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sidharthvardhan's review against another edition
4.0
And that which was ‘I’
is only a word
in the darkness of December’s mouth
I am always a little skeptical of nobel laureates of Swedish origin but these poems are simply beautiful despite their pessimism. The title itself provides enough of glimpse of what is to expected from this small collection.
A darker storm stands over the world.
It puts its mouth to our soul
and blows to get a tone. We are afraid
the storm will blow us empty
*
In the middle of life, death comes
to take your measurements. The visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
is being sewn on the sly
*
What huge effort to move through this silence.
The stain of this moment spreading out forever,
this moment’s wound in its ever-widening pool.
*
The bus negotiates the winter night:
a flickering ship in the pine forest
on a road as narrow and deep as a dead canal.
Few passengers: some old, some very young.
If it stopped and switched off its lights
the world would be deleted
*
I wrote to you so cautiously. But what I couldn’t say
filled and grew like a hot-air balloon
and finally floated away through the night sky.
*
On the way back, I see mushrooms pushing up through the grass.
Stretching for help, these white fingers
belong to someone who sobs down there in the darkness.
We belong to the earth.
mattleesharp's review against another edition
4.0
This is far too short to really judge the quality of a poet's work, but it was the only collection I've seen from Transtromer in local bookstores. The translation gives these poems great life, but the brief nature of the poems left me wanting a great deal more. The 3 stars is more a reflection of quantity than quality (decided this was a bullshit reason and bumped it up to 4). I was particularly struck by the idea of reaching back which seemed to pervade the poems. My favorite of the dozen or so poems was "Sketch in August" whose last stanza describes wild mushrooms as "white fingers" that "belong to someone who sobs down there." This seemed an apt metaphor for the whole collection - a series of poems from someone who belongs to the earth but no longer feels able to really participate in it.
caitpoytress's review
3.0
The bad news? About half of the poems in this (very) slim volume didn't really do much for me.
The good news? The other half I absolutely loved.
(Full disclaimer: I will be the first person to admit that I know next to nothing about poetry. I cannot write eloquently about it, let alone critique it properly. More often than not I'm unable to even articulate why I like the poems that I do. All I know is the way poems make me feel (or don't) when I read them, and that is what I am basing my rating on.)
My favorites from this collection are A Winter Night, Solitude (I), and Black Postcards. I'm looking forward to checking out [b:The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems|305941|The Great Enigma New Collected Poems|Tomas Tranströmer|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327902895s/305941.jpg|296933].
The good news? The other half I absolutely loved.
(Full disclaimer: I will be the first person to admit that I know next to nothing about poetry. I cannot write eloquently about it, let alone critique it properly. More often than not I'm unable to even articulate why I like the poems that I do. All I know is the way poems make me feel (or don't) when I read them, and that is what I am basing my rating on.)
My favorites from this collection are A Winter Night, Solitude (I), and Black Postcards. I'm looking forward to checking out [b:The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems|305941|The Great Enigma New Collected Poems|Tomas Tranströmer|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327902895s/305941.jpg|296933].
kiwibird's review
reflective
4.25
These poems were beautiful. I loved the way Tranströmer describes nature, with a particular emphasis the Scandinavian winter. He also reflects on themes of city life, loneliness, and love in a very interesting way. 4.25 stars because although the translations were good for the most part, some of them did not give quite the same feeling as the originals, and I wish the collection had included a few more poems.
sarah_dietrich's review
5.0
Wow, what an amazing collection! I felt a real sense of calm, space and quiet. I had to hold myself back from reading the whole collection in one sitting, spacing it over two sittings so that I could enjoy it for longer. I enjoyed the introduction from the translator & was interested to learn about the challenges of translating poetry.
thevicarslice's review
4.0
Ethereal, haunting and spare. Strange poems where I felt like an outsider peering through a window onto something that hadn't been seen before.
deea_bks's review against another edition
4.0
I thought that poetry was not for me, but lately I have started to develop a taste for it. And the effect of some of these poems really lingers...
The Couple
They turn out the lamplight, and its white globe
glimmers for a moment: an aspirin rising and falling
then dissolving in a glass of darkness. Around them,
the hotel walls slide like a back-drop up into the night sky.
Love’s drama has died down, and they’re sleeping now,
but their dreams will meet as colours meet
and bleed into each other
in the dampened pages of a child’s painting-book.
All around is dark, and silent. The city has drawn in,
extinguishing its windows. The houses have approached.
