769. Air Mail, by Tomas Transtromer

I carried the letter through the city
in search of a mail box.
In the great forest of stone and concrete
fluttered that lost butterly.

The stamp's flying carpet
the address's staggering letters
plus my sealed-in truth
at this moment floating above the ocean.

The Atlantic's crawling silver.
The banks of clouds. The fishing boat
like a spit-out olive pit.
And the pale scar of its wake.

Down here work goes slowly.
Often I steal a glance at the clock.
The shadows of the trees are black ciphers
in the greedy silence.

Truth is there on the ground
but no one dares to take it.
Truth lies on the street.
No one makes it his own.

(trans Samuel Charters)

Source: For the Living and the Dead

890. Late May, by Tomas Transtromer

Apple trees and cherry trees in flower help the town to float
in the soft smudgy May night, white left-vests, thoughts go far away.
Stubborn grass and weeds beat their wings.
The mailbox shines calmly: what is written cannot be taken back.

A mild cooling wind goes through your shirt, feeling for the heart.
Apple trees and cherry trees laugh soundlessly at Solomon.
They blossom in my tunnel. And I need them
not to forget, but to remember.

(trans Robert Bly)

Source: Selected Poems, 1954-1986

921. Journey, by Tomas Transtromer

On the subway platform.
A crowd among billboards
in a staring dead light.

The train comes and fetches
faces and briefcases.

Darkness next. We sit
like statues in the cars
hauled into the tunnels.
Strain, dreams, strain.

At stations below sea level
the news of darkness is sold.
People moving melancholy,
mum, beneath clockfaces.

The train carries a load
of street clothes and souls.

Looks in all directions,
passing through the mountain.
Nothing changing yet.

But near the surface begins
the hum of freedom's bees.
We emerge from the earth.

The countryside flaps its wings
once, and then subsides
under us, wide and greenish.

Shucks of corn blow in
across the platforms.

End of the line! I ride
beyond the end of the line.

How many aboard? Four,
five, hardly more.

Houses, roads, skies,
fjords, mountains
have opened their windows.

(trans May Swenson)

Source: Selected Poems, 1954-1986

965. The Half-Finished Heaven, Tomas Transtromer

Despondency breaks off its course.
Anguish breaks off its course.
The vulture breaks off its flight.

The eager light streams out,
even the ghosts take a drink.

And our paintings see daylight,
our red beasts of the ice-age studios.

Everything begins to look around.
We walk in the sun in hundreds.

Each man is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.

The endless ground under us.

The water is shining among the trees.

The lake is a window into the earth.

(trans Robin Fulton)

Source: Selected Poems, 1954-1986

996. Allegro, by Tomas Transtromer

After a black day, I play Haydn,
and feel a little warmth in my hands.

The keys are ready. Kind hammers fall.
The sound is spirited, green, and full of silence.

The sound says that freedom exists
and someone pays no tax to Caesar.

I shove my hands in my haydnpockets
and act like a man who is calm about it all.

I raise my haydnflag. The signal is:
"We do not surrender. But want peace."

The music is a house of glass standing on a slope;
rocks are flying, rocks are rolling.

The rocks roll straight through the house
but every pane of glass is still whole.

(trans. Robert Bly)

Source: Selected Poems, 1954-1986