Tag: Poetics

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53.5° N, 113.5° W 

The poem below is a lyric, defined as utterance knowingly addressed to another but expressive of the person whose voice it is understood to be, commonly known as the first person.

I sometimes try to imagine how I would think about things in the here-and-now were I twenty or so. Sometimes I even narrow this search down to the pedantic topic of poetry.  One positive thing social media has brought into our lives is the concept of texting, which is what poetry boils down to.  Indeed, much lyric poetry amounts to sublimated forms of sexting. 

Amazing, isn’t it, that the complex feelings I once had can survive time and take on a new form in a different place, becoming a matter of public record? Ah! but the nature of lyric itself is that one token of love, one of its prime subjects as well, is not caring how public what one says becomes. 

This particular poem talks both to one old one which could have borne the same title (“Edge“), and to the last stanza of a new one set nowhere near the above coordinates (“The Giraffes at San Gorgonio“).

***

Earth for others, home is scaffolding
for you, will be till you stop thinking
winters and summers through windows.

See: the world is round. The arcs are mapped
that shadows mark on vacant yards below.
Your room, now ours, has walls of light.

This will be our one last look at weather:
from the west a range of clouds in storm
will raise welts across the purple prairie.

Gusts will speak like we once spoke
with one another. Rain will finally fall
in shimmering sheets like medicine.

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Tranströmer Beheld

It was a funeral.
I sensed the deceased
read my thoughts
better than myself.

The organ fell silent. Birds sang.
A grave opened to the sun.
My friend’s voice rang as far
as the minutes’ darkside.

I drove home transfixed
by the glare of summer day,
by rain and stillness,
transfixed by the moon.

From Tomas Tranströmer, Från juli 90

Det var en begravning
och jag kände att den döde
läste mina tankar
bättre än jag själv. 

Orgeln teg, fåglarna sjöng.
Gropen ute i solgasset.
Min väns röst höll till
på minuternas baksida. 

Jag körde hem genomskådad
av sommardagens glans
av regn och stillhet
genomskådad av månen.

***
Tranströmer has an uncanny knack. One might call it musical, given his love for and skill at piano, even after the stroke which left him without use of his right hand. I am sure he thought of Paul Wittgenstein, the philosopher’s older brother, the pianist who lost his right arm in what is now Ukraine during the First World War, not the second cousin, about whom Thomas Bernhard wrote so compellingly in Wittgensteins Neffe. Maurice Ravel composed a Concerto for the Left Hand at the first Paul’s request. One wonders about Tranströmer’s own left-handed repertoire in his later years. Did he stick with Haydn or try out the repertoire Paul Wittgenstein commissioned from Ravel, Hindemith, Prokofiev and Britten, among others?

In this poem in particular, there is certainly counterpoint (the deceased / myself; the organ fell silent / the birds sang; a grave dug into soil / the sun). There is also what could be called modulation, as when the poet moves in the last stanza from the glare of summer day, through rain and stillness, and then on to the moon.   

Critics have spoken of the quality of Tranströmer’s diction, choice of words. This makes him especially useful to a student of the language. 

There is much less of a Latinate register in Swedish than English. The language of Rome never sunk roots that far away, though late Latin was the preferred instrument of elite scientific communication for a long time. Look at Swedenborg.

My Latiny transfixed for gemonskådad goes against the instincts of an English translator. Archaic or poetic skåda means to behold, watch or observe. It shows up now mainly in compound forms, as in skådespelare, actor / Schauspieler.  If all things were equal, which they are not, gemonskådad av månen would call for an Anglo-saxonish “seen through” or “beheld” by the moon. But “looking through” means “seeing what is beyond,” as in perceiving what is on the backside of the moon, of the  minutes as they tick, of time. As in prefiguring, at an inhumation, one’s own death. To be transfixed is also to be caught in some Medusa’s stare, her glance, her glare.

Then breaks forth a cadenza. The dead friend’s words, which best expressed the poet’s own thoughts, had hung in the void, resounding from the far side of time, as if from the occulted dark side of the moon. Driving home from the obsequies through unsettled afternoon weather and into a night clearing of clouds, the poet is transfigured in the sight of the moon.

Like music, poetry is composed of structures which make things happen in our mind.