This is my grandson, talking to me on Face Time. That's me in the upper right corner, the way he sees me, with himself in the upper corner. Sometimes I get impatient with all this technology, but this was fun! So here, from the wrong season entirely, a Transtromer poem about memory.
Memories Look at Me
A June morning, too soon to wake,
too late to fall asleep again.
I must go out -- the greenery is dense
with memories, they follow me with their gaze.
They can't been seen, they merge completely with
the background, true chameleons.
They are so close that I can hear them breathe
although the birdsong here is deafening.
Tomas Transtromer
in New Collected Poems; translated by Robin Fulton, Bloodaxe Books, 1997, page 135.
Why do I love the work of this poet so much? All the birds in his work don't hurt. But I think it is the surprising upwelling of wonderful metaphorical thought.
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