Tomas Tranströmer

Born: 15 April 1931, Stockholm, Sweden

Residence at the time of the award: Sweden

Prize motivation: “because, through his condensed, translucent images, he gives us fresh access to reality”

That what I would like to mention on my blog is this year Nobel Prize in Literature 2011. One hour before the official annunciation of d awarded author on fb there where conversation between the Balkan literature circles that one of d nominated for d award is writer from Serbia. [fake info] probably because now we can read that besides d laureate 7/1, the 81-year-old Syrian poet known as Adonis at odds of 4/1 was second and Japan’s Haruki Murakami was third at 8/1.

Then we saw d first news like: The 2011 Nobel Prize in Literature is awarded to Tomas Tranströmer “because, through his condensed, transluscent images, he gives us fresh access to reality“.

That what I found interesting today is the opinion that Timothy Byford (famous film director & friend of mine) shares on his personal web page:

“I have to admit to never having read a single of Tranströmer’s poems before this week and am grateful to the Swedish Academy for drawing my attention to his poetry, which I find mystical, dreamlike and enigmatically subtle, prompting one to read them over and over again, every time discovering something new.

Apparently in Sweden he is known as a `buzzard poet` because his poetry views the world from a great height…like a buzzard.”

While on Internet d people are separated in their opinions I decide that is good to read some poetry firstly then to try to create opinion. ..or to take a side.  .. I start with links  where we could read more about his works. The official link for d awarded author, also as post in guardian.uk, LA Times etc.

..more for HIM u’ll find @ poets.org or on HIS personal web page.

AFTER A DEATH
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.

translated by Robert Bly

OUTSKIRTS

Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch.
It’s a transitional place, in stalemate, neither country nor city.
Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap,
but the clocks are against it.
Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues.
Auto-body shops occupy old barns.
Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface.
And these sites keep on getting bigger
like the land bought with Judas’ silver: “a potter’s field for
burying strangers.”

translated by Robert Bly

Nikola Madzirov, poet from my city [very famous] in d last days shares on his facebook profile poetry from d awarded laureate so I decide to keep it for myself here. Tomas Tranströmer has been part of d Struga Poetry Evenings 2003 in Macedonia and awarded with d most important award “Golden Wreath“.

Томас Транстромер

ДРВОТО И НЕБОТО
Едно дрво се шета по дождот,
сè крај нас ќе мине во поројот сиво.
Има задача. Си зема живот од дождот
како сколовранец во овоштарник.

Штом дождот ќе запре и дрвото запира.
Се насетува исправено, мирно во јасните ноќи
и го чека, како и ние, моментот
кога снегулките расцутуваат во вселената.

Препев: Миодраг Станковски

ЕЛЕГИЈА
Ја отворам првата врата.
Голема сончева соба.
Тежок камион поминува по улицата
и го затресува порцеланот.

Ја отворам втората врата.
Пријатели! Пиевте мрак
и станавте видливи.

Врата број три. Тесна хотелска соба.
Поглед на споредна улица.
Отсјај на светилка врз асфалтот.
Убав отпад на искуството.

ЦРНИ ГОРИ

На следниот свиок автобусот се ослободи од студената планинска сенка
го сврте носот кон сонцето и тргна лазејќи и рикајќи пругоре.
Ние се туркавме во автобусот. Бистата на диктаторот беше исто така со нас свиткана во хартија од весник. Едно шише одеше од уста до уста.
Смртта, знакот на раѓањето, растеше со различна брзина кај сите.
Горе во планините синото море го стаса небото.

Препев: Миодраг Станковски