Friday 31 May 2019

Lennart Sjögren: 'The Other Gardens' (2017)

The title is that of the first section of the book. Since the translation of the whole book is long, it is available as a pdf file here.



The other gardens, the abandoned ones
that do not ask for permission to exist
exist there even so
and invite in everything 
that lives and that is dead.
Here is a good place to pause a while
for travellers before they journey on.

Here
not much remains of what once was
when it comes to gleaming marshals
and those guests who come here
have other business than the celebration.

Yet they were tended once by human hands
and therefore can be called gardens
though the root system existed before and after
the age of humanity.

If it is morning or evening:
it can resemble another morning
far beyond the old one
it can also resemble an evening
and point towards a long night.

That is no great matter to discuss.

Another night that encloses everything
it tastes of metal, earth, leaves undergoing transformation
deep within it such is being prepared as
words as yet do not dare taste
and which can thus resemble a morning
as yet without written rules.

Vehicles come and vehicles go
the windfalls are not picked up by anyone
the betrayed pass by the betrayers here
and eat beneath the same branches.

Do not ask me who extracted
the greatest happiness from his life
or who was assigned the greatest torment
I, an intermediary, how could I possibly reply
although I am acquainted with cobwebs
the spiders’ lives and victims.

In the abandoned gardens
the signs of living seem more distinct
because death’s heel
has left its prints in what has been left behind.

Here soul’s refugees came passportless one night
and found there a moment’s rest
they did not think could be attained
sat down for a while
knew this to be no lasting place to stay
yet tarried until daybreak.

Here those extremely happy come a while
caress each other’s bodies
and think they know what life’s idea is.
Here the rain falls, that which first obliterates
and then gives back another life.

Here the dead come on their swift passage
through various worlds, take in the smells
pause for a while
taste before hurrying on.

And migrating birds that move at ease through the night
search a while in what is now stripped of leaves
find what they are looking for
in the large recess of the body
at the same place where the dead recently passed
hence the dark gleam in their eyes.

Not until oblivion has come to take its place
and death and life have acquired new meanings
does a different burgeoning begin
the faintly golden that precedes mouldering.

Now
the leaves all interweave
they look at me, at you they look
and ask how it can come about
we happen to be passing here
through the soles of our shoes they whisper
that it is alright to pause here for a while
but that the secrets which they carry never will
will be revealed completely.

Nor do some overripe apples that fall heavily
ask to be picked up
they fall into the abandoned grass
to be there and to grow there into other things
and to remain there quite still – and to wake up
when night and morning together
pass through the milling throng
of all that does not know what rest is
and they open their eyes wide, prick up their ears
for that which once more is drawing near.

Far off it is as if vehicles
as yet still out of sight are on their way
and which not even the gardens know of.

Nils Ferlin: 'Større och mindre'

Större och mindre

Vi upptäckte mer och mer
och jorden blev större och större.
Upptäckte ändå mer
och jorden blev bara en prick,
en liten leksaksballong
i oändligheten.


Larger and smaller

We discovered more and more
and the earth grew larger and larger.
Discovered even more
and the earth became just a dot,
a little toy balloon
out in infinity.



Thursday 30 May 2019

Werner Aspenström: 'Lyft mig in i det svartvita spelet'

lyft mig in i det svartvita spelet

Jag vill rida på de vita hästarna
likaväl som på de svarta.

Utan motsägelse skall jag lyssna till
dagens och nattens sändebud,

bestiga the fyra tornen och se ut över fälten
där de stridande redan samlats.

Jag önskar även närvara vid spelets upplösning,
i de segrande konungens seger

liksom i den flyende konungens slykt
genom nederlag och spärrade zoner.

Lyft mig in i det svartvita spelet.
Låt mig ropa de levandes rop.


lift me into the black-and-white game

I want to ride on both the white
and black knights’ horses.

Without contradicting I shall listen to
the messagers of day and night,

mount the four castles’ towers and survey the fields
where the combatants are already assembled.

I even wish to be present at the end-game,
in the victorious king’s victory

as in the fleeing king’s flight
through defeat and no-go zones.

Lift me into the black-and-white game,
Let me shout the shout of the living.



Wednesday 29 May 2019

Short snail poem by Werner Aspenström

snigeln

En svart släde far genom gräset:
det är snigeln och hans tvenne kuskar.
Han är på resa från det ena värdshuset
till det andra.

