A helmet worn by no one has taken power.
The mother turtle flees, flying under water.
Nightbook Page
I stepped ashore one May night
into a chilly moonlight
where grass and flowers were gray
but their scent green.
I drifted up a slope
in the colorblind dark
while white stones
signaled back to the moon.
A time span
several minutes long
fifty-eight years wide.
And behind me
beyond the lead-shimmering waters
was the other coast
and those in command.
People with a future
instead of faces.
Sorrow Gondola No. 2
I
Two old men, father- and son-in-law, Liszt and Wagner, are staying by the Grand Canal
together with the restless woman who is married to King Midas,
he who changes everything he touches to Wagner.
The ocean’s green cold pushes up through the palazzo floors.
Wagner is marked, his famous Punchinello profile looks more tired than before,
his face a white flag.
The gondola is heavy-laden with their lives, two round trips and a one-way.
II
A window in the palazzo flies open and everyone grimaces in the sudden draft.
Outside on the water the trash gondola appears, paddled by two one-oared bandits.
Liszt has written down some chords so heavy, they ought to be sent off
to the mineralogical institute in Padua for analysis.
Meteorites!
Too heavy to rest, they can only sink and sink straight through the future all the way down
to the Brownshirt years.
The gondola is heavy-laden with the future’s huddled-up stones.
III
Peep-holes into 1990.
March 25th. Angst for Lithuania.
Dreamt I visited a large hospital.
No personnel. Everyone was a patient.
In the same dream a newborn girl
who spoke in complete sentences.
IV
Beside the son-in-law, who’s a man of the times, Liszt is a moth-eaten grand seigneur.
It’s a disguise.
The deep, that tries on and rejects different masks, has chosen this one just for him—
the deep that wants to enter people without ever showing its face.
V
Abbé Liszt is used to carrying his suitcase himself through sleet and sunshine
and when his time comes to die, there will be no one to meet him at the station.
A mild breeze of gifted cognac carries him away in the midst of a commission.
He always has commissions.
Two thousand letters a year!
The schoolboy who writes his misspelled word a hundred times before he’s allowed to go home.
The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black.
VI
Back to 1990.
Dreamt I drove over a hundred miles in vain.
Then everything magnified. Sparrows as big as hens
sang so loud that it briefly struck me deaf.
Dreamt I had drawn piano keys
on my kitchen table. I played on them, mute
The neighbors came over to listen.
VII
The clavier, which kept silent through all of Parsifal (but listened), finally has something to say.
Sighs. . sospiri. .
When Liszt plays tonight he holds the sea-pedal pressed down
so the ocean’s green force rises up through the floor and flows together with all the stone in the
building.
Good evening, beautiful deep!
The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black.
VIII
Dreamt I was supposed to start school but arrived too late.
Everyone in the room was wearing a white mask.
Whoever the teacher was, no one could say.
Landscape with Suns
The sun glides out from behind the house
positions itself mid-street
and breathes on us
with its scarlet wind.
Innsbruck I must leave you.
But tomorrow
a glowing sun stands
in the half-dead gray forest
where we have to work and live.
November in the Former GDR
The almighty Cyclops-eye went behind the clouds
and the grass shuddered in the coal dust.
Beaten sore and stiff from last night’s dreams
we climb aboard the train
that stops at every station
and lays eggs.
It’s rather quiet.
The clonging from the churchbells’ buckets
collecting water.
And someone’s unrelenting cough
telling off everything and everyone.
A stone idol is moving its lips:
it’s the city.
Where iron-hard misunderstandings rule
among kiosk-attendants butchers
sheet-metal workers naval officers
iron-hard misunderstandings, academics.
How my eyes ache!
They’ve been reading by the glowworm-lamps’ faint light.
November offers caramels of granite.
Unpredictable!
Like world history
laughing at the wrong place.
But we hear the clonging
from the churchbells’ buckets when they collect water
every Wednesday
—is it Wednesday?—
that’s what’s become of our Sundays!
From July ’90
It was a funeral
and I sensed the dead man
was reading my thoug
hts
better than I could.
The organ kept quiet, birds sang.
The hole out in the blazing sun.
My friend’s voice lingered
in the minutes’ farthest side.
I drove home seen through
by the summer day’s brilliance
by rain and stillness
seen through by the moon.
