Wonderful long poem by the Swedish poet Lennart Sjögren

The bird-hunters

1997

(A cycle of poems)

Clear the day was

the birds making northwards.

There were three of us

we went across the ice

shot long-tailed duck, eider and goldeneye.

Black-tarred our boat

we took it out with us

we rowed between the gleaming plains of ice.

The morning water was sun

the day was the day of hunting.

We were bird-hunters

three our names.

Then we owned names.

When the expanses of ice break in spring

and long cracks open up in them

then they sing

– no not them, but the crack sings

and silent days over the sea

then sound like wings.

Wings are not seen

but wings are heard

the short while before the crack widens

and a grave becomes visible.

The crack came suddenly

we saw it too late

too late we saw our destiny.

The one of us who stood farthest away from the boat:

Oh bloody hell, he screamed

it’s cracking, it’s cracking!

The boat – run to the boat, quick!

The boat we had just left

separated from us by the now widened crack.

We had spent far too much time

turned towards the stretch of eider

the shot and the lure of the hunt.

Flame-green the water at the edge of the ice

quickly blackening towards the depths.

The black-tarred boat, two oars

provisions, boots and birds we had already shot.

The boat – so easy to pull over the ice.

We crouched, just about to make the leap

over the heady blackness.

We held back, held back in the leap

believed perhaps that further on

the crack was less in dimension

– looked that way, hurried over

but the width was already too great.

If we jumped, if we waved our arms

no one dared jump,

no one dared swim through the icy coldness.

Too long our hesitation

the crack did not hesitate.

Paralysed we stood there

grasped nothing. Grasped, did not grasp

as yet death was not visible

it waited still in that second.

Blows of iron we heard within the ice

and through the air

it sounded like planes against planks

– before we had thought it the song of the ice.

The flowers of fear unfolded

the shivers took us, tears were near

the evening was near

we should soon have turned homewards.

No one saw us, no one heard from the shore

the cries that were swept away by the wind.

The sky saw us but did not move

we saw how death wrote our names there.

The ice saw us

the waiting water saw us

attached to our hands the mark of the doomed.

Eagles were seen earlier that winter

they sat far out on the ice

they looked like deposed monarchs awaiting their death

they fed on hunger

they pecked pieces of carrion out of the ice

and crowned themselves with the longest night.

And our eyes were glazed with fear

and our tongues were stiff like that of the fish

and far off the black-backed gull rested

its eyes colder than those of the hawk

used to living off fish

and whatever else had died in the sea.

The wild leap

The wild hope

the wild cry beyond the cry.

But a hope of rescue for us

would only challenge the ridicule

but there is no ridicule here either.

Far out at sea there is never any ridicule.

And then it was dark

and then there was nothing more

and then there was the water

and the water was the last thing

and beyond the water was nothing more.

Of those that sink

of those that build themselves a nest

down on the sea-bed

of the improbable in the mountain ravines down there

of the journey there

without memory and prior to their birth

there they build their new boats.

We were taken down into the lower sun-orbit

already

deep under the roof of the ice

our cries were washed away

in distant echoes they could still be heard

before the rekindling of the moon

and more translucent than the bodies of jellyfish

we received the sound from the bells of water.

As when one newly born

leaves its habitat and is led out into the visible

where its name is given and gender determined

we were led here towards what is farther off

where no names and no gender

and no other signs of recognition

apply any more.

So did the first evening sink

the evening when the ice broke.

The land was grey, the houses swathed in grey

grey was the blood, grey was sorrow.

Over the ice in gleaming black feathers

the released water spread

ice gnawed ice, a slurping was heard

when the fields of white were cracked by the wind.

So did the night sink where no joy was possible

the lights that shone in the windows

where sleep was not possible either

strips of red spread out over the white of the eyes

the hours became the bodies of phantoms

wrapped in grey

drowned in the dark

no one tasted the bread, no one ate of the meat.

The cloak of sorrow was spread out over the night

Damn and blast, someone cried in hate with clenched fists

God, my God, someone prayed

the whimpering was heard right up to the hour of dawning.

The wind did not answer

the ice did not answer.

Grey was the blood, grey was sorrow

grey were the roses of death.

Far out there a boat drifts without its crew

the ice is already devouring it.

The bird’s outstretched necks

the long necks

the narrow ones and those covered with green velvet.

Bright-red was the morning sun

and the ice breaks.

The long-tailed duck’s pointed wings

burn in the sun

the clatter, the downy whirl of the feathers

not yet reached by buckshot

caress them with your hand

their down against the trembling of your fingertips

above the breaking ice.

The goldeneye’s vigilant eyes

dark crystals

mirrored in the water – the water that is mirrored.

Whirling bodies, whirling winds

and when a cry breaks out

ice against blood heated by the sun

is heard over the water – is heard under the water

plays at evening and in the morning.

The cry of the birds

the birds’ pointed wings.

If only it had been morning

and our death been drawn in the sun

if only we had heard the watch dogs bark

though there are no dogs out here.

If March crows that we are used to hearing

at this time had come

not as a deliverance but just as company.