Jag är på resa från den ena otron
till den andra. Jag slår följe
med den långsamma överlöparen.


the snail

A black sledge moves through the grass:
it is the snail and his coachmen twain,
He is journeying from the one inn
to the other.

I am journeying from the one unbelief
to the other. I join company
with the slowly advancing renegade.


Werner Aspenström: 'Denna soltöckniga dag'

denna soltöckniga dag

Denna soltöckniga dag
då vallmö och riddarsporre blommar
och luften nästan löpnar av surrande bin
vem vill fly ur sommarns trollkrets
eller neka när hagen öppnar sin grind?

Gärdgårdens korsstygn ringlar genom skogen.
Kospillning ligger här och där
som tanklösa tallrikar.
Död
som en övergiven klocka
sover smedjan mellan träden.
Tegelskärvor har droppat från taket
och gräs växer mellan hjulens ekrar.

Och där tjurkalven!
hur han ligger och bälgar i värmen
lat men drömmande om solen
som han skall spetsa på sina horn
– knubbiga som små lökar.


this sun-hazy day

This sun-hazy day
with poppies and delphiniums in flower
and the air almost clotted with humming bees
who wants to flee from summer’s magic circle
or refuse when the meadow opens its gate?

The fence’s cross-stitch snakes through the wood.
Cow dung lies here and there
like thoughtless plates.
Dead
like an abandoned clock
the smithy sleeps among the trees,
Shards of tiles have fallen from the roof
and grass grows among the wheels’ spokes.

And there the young bull!
how he lies and bellows in the heat
lazy but dreaming of the sun
that he will impale on his horns –
stubby like small bulbs.

Werner Aspenström's last poem: 'Kära Ekorre'

kära ekorre

‘Han som skuggar sig med sin egen svans.’
Du vet att jag med tafatta rader hyllat dig.
Nu vill jag be dig om en sak, ett lån.
Som borgen kan jag erbjuda en hasselbuske,
högre och vidsträcktare än Yggdrasil.
Tillsammans med min hustru satt jag på en bänk
vid Klara sjö.
Tyst gled på detta vatten som inte skapats av människa
en ljusblå kanot som skapats av människa.
Mannen i kanoten lade upp paddeln och lät farkosten
smyga sig fram mot utloppet,
där den förvandlades till en luftfarkost
som lyfte sig över Stadshuset, Slottet, hela staden,
bort mot den väldiga hasselbusken, där du
kunde kajka omkringoch plocka nötter till vintern.
Ty icke upphör vintrarna.
Får jag låna din svans några dagar
för att skugga mig mot mörkret?

Kära Ekorre?


dear squirrel

‘He who shades himself with his own tail.’
You know that in paltry lines I have paid tribute to you.
Now I would like to ask you for something, a loan.
As security I can offer you a hazel bush,
taller and more wide-spreading than Yggdrasil.
Along with my wife I was sitting on a bench by Klara lake.
Silently over this expanse of water not created by man
there glided a light-blue canoe created by man.
The man in the canoe laid aside his paddle and let the craft
slide slowly towards the outlet
where it was transformed into an aircraft
that rose up above the City Hall, the Palace, the whole city,
away towards the huge hazel bush, where you
could just drift around and gather nuts for the winter.
For the winters do not cease.
May I borrow your tail for a few days
to shade myself from the dark?

Dear Squirrel?


Tuesday 28 May 2019

Werner Aspenström: 'Råttfälla, ryttare, regn'

råttfälla, ryttare, regn

Skogmusens oansenliga prassel
och råttfällans burdusa smäll
befriade mig från en dröm om ryttare,
lansiärer, ett helt regemente,
som omringades och förintades
av en dimma...

Fönsterrutans våta darrskrift
var lättare att tyda:
Vad sker när vi dör
förutom att vi dör?


rat-trap, riders, rain

The unassuming rustling of the fieldmouse
and the abrupt slam of the rat-trap
liberated me from a dream about riders
lancers, an entire regiment,
who were surrounded and destroyed
by a mist...

The wet shaky writing on the window pane
was easier to make out:
What happens when we die
apart from dying?


