A man walks through the wood
one day of shifting light.
Encounters few people,
stops, considers the autumn sky.
He is making for the graveyard
and no one is following him.
Will an unknown hand raise the continents
and the song transfix the bird,
the tide abandon the shores
or wash them with a light that will endure?
And I who form the shadow
that my soul casts over things,
will I exist in this poem
or be read by no one?
It is almost midnight,
the trees stand silent.
In the June dawn
Early in the June dawn he rowed
fully dressed, imprisoned by a tie, with rolled-up trousers
over the calm bay, lingered, looked back:
there lay the island, there slept wife and child,
the trees, the winds were resting there,
the first morning breeze came and broke the mirroring water.
The grass rests cool,
it is morning, evening
in your life.
Near your ways
goes the last day
perhaps hidden in the leafage of the tree
or in those silent cities
where your cry is not heard.
The mute grass
The heart does not accord with its bounds,
nor the poem with reality,
nor reality with God’s dream.
What sort of a dialogue is it that transforms you
without you yourself being transformed?
Do not seek in the mute grass, seek the mute grass.
There, by the pale tree,
he stood listening to my mother’s footsteps
The mortal is our love and tenderness,
the day that goes miraculous because it never returns.
I who listen to your footsteps in the grass
and you who stand close to me,
perhaps in the grey twilight
they will remember who now dream?
Fleeting is the dawn, fleeting the day, but the cool evening
brings its twilight, goes like the water of the bay
among the dark trees where they stand, unmoving.
Arid among waves from a mileswide distance reach us, slowly,
voices, fragments of words that sink through the air —
fleeting, fleeting is our day but the evening lingers in a summer warmth;
cool summer warmth, linger on in the blood that here will darken
under the trees’ crowns, under the open, boundlessly open gaze of heaven’s eye.
Old woman and road
A radiance lay over the ground, where from
we could not see. Everywhere plains, forests
under the blue-lilac sky. Goldlike shimmering
stood the dead reeds by chill water.
By the shore an old woman stooped down with a pail
and walked away through the wood without seeing us.
Then our journey began.
First we learned to follow the woman’s footsteps,
her road was lost in the wood.
Then we heard the reeds before the wind reached us.
At last we saw the radiance from the sky,
interpreted that light that comes out of darkness
and smiling dies.
Under the heavenly signs
The darkness thickens and cannot be seen,
your image is reflected in the window.
The wind is beating under the stars
against the invisible in your life
and on the icy road are heard
carriages that were ordered for your death.
If you are moving through your life,
if the wind is beating against your life,
may everything change when you meet
yourself under the heavenly signs
that sway in the darkness?
How thick that green that in recall
clothes heavy trees whose cruel shadows
clawlike stretch across the human mind.
How miraculous mortality and grass,
the sunken waves that raise themselves again,
winds that go and then return at end,
birds that flew but once more send
their song new spaces arch and vault.
You break, you die; like coolness your words
brush near the sleeping one who bears your name.
And in upon this time of joy, of fear
you seek your way, into the changes’ haven;
a darkness lasts, falls, lifts and falls.
A hair that lifts and falls now covers you;
a moment’s space, a depth that speaks
of the lost things that are hidden in you,
of the world like a grass, of the grass’s star.
The heavy winds like darkened carriages
draw you past. Thus count your hours away,
least miracles of the miraculous day.
After words about words were said all still remained,
that which was moved by winds, bloodred sank
and again stood in morning stillness before the low eye,
before the hedgehog’s snout and the shadows.
With life’s mobility and indecision the poem seeks
air currents and stillness, unsuspecting waters,
the dark earth, and creates in its flight
wholeness. There in my morning rest parts of me
like the stones by the shore.
There the one I love is washing the morning’s wash,
cleaner than words, with morning water.
There is my son moving through my life
and all these images that are things and living beings
have already said about the word
what the word cannot say and what the bay says.