If a late aurora borealis had been visible.

That night the groundswells were

high mountains of a great evil

that pass through the world

they ground themselves into heavy knives

before the age of iron.

But they were not driven on by evil

they were from before the age of evil

it was only us who perceived them as such.

They were knives out of the night that devours all

and cuts to pieces any semblance

of a human face.

The stars watched over them

the fish listened to them deep down

the stones heard them in their hideouts

when they cut through the world.

To write with letters of water

the alphabet that only the water reads

to descend to the sea-bed

and write there the names of those

that once owned the palms of hands

and the water that will stream

before anything has even been written completely:

the water that constantly effaces

the water that constantly once more allows the names

to gleam in the eyes of the waves.

On walls of sorrow

the water builds its transparent roof.

The water that talks in its sleep

follows the path of the drowned

talks itself through night after night

hides what the day can find:

planking, rudder and oar.

The eel swims past but does not stop on its journey

the cod’s eye keeps watch

everything is sucking mouths.

The water conceals its eye

fills its mouth with mud

stares as if blind at the path of those sinking.

If tonight a cry were

once more to be heard in the gale

it would be the mouths of the water

would be the cry of the water

would be the cry of the nightmare

would be the cry of breaking feathers

sunk to soot in the water.

The water that talks in its sleep, writes in lead

comfort that no one can.

And we who speak here

do not speak with our usual tongue

nor is it that of the fish

– the water gave us to another voice.

It grows dark around us

more than the darkness lets one suspect.

We were pulled down ever deeper

borne ever heavier towards sealed rooms

and a sleep that was to last for ages.

Beds of a different kind than those we had previously slept in

were ready to receive us

with a different softness than a different sleep.

And the sea cow bellows

her udders have sufficient for all of us

and the beehives on the sea-bed

are full of the honey of sea bees

and butterflies fluttering cause

the various seasons to change colour

devoted as they are to both summer and winter.

We have enough space to walk in

we have enough nights to sleep through

we have sweetness for our tongue.

Even so the memory burns us:

clear the day was, the birds making northwards.

And when the water

had forced itself into our mouths

and when we had opened ourselves

to the sea

and the sea was within us.

When we were as fish

and as far removed from the beauty of fish

as can be imagined.

But beauty does not count

on such a journey

– not that kind of beauty

and time does not count

– not that kind of time.

The sea-grass

the sea-hair

the water of sea-cries

and the goldeneyes that rise from the sea-bed

with their green crests.

After we had taken in the water

we glided down towards the sea-bed

the sea-bed whispered to us.

The air was no longer willing to give us its life

but the water received us

carried us

like descending wreaths of smoke.

With hair spread out we sank

and with outstretched arms.

Our heaviness was another than that above the water

our heaviness became our lightness

we were among those gliding diagonally

like eggs

we were sinking downwards

towards a nest.

We turned round in the water

with the whites of our eyes towards the surface

from which sun had been able to come

had not the evening already done so

– though the sun would not have beckoned us more.

We recalled the potatoes in the opened furrows

and the blue earthworms that disappeared

we recalled the gulls above

the wren

and the caraway that was gathered

the salt on the table we recalled

the light birch leaves that unfolded

the dream of a woman’s breast, summer nights

and the heat of the skin against the sheet.

Transformed into animals

into fish-animals, into cow-animals

we grazed on the sea’s meadows

and were taken further and further away.

Transformed into crow-animals

and the eagles we had earlier seen on the ice,

transformed into the mice that nibble

even under the lowest sea-bed

we were taken ever further in

towards a large

and heavy heart.

We thought ourselves free

we were where we were not.

We were there.

Call for a new name

a name that no one knows

the waves whispered to us

those that passed high above our faces.

And the sea-fire that had died during the winter

and was waiting to be lit the following autumn

whispered too.

We then called and became the cry

that goes through the backs of the waves

in winter as in summer.

We became the gull’s wing.

We continue spiralling downwards

the algae that earlier did not gleam at all

now gleam like phosphorus

in the dreams that come before the seen

and after.

The greenly shimmering feather that follows.

Then we drank oblivion

and went to the threshold of oblivion.

We spread out our nets as we did before

and these are the nets of oblivion.

We love as before

and our women are the oblivion’s women

they look at us with shining eyes

as if from desire or from tears

and they say:

you are oblivion’s men.

On land the houses lie

like dead birds they hatch dead eggs.

For those that have sunk there are tall, green halls

water touches water

among fishes’ mouths.

On land is sorrow, its swirls round itself

its grey shawl.

A notion is that the dead

suckle the breasts of the unborn.

The hours came, leached out of the salt

not the salt from the sea but the salt of sorrow

and the bread that was given us

we were unable to eat.

The dreams came at night and took us close

to the land of madness

and even more as a mockery were dreams held out to us

about the life that had been.

Fleeting snatches of torpor

when nothing we recalled was shown us.

We crossed the field, the lapwing had returned

the field we did not know, the lapwing we did not know.

Pale, crumpled feathers

were given us when asleep and when awake

plucked from birds whose flesh had already been eaten

the waves hacked at our ankles like teeth.

