Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Spring's Narcosis

A few days ago, Rafael watered in some fertilizer 
and left the hose in the graceful loops seen here. 
Early spring is the time for Plum Petal Fall,
almost like light snow.


The silent rage scribbles on the i
nward wall.
Fruit trees in bloom, the cuckoo calls out.
This is spring's narcosis. But the silent rage
paint its slogans backwards in garages.

We see all and nothing, but straight as periscopes
handled by the underworld's timid crew.
It's the war of minutes. The broiling sun
stands over the hospital, suffering's parking lot.

We the living nails hammered down in society!
One day we'll come loose from everything.
We'll feel death's air under our wings
and be milder and wilder then we are here.

Tomas Tranströmer

Bright Scythe by Tomas Transtromer, 
translations by Patty Crane, Sarabande, 2015, 
Kindle location 1223

I don't feel quite this bad most days, unless I am thinking about Donald Trump, which I do as little as humanly possible. 
But this poem is, as many of Transtromer's other poems are, 
unblinkingly sad. And now he is gone; 
I'm glad he got his Nobel Prize first!

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