Friday, March 29, 2019

Tear off the mask. Your face is glorious. —Rumi


As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not want to know.

—Carl Gustav Jung
Memories, Dreams, Reflections, excerpt


Tuesday, March 19, 2019

answers from the elements


A whole afternoon field inside me from one stem of reed.
The messenger comes running toward me, irritated:
Why be so hard to find?

Last night I asked the moon about the Moon, my one question for the visible world, Where is God?

The moon says, I am dust stirred up
when he passed by.


The sun, My face is pale yellow
from just now seeing him.


Water: I slide on my head and face
like a snake, from a spell
, he said.

Fire: His lightning,
I want to be that restless.

Wind, why so light?
I would burn if I had a choice.

Earth, quiet and thoughtful?
Inside me I have a garden
and an underground spring.
This world hurts my head with its answers,
wine filling my hand, not my glass.

If I could wake completely, I would say without speaking
Why I’m ashamed of using words.



Sunday, March 10, 2019

reply to a letter


In the bottom drawer I find a letter which arrived for the first time twenty- six years ago. A letter written in panic, which continues to breathe when it arrives for the second time.

A house has five windows; through four of them daylight shines clear and still. The fifth window faces a dark sky, thunder and storm. I stand by the fifth window. The letter.

Sometimes a wide abyss separates Tuesday from Wednesday, but twenty-six years may pass in a moment. Time is no straight line. but rather a labyrinth. and if you press yourself against the wall, at the right spot, you can hear the hurrying steps and the voices, you can hear yourself walking past on the other side.

Was that letter ever answered? l don't remember, it was a long time ago. The innumerable thresholds of the sea continued to wander. The heart continued to leap from second to second, like the toad in the wet grass of a night in August.

The unanswered letters gather up above, like cirrostratus clouds foreboding a storm. They dim the rays of the sun. One day l shall reply. One day when I am dead and at last free to collect my thoughts. Or at least so far away from here that l can rediscover myself. When recently arrived I walk in the great city. On 25th Street, on the windy streets of dancing garbage. I who love to stroll and merge with the crowd, a capital letter T in the infinite body of text.

–Tomas Tranströmer
Göran Malmqvist translation