Solitude
I
Right here, I was nearly killed one February evening.
The car skidded sideways on the glare ice
to the wrong side of the road. The oncoming cars —
their headlights—getting closer.
My name, my girls, my job
were quietly let go and left behind,
farther and farther away. I was as anonymous
as a boy surrounded by enemies in a schoolyard.
The oncoming traffic had enormous lights.
They shone on me as I steered and steered
in a transparent fear that floated like egg whites.
The seconds expanded—there was room in there—
they were as large as hospitals.
You could almost pause for a bit
and breathe easily
before being crushed.
Then something grabbed hold: a helpful grain of sand
or wonderful gust of wind. The car pulled free
and quickly lurched across the road.
A post shot up and snapped—a sharp clang—then
flew off into the darkness.
Until all was still. I stayed buckled in
and watched as someone came through the snow squall
to see what had become of me.
II
I've been walking around for a long time
in the frozen fields of Ostergotland.
Not a single person in sight.
In other parts of the world
there are those who are born, live, and die
in a continuous crowd.
To always be visible—to live
in swarm of eyes—
must lead to a certain facial expression.
A face coated with clay.
The murmuring rises and falls
while between them all, they divide up
the sky, the shadows, the sand grains.
I must be alone
ten minutes in the morning
and ten minutes at night.
—Without a program.
Everyone stands in line for everyone.
Many.
One.
_______________
Tomas Transtromer
The Blue House
Collected Works
Translated by Patty Cline
Copper Canyon Press, 2023