The Cuckoo
A cuckoo perched and who-whoed in a birch just north of the house. It was so loud that at first I thought an opera singer was performing a cuckoo-imitation. Surprised I even saw the bird. Its tail-feathers moved up and down with every note, like the handle on a pump. The bird hopped, feet together, turned and cried out to all four directions. Then it lifted off and, muttering, flew over the house and far away to the west. . The summer is growing old and everything flows together into a single melancholy sigh. Cuculus canorus is returning to the tropics. Its time in Sweden is through. It wasn’t long! In fact, the cuckoo is a citizen of Zaire. . I am not so fond of making journeys anymore. But the journey visits me. Now when I’m pushed more and more into a corner, when every year the tree rings widen, when I need reading glasses. There’s always more happening than we can bear! It’s nothing to be surprised about. These thoughts bear me as faithfully as Susi and Chuma bore Livingstone’s mummified body straight across Africa.
Three Stanzas
I
The knight and his lady
were petrified but happy
on a flying coffin lid
outside of time.
II
Jesus held up a coin
with Tiberius in profile
a profile without love
the power in circulation.
III
A dripping sword
obliterates memories.
The ground is rusting
trumpets and sheaths.
Like Being a Child
Like being a child and an enormous insult
is pulled over your head like a sack;
through the sack’s stitches you catch a glimpse of the sun
and hear the cherry trees humming.
But this doesn’t help, the great affront
covers your head and torso and knees
and though you move sporadically
you can’t take pleasure in the spring.
Yes, shimmering wool hat, pull it down over the face
and stare through the weave.
On the bay, water-rings teem soundlessly.
Green leaves are darkening the land.
Two Cities
Each on its own side of a strait, two cities
one plunged into darkness, under enemy control.
In the other the lamps are burning.
The luminous shore hypnotizes the blacked-out one.
I swim out in a trance
on the glittering dark waters.
A muffled tuba-blast breaks in.
It’s a friend’s voice, take your grave and go.
The Light Streams In
Outside the window is spring’s long animal,
the diaphanous dragon of sunshine
flowing past like an endless
commuter train — we never managed to see its head.
The seaside villas scuttle sideways
and are as proud as crabs.
The sun causes the statues to blink.
The raging conflagration out in space
is transforming into a caress.
The countdown has begun.
Night Travel
It’s teeming under us. Trains depart.
Hotel Astoria trembles.
A glass of water by the bedside
shines into the tunnels.
He dreamed he was imprisoned on Svalbard.
The planet rumbled as it turned.
Glittering eyes passed over the ice.
The miracles’ beauty existed.
Haiku Poems
I
The high-tension lines
taut in cold’s brittle kingdom
north of all music.
~
The white sun, training
alone, runs the long distance
to death’s blue mountains.
~
We need to exist
with the finely printed grass
and cellar-laughter.
~
The sun lies low now.
Our shadows are goliaths.
Soon shadow is all.
II
The orchid blossoms.
Oil tankers are gliding past.
And the moon is full.
III
Medieval fortress,
a foreign city, cold sphinx,
empty arenas.
~
Then the leaves whispered:
a wild boar plays the organ.
And the bells all rang.
~
And the night streams in
from east to west, traveling
in time with the moon.
IV
A dragonfly pair
fastened to one another
went flickering past.
~
The presence of God.
In the tunnel of birdsong
a locked door opens.
~
Oak trees and the moon.
Light and mute constellations.
And the frigid sea.
From the Island, 1860
I
One day as she rinsed her wash from the jetty,
the bay’s grave cold rose up through her arms
and into her life.
Her tears froze into spectacles.
The island raised itself by its grass
and the herring-flag waved in the deep.
II
And the swarm of small pox caught up with him,
settled down onto his face.
He lies and stares at the ceiling.
How it had rowed up through the silence.
The now’s eternally flowing stain,
the now’s eternally bleeding end-point.
Silence
Walk past, they are buried. .
A cloud glides over the sun’s disk.
Starvation is a tall building
that moves about by night—
in the bedroom an elevator shaft opens,
a dark rod pointing toward the interior.
Flowers in the ditch. Fanfare and silence.
Walk past, they are buried. .
The table silver survives in giant shoals
down deep where the Atlantic is black.
Midwinter
A blue light
is streaming out from my clothes.
Midwinter.
Jingling tambourines of ice.
I close my eyes.
There is a soundless world
there is a crack
where the dead
are smuggled over the border.
A Sketch from 1844
William Turner’s face is browned by weather;
he’s set up his easel far off in the breaking surf.
We follow the silver-green cable down into the depths.
He wades out in the long shallows of death’s kingdom.
A train rolls in. Come closer.
Rain, rain travels over us.
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Tomas Tranströmer, Sorrow Gondola
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