Monday 27 May 2019

Werner Aspenström: 'Snigeln'

snigeln

Trots sina obefintliga anlag för tåspetsdans
och sin allmänt slemmiga natur
drömmer snigeln, drömmer även snigeln
om att medverka i bländverk
som upphäver tyngdlagen
– likt Eldfågeln.

Vem bland levande varelser vill varje stund på dygnet
vara där han är, vara den han är?

Till och med månen, som ändå anses död,
besväras av en dröm att lära känna dem
vars torn och torg och fjärdar han försilvrar.

och stiger så en natt klockan tre hit ned
– och finner alla borta,
strövar längs kajerna och huvudgatorna,
letar i gränderna runt Tyska kyrkan,
kikar in genom gardinspringorna...
Här är de inte! Var?

Långt borta! Drivande på vita örngottsflottar,
kringspridda över vattenytor långt större
än lilla Östersjön...
Tills de av gryningen och plikten kallas tillbaka
och trär på sig sina åtsmitande arbetskläder
och skor med fasthäftande gummisulor
och månen av solen jagas tillbaka
upp i det osynliga...

och ute på landet, i trädgården,
snigeln hasar sig in i gömstället under rabarberbladen
för att där med sina två antenner öva sig
och öva sig i tyngdlöshetens längtan.


the snail

Despite his non-existent talent for dancing en pointe
and his slimy nature in general
the snail dreams, even the snail dreams
of taking part in illusions
that defy the law of gravity –
like the Firebird.

Who day in day out will among living creatures 
be where he is, be what he is?

Even the moon, which after all is considered dead,
is troubled by a dream to get to know those 
whose towers and squares and inlets he coats with silver

and so one night at three a.m. he comes down here
to find everyone gone,
strolls along the quays and main streets,
searches in the alleys around the German Church,
peeps in through chinks in the curtains...
They’re not here! Where?

Far away! Floating on fleets of white pillows,
spread out over surfaces of water far larger
than the tiny Baltic...
Till they are called back by dawn and duty
and put on their slinky working clothes
and shoes with non-slip rubber soles
and the moon is chased back by the sun
up into the invisible...

and out in the country, in the garden,
the snail shuffles into his hiding-place beneath the rhubarb leaves
so as there to practise and practise 
with his two antennae his longing for weightlessness.


Werner Aspenström: 'Rosen och enbusken'

rosen och enbusken

Nyss satt den nickande sädesärlan
på den sorgögda hästens rygg.
Utanför fönstret står en nyponros
sammanflätad med en enbuske.
Ja, det började ofta som lek
mellan olika barn.
Tiden söndrar de utkorade
och sammanför de outkorade.
Nödtvång blir innerlighet.


the rose and the juniper bush

Just now the nodding wagtail was sitting
on the back of the mournful-eyed horse.
Outside the window a dog-rose stands
intertwined with a juniper bush.
Yes, it often began as birds
not of a feather flocking together.
Time separates the chosen ones
and brings together the unchosen ones.
Necessity becomes intimacy.


Werner Aspenström: 'Nunc stans'

nunc stans

Gatlyktorna har rotat sig i staden.
på landet försvinner träd efter träd.
De har gått på export till Tyskland.
Eller också är det mörkret.
Jag ljuger ihop en sommardag åt ett höstbarn,
en utflykt som på de kritade tygskornas tid.
Någon har brett en stor smörgås av en gräsbacke
med stackmoln som pålägg.
Sjö finnes, glasbjörkar finnes och klibbalar
och en fyra meter hög enbuske.
Luften bjuder på en starkt kolsyrad läskedryck.
Du befinner dig kort sagt på den festplats,
nunc stans,
där dans alltid pågar.
Latin, fritt översatt:
Svävflugor över rödsvingel.



nunc stans

The street lamps have taken root in the town.
In the country tree after tree disappears.
They have been exported to Germany.
Or maybe it’s the darkness.
I fabricate a summer’s day for an autumn child,
an excursion as in the age of chalked plimsolls.
Someone’s spread a large smörgås of a grass slope
stacked with a topping of cumulus.
There’s a lake, there are downy birches and black alders
and a four-metre-high juniper bush.
The air offers a nose-prickling fizzy drink.
In short you are standing at the festive venue
nunc stans,
where there’s always dancing.
Latin, freely translated:
Beeflies above red fescue.