-
1 week ago | 
oakiedog.substack.com | Tomas Tranströmer |David Katznelson
(to be read following the previous Signal)Most great bands have a record or two in their catalog that are underrated, that for one reason or another never achieved the status of their more well-known releases, may it be from the changing of public taste, poor distribution/marketing, untimely release date…many reasons. These records are gifts to the fan, discoveries they make while record shopping or talking to a someone in-the-know.
-
Nov 26, 2024 | 
3quarksdaily.com | Tomas Tranströmer |Jim Culleny
Green MidnightGreen midnight at the nightingale's northernmost border. The heavy leaves hang entranced deafening the automobiles' rush towards some neon line. The path of the nightingale's voice is not beside the point. It is like a break-through, like a rooster's madness, but beautiful and without vanity. I was in prison and it visited me. I was sick and it attended me. Then I did not heed it, but I do now.
-
Oct 3, 2024 | 
wordswithoutborders.org | Abdulrazak Gurnah |Olga Tokarczuk |Herta Müller |Tomas Tranströmer
-
Apr 15, 2024 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
The white sun melts into the smog.
The light drips, working its way down
to my subterranean eyes that lie
deep under the city and gaze upward,
seeing the place from below: streets, foundations—
like aerial views of a wartime city,
but the reverse—a mole’s photograph:
silent rectangles in muted colors.
Where decisions are made. The bones of the dead
can’t be told from those of the living.
The sunlight intensifies and spreads, flooding
into aircraft cabins and peapods.
-
Sep 20, 2023 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
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.
-
Aug 30, 2023 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
Byggnaden är stängd. Solen tränger in genom fönsterrutorna
och värmer upp ovansidan på skrivborden
som är starka nog att bära människoödens tyngd.
Vi är ute i dag, på den långa vida sluttningen.
Många har mörka kläder. Man kan stå i solen och blunda
och känna hur man långsamt blåser framåt.
Jag kommer för sällan fram till vattnet. Men nu är jag här,
bland stora stenar med fridfulla ryggar.
Stenar som långsamt vandrat baklänges upp ur vågorna.
-
Aug 23, 2023 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
The white sun melts into the smog. The light drips, working its way downto my subterranean eyes that liedeep under the city and gaze upward,seeing the place from below: streets, foundations—like aerial views of a wartime city,but the reverse—a mole’s photograph:silent...
-
Aug 16, 2023 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
En man känner på världen med yrket som en handske.
Han vilar en stund mitt på dagen och har lagt ifrån sig handskarna på hyllan.
Där växer de plötsligt, breder ut sig
och mörklägger hela huset inifrån.
Det mörklagda huset är mitt ute bland vårvindarna.
»Amnesti« går viskningen i gräset: »amnesti«.
En pojke springer med en osynlig lina som går snett upp i himlen
där hans vilda dröm om framtiden flyger som en drake större än förstaden.
-
Jul 31, 2023 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
Once there was a shockthat left behind a long, pale, shimmering comet’s tail. It shelters us. It makes the TV images fuzzy. It settles in cold droplets on the power lines. You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sunthrough groves...
-
Jul 18, 2023 | 
poetryfoundation.org | Tomas Tranströmer
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, pale, shimmering comet’s tail.
It shelters us. It makes the TV images fuzzy.
It settles in cold droplets on the power lines.
You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun
through groves where last year’s leaves hang on.
Like pages torn from old telephone books—
all of the names swallowed up by the cold.
It’s still pleasant to feel the heart beating.
But the shadow often seems more real than the body.
