Below Zero—A Poem by (guess!)
Feeling That Feeling We Have Talked About, Today
The heart’s distress signals want to land somewhere.
My way of not becoming mute and ashen is to look at words.
This poem is by Tomas Tranströmer, from his 1978 collection Sanningsbarriären (The Truth Barrier.)
The first line has always moved me, inexplicably.
“We are at a party that doesn’t love us.”
That brings up Sweden, for me, but it could also be about most nations, especially now.
The last two lines, however, make it very clearly a modern- Sweden lamentation:
“Children are standing in a silent cluster waiting for the school bus, children no one prays for. The light is growing as slowly as our hair.”
I got a chance to tell Mr. Tranströmer (24 years ago) that Robin Fulton’s translations are the best for the English ear, of all his translators. But still, I run across places where I want to adjust a little.
I would like it to be: “Come to me, for I am as full of contradictions as you.”
Don’t be put off by the word “poetry.” Don’t think some people understand it, some people don’t. Think of it as people not lying, not promoting, not advertising, not persuading.
It (poetry) feels less indulgent in 2024 than it once did. It feels like oxygen.
I wrote this about Tranströmer when he won the Nobel, and am proud of it. I like this piece too, by Birgitta Hjalmarsson, has some wonderful quotes. She met T.T. before the stroke that left him almost entirely mute.
I know very little about poetry, and don’t like most of it, or maybe it’s above my head.
His is not.
For me, the way you write is pure poetry. It is a joy to find that, despite all the trauma, you continue anyway.
Celia, please please keep doing what you do, God gave you this increadible skill of precise verbalization of what some of us confusely perceive without ever being able to put our finger on it. It is both freeing and empowering, and reassuring, and rehumanizing, and allows for rebonding over and over to ourselves and other soul-connected human beings, in this soulbreaking arid freezing darkening times. Poetry to me is - as any art form can be - religious in nature, in the ethymological sense of "religare", bonding and rebonding. Poets who strike a chord in us are indeed "people not lying, not promoting, not advertising, not persuading".. like music composers, interpreters.. and also healers, those who actually heal, not those who hold titles. Healing is an art form and from that perspective, to me what you are compelled to do comes from above and falls into that category. Thank you.