[New-Poetry] Re: Tranströmer

[Crisman Cooley]

Let's see if we can make this an interesting discussion.  Here are  
the rules: 1. You must think, really think before you say something;  
2. As you read these 3 versions of a Tranströmer poem, you must  
actually pay attention to your own esthetic reactions; 3. You must  
report what is your esthetic reaction to a particular word, phrase or  
image; 4. You must not comment on what is NOT in the poem, only what  
is in it; 5. You can only voice your own esthetic reaction, and are  
strictly disallowed from making political comments or any other  
comments other than A. your own esthetic experience, or B. comments  
about your own esthetic experience.  6. You are allowed to comment on  
the variation between translations, knowing, but not caring, that  
these are not about Tranströmer, but are about the text actually in  
the new-po post (the Object of Discussion); 7. these translations are  
the only object of discussion; 8. The question "What's this guy do  
that's special?" must be changed subtly to "What is my esthetic  
reaction to what these translators say this guy does?"  9. In the  
process of following the rules, your original question will be  
answered, but not in a way to prove anything, since esthetic  
discussions never prove anything.  Proving something would be  
breaking rules #2,3,4, and 5.   Ready?

Here are the texts:  [note that the May Swenson translation appears  
to have an error in line 6]

Breathing Room: July

Lying on his back under tall trees
he is also up there. He rills into thousands of twigs and branches,
is swayed back and forth,
as if in a catapult seat outflung in slow motion.

Standing down by the jetties he squints across the waters.
The docks ages sooner than men.
Made of splintered silver gray planks, and with stones in their
bellies.
The blinding light rips its way straight through.

Sailing all day in an open boat
over the glittering bights,
he will fall asleep at last inside a blue lamp
while islands like great nocturnal moths creep over the glass.

Translation by May Swenson

Breathing Space July

The man lying on his back under the high trees
is up there too. He rills out in thousandfold twigs,
sways to and fro,
sits in an ejector seat that releases in slow motion.

The man down by the jetties narrows his eyes at the water.
The jetties grow old more quickly than people.
They have silver grey timber and stones in their stomachs.
The blinding light beats right in.

The man traveling all day in an open boat
over the glittering straits

Will sleep at last inside a blue lamp
while the islands creep like large moths across the glass.

Translation by Robert Fulton

Breathing Space July

The man who lies on his back under huge trees
is also up in them. He branches out into thousands of tiny branches.
He sways back and forth,
he sits in a catapult chair that hurtles forward in slow motion.

The man who stands down at the dock screws up his eyes against the  
water.
Docks get older faster than men.
They have silver-gray posts and boulders in their gut.
The dazzling light drives straight in.

The man who spends the whole day in an open boat
moving over the luminous bays
will fall asleep at last inside the shade of his blue lamp
as the islands crawl like huge moths over the globe.

Translation by Robert Bly


> Date: Thu, 14 Dec 2006 20:50:49 -0500
> From: "Bob Grumman" <bobgrumman at nut-n-but.net>
> Subject: Re: [New-Poetry] Re: Transtromer


>> It doesn't matter whether you've read a whole book.  What matters  
>> (if  you
>> are interested in educating yourself and others about your  esthetic
>> predilections) is that you make specific comments about a   
>> specific poem.
>
> How about a specific question such as the one implied by my post,  
> what's
> this guy do that's special?
>
> --Bob G.