Outside the emotion
Outside the emotion, outside the explanations,
outside our greed, our peace and our despair,
the doing-down in print, the wisdom and its teeth:
the nights with voices like candle-flames
and your breathing.
No voices speak.
The great heavy worlds like stardust rise,
silent they look past us, inaudible, reflected
in night’s springs.
And all the clarity life ought to have
is here concealed,
as if the roads of childhood were closed by the darkness.
They came to charge you with your life,
the sunlight brushed against one of your hands like a part of your soul, slipping away,
in your other, remains of the earth that was you and belonged to the darkness.
Your life altered when they spoke, when they divided
body and soul and you were consumed by longing for the one or the other;
the sunlight sank and it became night and you said:
‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani’
as every human being cries in life’s silence,
as a bird, a bird you will see, never more.
Between the verses
Between the verses and the life,
the abandoned day and the abandoned paper,
days when you see that love is not merely wind over grass:
this is ‘life’s day’
and perhaps broken,
the day lives and is part of its own dark side
turned towards nothing.
I have succeeded my fate,
the snow drifts over the coarse sand,
the ice-channel cannot be seen, nor the years,
the visible cannot be seen, you see yourself,
that void that is you in yourself,
by glimpses, poling itself along
inong left-over twigs and poems
where not even the snow is enough for any fire of roses
in your confirmed soul or the dark December.
The cool day
One day in my life I could not see my life,
only skin and sinews, that soil I belong to,
as long as the day’s shadows do not rest.
They moved above me, birds or perhaps creatures
from the earth to which I seek my way.
All that was autumn stood not at all alien,
gave as springs give, leaves or shadow,
and a sharpness in the one
who no longer loves but protects the tenderness
took the objects from me, returned them to me in absence.
The leavetaking birds stretched into silence.
So goes a life from our day,
the cool day.
The boy who ran through the rushing water
The boy who ran through the rushing water
has vanished in the mountain. He shouts no more.
You see yourself, perhaps, but cannot hear his voice.
Perhaps you cannot see him in the summer darkness either.
His mother shouts for him.
Now all the flowers stand frail with frost.
It is the winter’s snow that falls on the other side of the mountain
and someone who already awaits his image printed in the mountain’s side.
It is in the unaltered landscape’s shadow
where death’s birds raise their bright song
calling his voice to mind.
The carriage of memory
The clear road that goes through childhood’s forest
is cool as the coolness in your limbs.
Infinitesimal is the weight of the ripening years.
And like a secret movement the carriage of memory glides
past the words and disappears
into the forest that has come to an end and put out its fires.
In the bright night
In the bright eye, in the bright night
the sea sounded like an echo,
of a darkness from the hard breaker
under the shadow of your mountain, my native region;
but your mouth was silent and surely spoke softer
than a wave that broke on the shore
in the bright nights, in the summer nights
when the cool wind returned.
And your heart beat like the leaves of the shore,
gentle and quick in the summer dusk,
faster, then slackening slowly
towards a sleep, as deep and free as death’s;
and from the bay came scarcely a murmur,
scarcely a murmur from the cool blood.
The road down from the mountain
The road down from the mountain
to the house, cooling dusk
between the trees’ trunks and their voices,
the silent, heavy, wonderfully young.
You have arrived, the morning’s boat is here.
The years buzz like bumble-bees in the summer warmth.
Death and flowering — words
for the beetle, lightening in the mown grass,
silent in the darkness.
The walkers disappeared among the shadows,
their voices faded and also you
more distant from yourself,
yet near, as though the words
had lingered among the trees like trees,
or like the image of the trees.
It was in timelessness
where islands rest on water-levels of the hand.
And when the silence lasted you heard
father’s and mother’s voices;
then a bird followed on,
then their voices became one voice.
It was in the silence when still the forest
adorned life with its leaves
and the day gathered.
Short is the time when we may live.
It was the summer’s time,
a door open for the night’s breeze.
Never had you walked gentler ways
in the morning’s dew,
past sleeping shores.
A cloud came,
someone woke up,
you heard the dear voices
and the night’s shadow, the last one,
brushed against you.
