GUNNAR HARDING
IT IS EVENING WHEN YOU TURN BACK
1.
the dead man is still hanging
from the crystal chandelier in the dining room. his black
patent-leather shoes graze your hair as you
eat dinner
the gendarmes have moved in. they write out
arrest warrants on the tablecloths, which they tear
into strips and roll into their typewriters
you see it all clearly, like one who returns
from a trip and sees his apartment again
after a long time
they've been waiting here for many years
playing cards on the floorboards
and spritzing soda-water onto the wall-lice
the police captain moves a chess piece
"stranger, if you passing meet me ..."
2.
there is no such thing as time. everything is happening now
and inside you. that summer
you think was long ago is happening now
and inside you
you are five years old you are ten
you are twenty-eight and are still sitting there
leafing through a pile of old weeklies from 1916
when the aeroplanes were big butterflies
with red white and blue circles on their wings
and the American soldiers were little tin soldiers
with leggings and scout hats
you built a marionette theater
out of old cigar boxes
(the warm smell of old cigar boxes
and the bumblebees outside the window)
3.
the Indians stand ranged on the horizon
wrapped in their blankets. they are waiting
the little scout-soldiers have surrounded them
the small butterfly-planes buzz in the air
they drop fire from the sky
the Indians catch fire one after another
you look out the window
the horizon is smooth again
4.
there is no order other than the one
you create yourself. everything is one huge mess
and is happening now and you can't manage to open
the window
the farmers outside are wearing blue overalls
and have strings in their hands. you pull
on the strings and they rise high
above the green earth. you're hanging
from a string in the marionette theater. a lonely child
is speaking above your head while the grass is dying
outside the window
motors shut off, the aeroplanes disappear behind the sun
5.
he passed his hand across the chess board
swept all the pieces onto the floor
"you don't understand this. you haven't
mastered the tactics of the game"
"cut down the body" he continued
in his monotone voice
Translated
by Roger Greenwald.
JANET PERSSON NOCH EINMAL
in your childhood
the rain flows down the tile roofs
of Ulvsunda Street
and a stream of children in blue gym suits
flows over a leather-covered "horse"
while a whistle screeches irritably. Blue
gym shoes across the varnished floor. they
pass by in silhouette
as at a shooting range
play hopscotch on one foot
between life and death. a gaudy marble
rolls straight across the sidewalk
knocks over a tin soldier
1954 and the jackdaws scream above the ridgepoles
the guys in the neighborhood feel up her breasts
over and over behind the auto repair shop "Goddammit!
Goddammit!" she hisses
but comes back every day. they
can't figure out if she likes it or not
and she knows
that they will never dare to kiss her
never. never
it's Tuesday 5 o'clock
and there's a smell of fried Falun sausage
from an open lighted window. in the background
the scornful grating laughter
from an old Dodge
she gives back to her childhood
a frayed jump-rope, a blue gym suit
a couple of bookmarks with pink angels
and the Motala radio station. she
keeps going, through banks factories parking garages
a gigantic marble
comes rolling toward me
Translated by Roger Greenwald.
SEARCH LINE
1.
Here at the edge of the forest each second becomes
unimaginably large, each grain of sand
a boulder. Behind my back: potato fields
small pink fists clenched in the clay
waiting
for birth, already living
like the stones, slowly, in the dark
gradually changing.
In ikons children are born
with faces radiating light.
Like staring at the sun
and it will remain there
even though the darkness is creeping in
from the edges. At night I hear
our children wake up and cry. I saw them being born
in blood, being washed
and laid on clean sheets.
The world grows into them
first Mama. They drink her in. No person
is more important than you. Only the sun
is more important than you.
2.
To enter a tree
pass through a tree.
On the other side
you are another person.
One can find one's way if one remembers
that all trees are different. Flickering light
from flashlights, dogs barking
raised voices. The search line is combing the woods
for lost children.
In red rubber boots they are making their way
toward the east
or the west, toward the north
or south, always deeper into the woods.
The water rises in their boots
makes their socks as wet
as the moss in their pockets.
They will never return here.
3.
I lie awake
and hear them crying, hear how the woods
are growing into them. They drink water
from black tarns, fall asleep
among the bracken, wake again
at the shriek of the chain saws. Blue blades
cut through their lives.
In the middle of the woods: the sound from a city. Car headlights
peek out from the badger-burrows, children
lonely and grieving
as in large airports. It's the hour
when dogs return
panting
with bloody strips of cloth in their jaws.
Great titmice call from the trees:
Francis!
Children fall out of the trees.
Francis!
Translated by Roger Greenwald.
© 1969, 1970, 1972, 1974, 1993 by Gunnar Harding
Translations © 2005 by Roger Greenwald
All rights reserved.