It is not the cherry trees that hums but the magnolia which sadly lowers his intensely white flowering branches of the mailbox when I go out in the morning and pick up the magazine with its staggering letters. It is absolutely still. Day hesitate, hold the breath. Tranströmer has hoisted his death mask and sailing.
I’m standing there in the gap between reality and the poem. The truth is on the ground but no one dares to take it. The truth lies in the street, no one does it to his. An airplane with her frozen humans from space on silent cruising altitude west intersects a white tear across the sky. Throwing his cross over the city. Death has been here and taken the measure of me too? Sys suit already in silence?
He was the little boy as strongly felt the danger of being viewed as deviant because deep down he suspected he was. Which became nedbrottad in the schoolyard each break until he found the method to make his tormentor disappointed by not resist but to transform into a lifeless rag. So he learned the art of being run over while maintaining self-esteem. It worked sometimes, sometimes not.
I know of no finer posture and I believe the foundation for the poet’s intuition and sensibility beyond violated equality. For it is not by making us into lifeless cloths that we can find other truths about ourselves and send blind arrows of guesses into uncertainty? Feel the hum of existence capillaries, hear lövkronornas notions and whispers?
Up there in branch offices sat eventually a young Tranströmer and started braiding poetry of everyday life and let the decades words flip down and pollinate us during the constellations who stamped in their stalls. Metaphors and promises that got vault behind the vault to open up infinite within us unfaithful.
Then came the Battle that silent speech, but he won the music and let your left hand mournfully on the grand piano keys ; a grief gondola to an unknown destination. Aphasia and half his body paralyzed but still more those peering eyes which I think was found peace even when he wanted to say gleamed out of reach like the silver in the pawnbroker. Run over by maintaining self-esteem.
Maybe caught mostly be written down and rest understood. Now seeps stanzas which sap from the stjärnskådande trees, constantly these trees, the earth all languages. Academies’ facades bursting of the bursting scholarly treatises and Facebook flows overflows grateful fridge poetry. There is a Tranströmer for all.
Larger than this will not be the poem I think and see the airplane disappear above the rooftops with your sealed the truth right now hovering over the sea.
Footnote: Tomas Tranströmer’s funeral will take place on Tuesday at 14.00 at the Stockholm Cathedral.