Transtromer

lost in translation

by Roberto Lavidez

I walk 

home

through the

humid woods

with the

ground

springing

under me

from the

deeps of 

the forest 

I rise

it lightens

between the

trunks of trees

then suddenly

I feel 

the chill

from far off

the moment

blackens and

stays like

the mark of

the axe

in the trunk

task: to be

where I am

even when

I’m in this

solemn

and absurd

role: 

I am

still the place

where creation

works itself

as when 

a man

goes so deep

into his dream

he will never

remember 

that he 

was there

when he 

returns again 

to his room

there’s so much

we must be

witness to

reality wears

us so thin

but here is

summer at last:

everyone is

queing at

everyone’s door

many.

one

you are alone

on the water

society’s

dark hull

drifts further

and further

away

the storm

puts its mouth

to the house

and blow s

to produce

a note

talking with

contemporaries

I saw

heard behind

their faces

the stream that

flowed and

flowed and

pulled with it

the willing and

the unwilling

when darkness

fell

I was still

but my shadow

pounded against

the drumskin

of hopelessness

the black

grand piano

the shiny spider

trembled in

the center of

its net

of music

just as

a memory

is slowly

transmuted

into your

own self

the small

things I love

have they

any weight?

so many

dialects

of green

the language

marches in

step with the

executioners

therefore

we must get

a new language

talking in

misspelled

English

understanding and

misunderstanding

but very little

conscious

lying

it is still

beautiful

to feel the

heart beat

but often

the shadow

seems more

real than

the body

I don’t know

if we’re in

the beginning

or in the

final stage

no conclusion

can be made

no conclusion

is possible

in other parts

of the world

there are people

who are born

live and die

in a perpetual

crowd

it was the

living dead

who wanted

to have their

portraits painted

as if it were

necessary

as if the last

childhood were

being broken

into pieces

to pass through

the grating

as if it were

necessary…

it is easy

to love

fragments

that have been

on the way

a long time

a dog’s

barking is

a hieroglyph

painted in

the air

above

the garden

a tune escapes

from the

bagpipes!

a bagpipe tune

approaches

with its skirl

of freedom

fantastic to feel

how my poem

grows while

I myself 

shrink

I come

too seldom

down to

the water

but I am

here now

among

large stones

with peaceful

backs

where the last

words of love

evaporate

waterdrops 

that creep slowly

down steel wings…

we battlegrounds

are proud of

our many dead

said a voice

as I awakened

this is not Africa

this is not

Europe

this is

nowhere 

but

here

©robertolavidez2014