Syros
In Syros' harbor abandoned merchant ships lay idle.
Stem by stem by stem. Moored for many years:
CAPE RION, Monrovia.
KRITOS, Andros.
SCOTIA, Panama.
Dark paintings on the water, they have been hung aside.
Like playthings from our childhood, grown gigantic,
that remind us
of what we never became.
XELATROS, Piraeus.
CASSIOPEIA, Monrovia.
The ocean scans them no more.
But when we first came to Syros, it was at night,
we saw stem by stem by stem in moonlight and thought:
what a powerful fleet, what splendid connections!
That, by Tomas Tranströmer, was translated from the Swedish by May Swenson and Leif Sjöberg. (The Scandinavians are nourishing me.)
I am of several minds about this poem.
Is the putting aside of childish things (so not my favourite of the apostles) an ill thing?
Can we -- a separate question in terms of more than spacing -- not choose to set aside certain dreams, recognising that they no longer serve us or that we, in serving them, do nobody and nothing good?
And yet . . . I remember a story (although I do not recall who wrote it) . . . There is something of Dan Millman about it in my memory. Whoever the writer, he went to a wise (Quaker, as I recall) old woman (It's always a wise old someone or something, isn't it, in any proper tale?) to ask about choices. She said that she had never seen doors opening before her, but had often found her choices being constrained by doors that closed behind.
At the time, the questioner did not find satisfaction in the answer. (That, too, is often the way.)
We can choose to leave our ships. We can choose to leave our ships docked, in which case, we are still attached to them, as a dock to a boat by a line. We can choose to let them float away, perhaps (Who can know it?) to find other homes.
We can choose to remember, with great love or tenderness, the outlines of our earlier or not-chosen selves, viewing their outlines against the current sky of our day.
'The ocean scans them no more . . . '
Ah, yes.
Much could be said about Tranströmer's short verse. And isn't that an ultimate praise of poets, that they can take little and fill it with more than much?
Much -- to pick up on the alpha and omega of the preceding paragraph -- is affected by the translator, as seen with these three shapings of one poem, with which I shall (for this day's time) leave you:
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
I am of several minds about this poem.
Is the putting aside of childish things (so not my favourite of the apostles) an ill thing?
Can we -- a separate question in terms of more than spacing -- not choose to set aside certain dreams, recognising that they no longer serve us or that we, in serving them, do nobody and nothing good?
And yet . . . I remember a story (although I do not recall who wrote it) . . . There is something of Dan Millman about it in my memory. Whoever the writer, he went to a wise (Quaker, as I recall) old woman (It's always a wise old someone or something, isn't it, in any proper tale?) to ask about choices. She said that she had never seen doors opening before her, but had often found her choices being constrained by doors that closed behind.
At the time, the questioner did not find satisfaction in the answer. (That, too, is often the way.)
We can choose to leave our ships. We can choose to leave our ships docked, in which case, we are still attached to them, as a dock to a boat by a line. We can choose to let them float away, perhaps (Who can know it?) to find other homes.
We can choose to remember, with great love or tenderness, the outlines of our earlier or not-chosen selves, viewing their outlines against the current sky of our day.
'The ocean scans them no more . . . '
Ah, yes.
Much could be said about Tranströmer's short verse. And isn't that an ultimate praise of poets, that they can take little and fill it with more than much?
Much -- to pick up on the alpha and omega of the preceding paragraph -- is affected by the translator, as seen with these three shapings of one poem, with which I shall (for this day's time) leave you:
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
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