The sun burned

the day was entirely without shadow

the rain that came

was water from the hair of the drowned.

And the swallows that already in autumn

sought the sea-bed beneath the water

so as to drink the winter

open their eyes and meet us.

They whisper:

tonight the ice broke up

did you hear the singing crack?

already the heat of summer is approaching

and we will fly once more.

They move their wings

and smile the way swallows smile.

Like ships we drift over the sea-bed

full of water

we see our ribs and heart that has ceased beating

our eyes we see as warped globes

and the feet we have walked with

and the hands we have grasped with

and the mouths that have sucked desire and love

they float away from us

we owned them for a while

in time the water will dissolve them

and they shall be water.

We become ships

and the swallows smile in their sleep.

When the ice shattered

the final joy of our summers shattered

we shrink

and are borne half asleep ever further away

from what we believed was our life.

We hear a foghorn through the mist

but no voices reach us that we know.

A film has grown

between us and the trees when they flower

now as before

everything is as before

and nothing is as before.

We pick the apples in autumn

we collect them in baskets

but do not know what they taste like.

We painfully recall the light of summer nights

and the cuckoo’s cry for consolation

becomes a cry for death.

We write names

but the paper has faded.

It is not really the return

we still are hoping for

that a face worn down by water

that no longer is that of a human

should show itself.

What is then our hope?

that which is beyond hope and yet waiting.

The waves speak of a wind from the southwest

then summer comes

the ringed plover lays its eggs

and in the still water we can sometimes see the salmon’s

crooked jaws.

We are not waiting for any return.

The ropes of sorrow have stretched us year after year.

Will they then never break?

No, they will never break.

The pennants of the nets show the wind is rising

and what we are waiting for

is beyond hope and waiting.

The northern lights we still recall within us

from that winter

now is the new winter

and the sunsets that sparkle in the cold

as wild now as then.

The fish we catch and haul up on the land

from the ice-holes

scare us

they take away our words when we eat them.

We eat a different bread than that night

even so we eat of the same bread

we bake it from dead days

its taste we do not like.

To stay silent we already learnt after the first summer

but the silence does not satisfy us either

finally not even tears have any taste.

We see the crack when it opens up.

For months we went searching

but nothing drifted ashore:

not a boot did we find, not an oar, let alone

a hand

a heart

an eye.

How shall we hear the voice that the water swallowed?

We who have long lived close to some water

and who have long missed those who have sunk

know that the water does not own any songs

except the water’s own complaint.

We who weep

we weep as long as there are tears

finally the drugs of sleep and oblivion also

do their work.

Sun that sinks

preserve us from gentle hands

and consolation that even so consoles nothing.

The butterfly of oblivion its wing velvet-smooth

but with a poisoned barb beneath.

For the water owns no songs.

Sun come – sun disappear

frost come – frost disappear.

Summer and winter will even so come

but to us they will not come back.

Water come – water turn

wind come – wind disappear

to us they will even so not come back.

Goldeneye come – goldeneye turn

boat come – boat disappear.

Goldeneyes and boats will even so come

to us they will not come back.

For a long time after the water was clear blue

with tints of green

boats set out from the land, boats sought the land

fish weighed down the nets.

We sank and with us sank time

our bodies were filled not just with water

oblivion was given to our memory

and carried us below the sea-bed

for a while our names followed us

but when time yielded, so too did they.

In the rotting where we had been once before

before names had been given –

and around us the mouths of fishes.

But nothing of what we tell

have we ever told

we are in the land of death

and we have nothing from there to tell.

The words are placed in our mouths

how we were carried ever deeper

and reached the realm of Oblivion

where the cows of oblivion grazed

and we drank of the milk of oblivion.

Late at night we reached the shore that sings

snow fell

the song was the song of oblivion

sweet as honey it met our lips

as when the man sinks into the woman

and woman into man.

We sailed on – and the ice breaks –

we rowed on – we saw long-tailed duck, eider and goldeneye

our eyes broke, our lips split

we were borne on

the green of the algae became our sail.

the eagle gave us its eye.

It was the journey down to our death

of that this has told.

Of the land of the dead and our days there

we have nothing to tell.

Birds that were not birds

sought in towards the coast

their breasts were rent by buckshot

in their eyes were also holes.

They flew against the windows

they wanted to enter where the humans were.

We did not sink

like our dead had sunk

in the water of sorrow we had

long been drawn down.

Sometimes the shore became a jetty for us

there we waited beyond waiting.

From the bottom of the winds

which is deeper than that of the water

we heard voices

– to us they whispered.

Whether one year or many had passed

– that spring a wagtail came.

It sat on the edge of the field

we saw it

it bore no greeting from the dead

but it was alive as we are alive.

The clear air became even clearer

we saw our life.

A dread it was.

The sorrow grieves in us

– shall we one day see it

as the wagtail looked at us?

The abode of the oar forgotten

were it to be found its wood would be so splintered

that no shore there could be traced

even less a name.

No memories of eider and goldeneye.

The oar owned by the water

The oar owned by No One.