Claes Andersson
Claes Andersson in 2007 |
[Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Claes_Andersson#/media/File:Claes_Andersson_(vanst)_Finland.jpg . Photo by Johannes Jansson.
How could I forget about Claes Andersson? But so it is. I haven't read his poems for ten or fifteen years, and yesterday the forgotten book (translations by Lennart and Sonia Bruce) comes off my bookshelf, falls open, and I begin reading, and I remember how strongly and passionately I love this poetry that I had nevertheless forgotten all about. Wasn't there, though, a perceptible if undiagnosed emptiness in the years between? Or am I misremembering it all, and the truth is I love Andersson's poems much more today than I ever did before? Has love opened up in me that I express it so, or is there something histrionic about all this, has love in fact narrowed -- whereas, back then, I inhabited a whole world of love, I didn't need to make such a noise about it?
A couple of poems translated by Rika Lesser
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/1983/03/poems-11/
Here's part of one of them:
(summary)
Have sat at meetings, ticked off items on the agenda, recommended, turned down Approved the minutes (change "should" in §123 to "ought") Gone to movies, museums, bars, libraries, homes, deserts, caves Shoveled snow, played with the children, screamed at the children been bitten by dogs Traveled in Europe, the States, Africa, met people Bought and sold junk and cars, waited for buses, trains, have biked Given speeches, lectures, been dumbstruck, signed petitions, demonstrated Read (tons of) books, papers, brochures, hares' and crows' tracks in the snow Stared at TV, drunk beer, wine, schnapps, kefir, tasted sperm Awakened in my own bed, in another's, up to now have always awakened Dozed off over books, steering wheels, bottles, women, in buses, closets, on guard duty Put on pounds, lost them, exercised, lifted weights, brides over thresholds, odds and ends Been disappointed, happy, angry, indifferent, enraged, in love, indifferent, empty Been to funerals, weddings, soccer games, visiting, to crayfish dinners, outhouses Witnessed deliveries, death throes, christenings, autopsies, orgies Written plays, traced hearts in the snow, poems, demand notes, prescriptions, crib sheets Shot rifles, pistols, water guns, mortars, slingshots, blowpipes Had the mumps, the shakes, anxiety, depression, paranoia, inflamed urethra Fought with conservatives, radicals, myself, Finns, windmills, my wife Rented rooms, laundry rooms, apartments, tuxedos, cars, bought houses, potted plants Been plagued by guilt, small children, nightmares, red-headed lovers Have asked the meaning of it all Brooded, deliberated, pondered, constructed, conceived, stopped thinking Found the questions irrelevant and answered with the answer of the senses
More poems translated by Rika Lesser:
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/1997/03/i-am-a-happy-person/
(positive thinking)
Brussels is famous for its sunny weather and its waste disposal. My potency and my teeth have never been better. Every moment I have free I listen to Wagner and read Proust without stopping. It is not tragic to be smothered and consumed by small animals. As far as I'm concerned, the panic attacks are a stage that has passed. Politics is about respect for those who think differently and about being honorable. I never feel like smacking my wife. Autumn is my time of year, a time of clarification, of self-control. What I enjoy most is the solitude of an early morning in the churchyard. I am a happy person.*
The problem with our war was that they could not defend themselves. Nonetheless, we carried out the war entirely according to plan. We did it for our credibility and so that we could restock the depots. Man is not a commodity in short supply. Land mines were not a problem for us who conducted operations from the air. War is always a tragedy but even a tragedy can be beautiful. The pictures you saw were slightly out of focus. Any sharp boundary between the military and civilians is hard to draw.*
I was inside when the department store collapsed. I was aboard the passenger ferry when it vanished in the deep. I lay on the operating table when rockets hit the hospital in the city under siege. I was riding the subway when nerve gas seeped into the cars. I had hidden myself in the cellar when soldiers set fire to our house. I saw the tidal wave that would drown us as it approached. I was one of the children put to death because a friend needed my heart. I remained in the sand after the desert storm. What you are I was, what I am you will become.*
Our childhood photographs lie where we left them, in an attic in a cellar. With their features half dissolved, those closest to us, our demons, oxidized to silver nitrite. In the attic in the cellar, in the dark ice-cold goddamn cellar in the attic. Brothers, cousins, sisters, moms, dads... oxidized, disarmed, destroyed. Of mother's wondelful shining kitchen only the hearth remains. The cat drowned in the well along with the rag doll, the kids' bicycles, the rats. Maybe someone ought to remain, withstand the oxidization when the others flee, drown, dissolve. Why do cars and houses with people in them explode every day everywhere. One fine summer day the children found a dead soldier in the cellar in the attic.
More poems, translated by Rika Lesser:
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/2002/09/selling-to-the-lowest-bidder/
More poems, translated by David Hackston:
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/2009/05/the-personal-and-the-political/
Claes Andersson on reading and writing poetry:
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/2002/09/on-the-uselessness-of-poetry/
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/2007/03/subterranean-pre-verbal/
Claes Andersson on Pentti Saarikoski's alcoholism:
http://www.booksfromfinland.fi/2001/06/a-drinking-life/
Andersson is a Finland-Swedish author (i.e. a Finn who speaks and writes in Swedish).
Förtvivlan är ett alltför stort
ord, men jag vet inte.... Ty sorgen är
obotlig, den går aldrig över
Därav dess styrka, dess bördighet för det
som ännu inte förstörts inne i oss
Den som inte har sorgen har intet
Den som inte har sorgen kan ta sig till
med vad som helst! Med vem som helst!
Den som inte har sorgen har aldrig förlorat
någonting, aldrig ägt någonting
Smärtan och försoningen finns inte hos den
som aldrig haft sorgen Och dikten
växer bara ur sorgen, ur den sorg
som beretts ett rum i glädjens hjuls nav
och där klarnat till blick och förståelse. (Ur "Under"- 1984)
Swedish text sourced from:
http://ingridsboktankar.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/ett-par-dikter-av-claes-andersson.html
The Claes Andersson Trio:
Labels: Claes Andersson, Pentti Saarikoski, Specimens of the literature of Finland, Specimens of the literature of Sweden
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