You who have left us
You who have left us and where the grass
no longer in the evening dimness shows
footsteps that have returned — dark
among the trees stand the metallic flowers
and your eye sees no more that light
that gently in its hand held the earth
you created. A sea-wind
blows out the nightly candles,
the jasmine stands dim at the gate
that never opens.
The great cloud
The great cloud shaped like a wing
descends slowly in front of the sun
like a blood-red leaf from death’s tree.
And over the sea’s surface glides the evening’s bird,
touches the water’s surface with its wings,
changing, as though there were no movement
and only the miraculous song, silence.
Snow under the March sky’s flickering light —
over your life rests its dust with the savour of disappearance.
Already for you the murmur of springtimes is past.
You listen, as though a word
had issued from death, from the high expanses
and not been touched by snow.
I write one winter’s day,
write off the day and the night, the planets,
go into my house from a harsh sun
and extend those shadows that are swordlike aimed.
It is a day of drifting snow
and with a voice from that which is I
The bumble-bee in the grass
Louder than the thunderstorm the rester hears
the bumble-bee in the grass that recalls
the small boy, the great cloud
and the water-enveloped years.
They came like birds and were silent,
became fruits and fell
down into that which is not darkness
but a sound in the grass.
And the revolutions of the great worlds,
and the fear of the lesser stars
can be destroyed by nothing, not even the summer
when the children play in the grass.
And you who dreamed of Atlantis,
you who glided over icefields like a bird of rediscovery,
descend into this cool silence,
into this dream, so near
that its hand is a wind that cannot be lost,
a grass that will constantly grow.
The evening is near the grass,
the bay is moved gently by winds.
The sun sinks its fire
in the cloud.
Clear, without stars, is the sky.
At some turning, on the way
from the day, through the forest,
in the landscape of the year
an image of the chill sea opened.
No uncertainty lingered like this one,
lay, like a bitter voice in your eye
when already new days had arrived, other voices were heard.
The early morning
The early morning and the early grass,
the roads silent, farms and meadows wide,
the shadows familiar, parts of the light
and we parts of the stillness, the lingering mind.
Through the evening
Through the evening stars shine,
a bird keeps watch.
The trees move in a child’s eyes,
the bird keeps watch
until the wind is silent.
Voyage over silent waters,
light when the shore darkens,
the islands wander and the clouds.
The autumn’s ice, your body out of the shadows,
the inconstant that also is love
Another world? Another sunlight,
I love that which cannot be chosen.
Two lives did not choose me,
not evening, not break of day.
Simple songs, morning clear —
how many lives and thoughts have set
so that these should rise,
grass, flowers, day, mortality.
Under the same clouds
Shadows mingle with shadows,
the grass with her hair,
dead rests someone, someone who died
under the same clouds.
Boats were setting out their lanterns
It was dark, boats were setting out their lanterns,
fish were being pulled from the water, pale as your skin,
how silently moved boats and men, the sea closed like your gaze,
a world was effaced.
The day opens
The day opens,
birds hover over the water,
a cloud moves by
and I take up my work again
in order from two words to win back one.
The horses stood with bowed necks. When they stretched
he saw the play of their hide in the summer light.
The darkness in their eyes absorbed June’s greenness.
He stood and watched them. Suddenly
they caught wind of him, dashed off towards the horizon,
that light space under a pale, distant moon,
as though he had frightened them with his certainty.
At the table your figure
At the table your figure,
over your hand the shadow of the child’s head, a fruit,
your gaze through the window fixed to the trees’ movements,
the movement mirrored in the knife that cuts the bread,
the use and clarity of things.
broken out of the mountain,
raised to the day.
Reflected in a shattered windowpane
the army passes by and disappears
in the town that closes up,
in the wound that never closes.
