Tomas Transtromer - Noble Prize Literature

The Half-Finished Heaven

Cowardice breaks off on its path.
Anguish breaks off on its path.
The vulture breaks off in its flight.
The eager light runs into the open,
even the ghosts take a drink.

And our paintings see the air,
red beasts of the ice-age studios.
Everything starts to look around.
We go out in the sun by hundreds.
Every person is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.
The endless field under us.
Water glitters between the trees.
The lake is a window into the earth.

The Tree and the Sky

There’s a tree walking around in the rain,
it rushes past us in the pouring grey.
It has an errand. It gathers life
out of the rain like a blackbird in an orchard.

When the rain stops so does the tree.
There it is, quiet on clear nights
waiting as we do for the moment.

The Couple

They turn the light off, and its white globe glows
an instant and then dissolves, like a tablet
in a glass of darkness. Then a rising.
The hotel walls shoot up into heaven’s darkness.

Their movements have grown softer, and they sleep,
but their most secret thoughts begin to meet
like two colors that meet and run together
on the wet paper in a schoolboy’s painting.

It is dark and silent. The city however has come nearer
tonight. With its windows turned off. Houses have come.
They stand packed and waiting very near,
a mob of people with blank faces.

Tomas Transtromer

Yak mouth

Namaste,

Hey Hominid, how's it going?

It's a fucking jungle out there. Predators. Yakking fools.

Idiots with a larynx. 

They grunt. They grimace. They fight. They steal. They kill. They kill, question.

Yeah it's eat or be eaten. Law of the jungle.

Short fast and deadly.

Do they breed work and get slaughtered, question. 

Yeah ha. Ha ha. Laughter saves the day. Where's the tool fool, question.

Over there. (points toward the jungle) Sex. (rubs body parts)

Ugh. Whoopee. Coitus interrupted.

Show me your tool. Fool.

Shit puke thunder and lightning.

Light my fire.

Erectus said to Neanderthal, Give me your tired homeless cave painters. Your electronic mice.

Let's get the hello out of hear.

Metta.

Park it

Where do I park this empty vehicle,

asked a Tibetan monk

burning corpses

after an earthquake killed 2,686 people

in a remote village at 13,000 feet.

A child survivor ate cigarettes,

and paper napkins

drinking his urine to survive.

Life is found in a desperate situation.

Disaster gave the Chinese Party Propaganda

machine a glorious opportunity

to create a new Hero and promote being One People.

Loving August

Namaste,

August may be cruel. She may be kind. 

Here in Coma-Land, somewhere below the equatorial zone it is the rainy season. Coming down. Sheets.

What it is. Two seasons. Dry and wet.

Laundry hangs itself. Why does laundry hang itself? Poverty? Lack of initiative? Boredom? For the same reason the juvenile boy facing glass across the street passively performs circular tedious rag motions on a glass door.

His decrepit grannie living upstairs waiting to die a glorious peaceful death will inspect it. If her old tired gray eyes see one dancing smudge she'll begin screaming, Clean it again, Clean it again. He will hang his head.

In shame.

Listening class is permanently cancelled.

Around and around we go. Where we stop no one knows. If he knew the end game he'd cease breathing. He'd hang with laundry. He'd go to school. Too expensive. Yeah, yeah. 

Dirt roads are now expansive expensive elaborate esoteric lakes. Welcome to the lake district. Take the long way home. Endless landscape shrines are a luminous green. Eat it with your eyes, said Saigon.

Metta.

Fishtail

Namaste,

Fishtail swims in blue
Alone
Cold steep snow regions
Dances along Annapurna spine
Laughing at human's meager
Attempts to summit

Metta.