They crowd in close, attentive:
this audience of cancelled faces.
___________________
TO FRIENDS BEHIND A BORDER
I
I wrote to you so cautiously. But what I couldn't say
filled and grew like a hot-air balloon
and finally floated away through the night sky.
II
Now my letter is with the censor. He lights his lamp.
In its glare my words leap out like monkeys at a wire mesh,
clattering it, stopping to bear their teeth.
III
Read between the lines. We will meet in two hundred years
when the microphones in the hotel walls are forgotten –
when they can sleep at last, become ammonites.
_________________________
From March 1979
Sick of those who come with words,
words but no language,
I make my way to the snow-covered
island.
Wilderness has no words. The
unwritten pages
stretch out in all directions.
I come across this line of deer-slots
in the snow: a language,
language without words.
_______________________
Black Postcards
I
The calendar is full but the future is
blank.
The wires hum the folk-tune of
some forgotten land.
Snow-fall on the lead-still sea.
Shadows
scrabble on the pier.
II
In the middle o life, death comes
to take your measurements. The
visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the
suit
is being sewn on the sly.
________________________
Fire Graffiti
Throughout those dismal months
my life was only sparked alight
when I made love to you.
As the firefly ignites and fades,
ignites and fades, we follow the
flashes
of its flight in the dark among the olive trees.
Throughout those dismal months,
my soul sat slumped and lifeless
but my body walked to yours.
The night sky was lowing.
We milked the cosmos secretly, and survived.
_______________________
Island City, 1860
I
One day when she was rinsing clothes at
the jetty
the chill of the sea rose up through her
arms
and into her soul.
Her tears froze to a pair of spectacles. The
island
gathered itself, its white grass bristling,
and the herring lag streamed in the
depths of the sea.
II
The swarm of smallpox caught up with
him
and settled on his face.
He lies in bed, staring into the ceiling.
What huge effort to move through this
silence.
The stain of this moment spreading out
forever,
this moment's wound in its ever-
widening pool.
The Couple
They turn out the lamplight, and its white globe
glimmers for a moment: an aspirin rising and falling
then dissolving in a glass of darkness. Around them,
the hotel walls slide like a back-drop up into the night sky.
Love’s drama has died down, and they’re sleeping now,
but their dreams will meet as colours meet
and bleed into each other
in the dampened pages of a child’s painting-book.
All around is dark, and silent. The city has drawn in,
extinguishing its windows. The houses have approached.
They crowd in close, attentive:
this audience of cancelled faces.
___________________
TO FRIENDS BEHIND A BORDER
I
I wrote to you so cautiously. But what I couldn't say
filled and grew like a hot-air balloon
and finally floated away through the night sky.
II
Now my letter is with the censor. He lights his lamp.
In its glare my words leap out like monkeys at a wire mesh,
clattering it, stopping to bear their teeth.
III
Read between the lines. We will meet in two hundred years
when the microphones in the hotel walls are forgotten –
when they can sleep at last, become ammonites.
_________________________
From March 1979
Sick of those who come with words,
words but no language,
I make my way to the snow-covered
island.
Wilderness has no words. The
unwritten pages
stretch out in all directions.
I come across this line of deer-slots
in the snow: a language,
language without words.
_______________________
Black Postcards
I
The calendar is full but the future is
blank.
The wires hum the folk-tune of
some forgotten land.
Snow-fall on the lead-still sea.
Shadows
scrabble on the pier.
II
In the middle o life, death comes
to take your measurements. The
visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the
suit
is being sewn on the sly.
________________________
Fire Graffiti
Throughout those dismal months
my life was only sparked alight
when I made love to you.
As the firefly ignites and fades,
ignites and fades, we follow the
flashes
of its flight in the dark among the olive trees.
Throughout those dismal months,
my soul sat slumped and lifeless
but my body walked to yours.
The night sky was lowing.
We milked the cosmos secretly, and survived.
_______________________
Island City, 1860
I
One day when she was rinsing clothes at
the jetty
the chill of the sea rose up through her
arms
and into her soul.
Her tears froze to a pair of spectacles. The
island
gathered itself, its white grass bristling,
and the herring lag streamed in the
depths of the sea.
II
The swarm of smallpox caught up with
him
and settled on his face.
He lies in bed, staring into the ceiling.
What huge effort to move through this
silence.
The stain of this moment spreading out
forever,
this moment's wound in its ever-
widening pool.
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