Conversations built over the years
or traces of your love —
I go into the pinewood’s greenness,
with the clarity of a spring the light
streams towards me like a newly-woken memory
of your perished voice —
tranquil, all-enveloped love,
sprung forth from bitter visions,
trees quietly gathered, twisted:
peace you found, Horace, and this mosaic’s pattern
that between the greenness of the trees broke on your floor
while their deep shadows settled
over eyelids and the night’s vigil.
I see you like a figure of distance
near this fire that is lit by the earth
and like your words in coolness lingers.
Where have you been, you who were well-known?
— In a darkness,
There walks he who must be transformed
and like dogs
the winds run through his limbs.
You resemble him. From you I can expect nothing
but suffering that is consumed happiness
and near the utmost darkness
the happiness that is consumed suffering
and breaks the pattern.
The flock of birds
The one that has sung grows silent.
Lights go out, clouds
glide over scrubby treetops and through me
the silence follows the distant,
ever more distant flock of birds.
Tell me before you leave me to you
about the tiredness I have felt even at night,
about the world that never slumbers, footsteps
that move towards the same goal —
tell me before you leave me
if anything has been said or unsaid,
you who know everything and do not answer questions
but move above the fields like a heraldic bird.
Speaking rivers are silent
Speaking rivers are silent, the first bright
flakes whirl through the naked days.
In the way that an autumn dies also the harsh
stars’ brilliance is silent and our conversations
grow still in a wintry circle where formerly wild the song was sealed.
Some day when the border between the day before and the day to come
is a scarcely perceptible change of light
and the trees stand like guards outside the window,
some evening in the age of your ripeness a cold wave washes
slowly through you.
You know nothing of that darkness that has settled;
it is God who observes you and turns away, in moonlight,
and the life you live is, compared to this night, short.
People and clouds
With wings the light spreads in the June greenness.
People and clouds cross over the boundaries of beauty,
like the darkness over the evening vault,
the water over the bursting deeps.
The green tree, the blue sea
The green tree holds above the child
its still arms.
The blue sea is silent, its breathing
mingles with the child’s.
It is years ago. You see:
the tree, the sea remain,
The child walks through the grass
The child walks through the grass.
Child, I have sought you
with hands like cotyledons,
with blinding dreams,
through the earth, the tree
I seek you, the sea’s tone
and the lifting wave.
The child walks through the grass.
I follow his path
and enclose him in darkness.
Free me! the child calls
through the earth, the tree,
breaks out of life for a dream,
heavier than life and with its knowledge.
The child walks through the grass.
Out of the summer his voice sounds
to grass and earth
like overflowing rain,
the whole of my country stands clear,
mountains shimmer green,
waters freeze still,
the autumn draws near and sees my eye.
is perhaps the place where silence was born.
When this childhood broke from memory
broke also the memory of him, Christ,
for this nocturnal world
that is his heart.
The swallows that have gathered in the first cold
are silently leaving my landscape.
It is a time that grows more brittle and breaks at my steps,
a gentle autumn ice.
In the morning my fever has left me, I see:
a table, a mountain, a tree.
Thus days go, clear without consolation.
In the light coolly blooms
blue is the shadow that falls
over your eye
where you dream of the mountain’s
clear as the sky,
followed by shadows.
The landscape must be transformed.
the moon be transformed to blood in a black sky
and the leaves on the trees become bronze.
It is your eyes that are tormented,
die and are reborn in that abyss
that divides your world from the world.
You throw yourself over it like one in despair.
Perhaps, when you fall, these your landscapes
are torn from your eye
and you are you and nothing but the gull in the black sky
with the sound of death.
In another Umbria
In another Umbria, amidst drifting smoke
the wind approaches you and you see a clarity,
the light. We rest beneath its vault.
Nothing in life is strange here where you put
your hand over mine on the spring ground,
in another Umbria, in the shadows.
With murmuring water the morning goes
imperceptibly, down the valleys
where other birds sound to the one who is silent,
the sorrow that has grown to calm,
that has held out against the changing of the light.
The day soon tall and the grass tall by the road.
-Bo Carpelan: Den svala dagen, 1961
-translation © David McDuff 2011