I Det Fria: Swedish and 2 English Translations

1
Senhöstlabyrint.
Vid skogens ingång en bortkastad tomflaska.
Gå in. Skogen är tysta övergivna lokaler så här års.
Bara några få slags ljud: som om någon flyttade kvistar
            försiktigt med en pincett
eller ett gångjärn som gnyr svagt inne i en tjock stam.
Frosten har andats på svamparna och de har skrumpnat.
De liknar föremål och plagg som hittas efter försvunna.
Nu kommer skymningen. Det gäller att hinna ut
och återse sina riktmärken: det rostiga redskapet ute
            på åkern
och huset på andra sidan sjön, en rödbrun fyrkant stark
            som en buljongtärning.
2
Ett brev från Amerika satte igång mig, drev ut mig
en ljus natt i juni på tomma gator i förstaden
bland nyfödda kvarter utan minne, svala som ritningar.
Brevet i fickan. Osaliga rasande vandring, den är ett
            slags förbön.
Hos er har det onda och goda verkligen ansikten.
Det som hos oss mest är en kamp mellan rötter,
            siffror, dagrar.
De som går dödens ärenden skyr inte dagsljuset.
De styr från glasvåningar. De myllrar i solgasset.
De lutar sig fram över disken och vrider på huvudet.
Långt borta råkar jag stanna framför en av de nya
            fasaderna.
Många fönster som flyter ihop till ett enda fönster.
Natthimlens ljus fångas in där och trädkronornas
            vandring.
Det är en speglande sjö utan vagor, upprest i
            sommarnatten.
Våld känns overkligt
en kort stund.
3
Solen bränner. Flygplanet går på låg höjd
och kastar en skugga i form av ett stort kors som rusar
            fram på marken.
En människa sitter på fältet och rotar.
Skuggan kommer.
Under en bråkdels sekund är han mitt i korset.
Jag har sett korset som hänger i svala kyrkvalv.
Det liknar ibland en ögonblicksbild
av något i häftig rörelse.

from Echoes & Traces, 1963-1966

translation by May Swenson
In the Clear  
I
Late autumn labyrinth.
On the threshold of the forest a discarded empty bottle.
Go in. The forest is still, its rooms vacant now.
Just a few small sounds: like someone carefully moving twigs
            here and there with a clipper,
or like a hinge squeaking faintly inside a thick trunk.
Frost has breathed on the mushrooms and they have shriveled.
They look like objects or clothes left behind by
            missing persons.
Now comes the twilight. It's a matter of finding the way out
and locating some landmarks: that rusty implement
            in the field,
and the house across the lake, a red brown square,
            concentrated as a bouillon cube.  
II  
A letter from America got me going, drove me out
into the white night of June on lonely suburban streets
among new buildings, naked of memory, cool as blueprints.
Letter in pocket. Restless, furious walking―it is a
            kind of expiation.
Where you are, evil and good have opposite faces.
With us it is mainly a confusion of roots, numbers, lights.  
They who do death's errands are not afraid of daylight.
They govern from glass apartments. They swarm in sun blaze.
They lean forward over the counter and turn their heads.  
Farther on, I happen to stop by one of the new facades.
Many windows flow together into one window.
The night sky's light is trapped there and the treetops'
            tossing.
It is a vertical lake without waves, reflecting
            the summer night.  
Violence for a moment feels unreal.  
III  
The sun blazes. The jet plane glides at low altitude
and casts a shadow in the shape of a big cross
            that rushes over the ground.
A man hunches in a field and digs.
The shadow comes.
For a fraction of a second he is in the middle of the cross.  
I have seen the cross hanging in cool church vaultings―
sometimes it's like an instantaneous photograph
of something in rapid motion.

Translated by Robert Bly (2)
Out in the Open
1  
Late autumn labyrinth.
On the porch of the woods a thrown-away bottle.
Go in. Woods are silent abandoned houses this time
            of year.
Just a few sounds now: as if someone were moving
            twigs around carefully with pincers
or as if an iron hinge were whining feebly inside a
            thick trunk.
Frost has breathed on the mushrooms and they have
            shrivelled up.
They look like objects and clothing left behind by people
            who've disappeared.
The dusk here already. The thing to do now is to get out
and find the landmarks again: the rusty machine out
            in the field
and the house on the other side of the lake, a reddish
            square intense as a bullion cube.  
2  
A letter from America drove me out again, started me
            walking
through the luminous June night in the empty suburban
            streets
among newborn districts without memories, cool as
            blueprints.  
Letter in my pocket. You wild, raging walking, you are
            a kind of prayer for others.
 Over there evil and good actually have faces.
For the most part with us it's a fight between roots,
            numbers, shades of light.  
The people who do death's errands for him don't shy
            from daylight.
They rule from glass offices. They mill about in the
            bright sun.
They lean forward over a table, and throw a look to
            the side.  
Far off I found myself standing in front of one of the
            new buildings.
Many windows flowed together there into a single
            window.
In it the luminous nightsky was caught, and the
            walking trees.
It was a mirror-like lake with no waves, turned on edge
            in the summer night.  
Violence seemed unreal
for a few moments.  
3  
Sun burning. The plane comes in low
throwing a shadow shaped like a giant cross that
            rushes over the ground.
A man is sitting in the field poking at something.
The shadow arrives.
For a fraction of a second he is right in the centre of
            the cross.  
I have seen the cross hanging in the cool church vaults.
At times it resembles a split-second shot of something
moving at tremendous speed.