In Sweden, Tranströmer was mandatory reading for anyone still interested in poetry by their mid-twenties, after strurming and dranging through Majakovskij, Öijer and the Dadaists. Me, always being stupidly reluctant to read what one “should” read, missed him then (save a handful of poems read during my time studying lit at university, which I enjoyed), and I haven’t read that much verse at all in the last ten years. The Nobel gave me the nudge I needed to finally pick up his work. I’m very happy I did. Tranströmer writes a stunning poetry, both accessible and original.

What really stands out is his way with the metaphor. The images he uses make you nod your head in agreement with the immediate sense they make. Yet they are so original they bewilder you or make you giggle. He’s especially good at describing nature, either in its own right or to capture a mood. For instance (bear in mind these are my clumsy translations now) an island is “pulling itself up by the grass”. The decay of a forest is “reading the protocol of the bark beetle through glasses of sap”. A seed is “kicking the dirt”. The morning is “putting its rays in the locks, swinging open the doors of darkness”. And the same simple, striking imagery applies for bigger, more abstract things. The poet meet people “with future instead of faces”. God’s energy is “curled up in the darkness”. And the only thing he really wants to say is “glimmering just out of reach, like silver in a pawn shop”.

It’s not really fair reading a thick volume of poetry back to back like this. There are a few collections in the middle that don’t appeal to me in quite the same way. Whereas many of his early works and his latest ones by themselves surely would render full marks from me. Still, poetry doesn’t get much better than this. Indeed, this could be a book to give someone as an introduction to the very artform. ( )

Baksidestexten påTomas Tranströmers Samlade dikter säger att han är det svenska 1900-talets internationellt mest inflytelserike poet. Inte att undra på, hans poesi måste vara en dröm att översätta: förvisso skrivna på meter, men utan rim, uppbyggda runt bilder lika glasklara som konkret fantstiska:

Ormklockans visare slickar tystnaden.
Hällarna lyser med geologins tålamod.

Sådär håller det på, sida upp och sida ner. Karln måste ha något konstigt fel på ögonen som kan se saker i så fantastiska liknelser, och något konstigt rätt i huvudet som kan förmedla dem till omvärlden. Många handlar om vanliga, vardagliga saker, den moderna världens möte med naturen, sinnesstämningen en tidig junimorgon. Sedan finns det de med mer mystiskt innehåll, otillgängliga, svårpenetrerade. Men även om den eventuella symboliken missar sitt mål så är bilderna vackra i sig själva. Mina ord räcker knappt till att beskriva det, så jag låter honom tala själv:

Sammanhang

Se det gråa trädet. Himlen runnit
genom dess fibrer ned i jorden –
bara en skrumpen sky är kvar när
jorden druckit. Stulen rymd
vrides i flätverket av rötter, tvinnas
till grönska. – De korta ögonblicken
av frihet stiger ur oss, virvlar
genom parcernas blod och vidare.

Troligen årets bokreafynd. ( )