By Tomas Transtromer
The accrued poems of 1 of the world's maximum residing writers, Tomas Transtromer, to be had during this finished edition.
In day's first hours attention can seize the world
because the hand grips a sun-warmed stone.
Translated into fifty languages, the poetry of Tomas Transtromer has had a profound impact worldwide, a power that has progressively grown and has now attained a prominence akin to that of Pablo Neruda's in the course of his lifetime. but when Neruda is blazing fireplace, Transtromer is increasing ice. The nice Enigma: New accumulated Poems gathers the entire poems Tomas Transtromer has released, from his distinct first assortment in 1954, 17 Poems, via his epic poem Baltics ("my so much constant try and write music"), and The unhappy Gondola, released six years after he suffered a debilitating stroke in 1990 ("I am carried in my shadow / like a violin / in its black case."), to his latest narrow e-book, The nice Enigma, released in Sweden in 2004. additionally integrated is his prose-memoir Memories examine Me, containing keys into his intensely non secular, metaphysical poetry (like the short passage of insect accumulating on Runmaro Island whilst he used to be a teenager). Firmly rooted within the flora and fauna, his paintings falls among dream and dream; it probes "the nice unsolved love" with the hole up, via refined modulations, of "concrete words."
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No, it’ll soon be a whole year. What does it mean? A month ago I finally understood what would happen. It’s in Yugoslavia. At first I thought it was in a Swedish landscape in autumn—I was tricked by the lighting. No, it’s Yugoslavia, in the middle of the day, and the sun is burning. It has something to do with the war. Or at least there are many dead people in the background—they move away later but what is really going on? It’s no epic, it’s a bagatelle, five lines perhaps. Yet terribly important to me .
But Balakirev dozed off during the music and dreamed a dream about the czar’s droshky. It rumbled over the cobblestones straight into the crow-cawing blackness. He sat alone inside the cab and looked and also ran alongside on the road. He knew the journey had lasted long and his watch showed years, not hours. There was a field where the plow lay and the plow was a fallen bird. There was an inlet where the vessel lay icebound, lights out, with people on deck. The droshky glided there across the ice and the wheels spun with a sound of silk.
Balakirev woke from his dream. The wings of applause pattered in the hall. He saw the man at the grand piano rise. Outside the streets lay darkened by the strike. The droshkies were rushing through the dark. • V • After an Attack The sick boy. Locked in a vision with his tongue stiff as a horn. He sits with his back turned to the picture of the cornfield. The bandage around his jaw hinting at embalming. His glasses are thick like a diver’s. And everything is unanswered and vehement like the telephone ringing in the dark.