GOTLAND POEMS
From In the Hour of the Wolf (I vargtimmen, 2012)
I squat beneath a dripping century
that smells of mould and suspiciousness –
Jacop Petessaure, my skin feels stiff
as the parchment, dated 1492,
which I wave in my defence.
Can´t recall the case, though.
Is my neigbour after my land
adducing custom and witnesses?
Everything´s gone for me. Thought still
I had wife and children. What´s the use
if the sun glitters in the melt-water,
if the wheat germinates
and if the lark rises, sinks, rises
little more than its song?
The whole century´s heavy, gives no response.
As if I´d been forced to bear its weight alone.
-----
My death is an aching injustice.
I´d just done trimming the big ash
of leaves for winter sheep-fodder.
My life with Fredrika and the children
was moving into years of ripeness.
But I slipped while climbing down,
fell and fell,
the axe first with its blade towards me.
I now demand the rest of my life.
You who have taken over my farm
owe me an intractable debt.
-----
I see to the little library here
and swap lives with the local ladies.
Foist on them a room from Virginia Woolf
and my dream of being Wisława Szymborska.
In return I get their worries -
unease about a new tumour
sticks together several pages
in Blonde, handed back reluctantly.
And an amazed infatuation remains
in a well-thumbed copy of The Wind on the Moon.
The library expands that way, fitfully.
There´s a sleepless mumbling from the shelves
shining faintly when I´ve switched off at night.
I live on crumbs for my part
but allow myself to breathe at ease
in the familiar homes round about.
The mirror in their porches
see in me a happy woman.
From In the Hour of the Wolf (I vargtimmen, 2012)
I squat beneath a dripping century
that smells of mould and suspiciousness –
Jacop Petessaure, my skin feels stiff
as the parchment, dated 1492,
which I wave in my defence.
Can´t recall the case, though.
Is my neigbour after my land
adducing custom and witnesses?
Everything´s gone for me. Thought still
I had wife and children. What´s the use
if the sun glitters in the melt-water,
if the wheat germinates
and if the lark rises, sinks, rises
little more than its song?
The whole century´s heavy, gives no response.
As if I´d been forced to bear its weight alone.
-----
My death is an aching injustice.
I´d just done trimming the big ash
of leaves for winter sheep-fodder.
My life with Fredrika and the children
was moving into years of ripeness.
But I slipped while climbing down,
fell and fell,
the axe first with its blade towards me.
I now demand the rest of my life.
You who have taken over my farm
owe me an intractable debt.
-----
I see to the little library here
and swap lives with the local ladies.
Foist on them a room from Virginia Woolf
and my dream of being Wisława Szymborska.
In return I get their worries -
unease about a new tumour
sticks together several pages
in Blonde, handed back reluctantly.
And an amazed infatuation remains
in a well-thumbed copy of The Wind on the Moon.
The library expands that way, fitfully.
There´s a sleepless mumbling from the shelves
shining faintly when I´ve switched off at night.
I live on crumbs for my part
but allow myself to breathe at ease
in the familiar homes round about.
The mirror in their porches
see in me a happy woman.
Kjell Espmark
Translation by Robin Fulton Macpherson
Translation by Robin Fulton Macpherson