Oregon
Literary
Review
Vol. 2, No. 2

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Lars Nordström THREE POEMS by Gunnar Svensson Gunnar Svensson (b. 1930) was born and raised in Swedish Lapland. At age fifteen, as soon as WW II ended, he became a sailor to see the world. Eventually he enrolled in a Stockholm art school and became a drawer. For several years he lived in Lausanne and Paris working as a drawer and writer. During the 1990s Gunnar Svensson was the main inspiration and driving force behind the Pilgrim Tapestry project (now a museum) in the Swedish province of Värmland. He has written several travel books and three volumes of poetry. These translations all come from his latest volume of love poems, AmourÖ, from 2003. Gunnar Svensson is spending the winter in St. Petersburg, Russia, where, as he writes: "I saunter around and research various cafés, bars and museums. I live between the Anna Achmatova Museum and Dostoyevsky's last living quarters. Mayakovskaya is the nearest metro station."   Ytva Votkinsk     Tysta står vi vid diskhon När jag tar tallriken Möts våra händer nere i baljan Hon diskar, jag torkar Våra händer möts under vattnet I det ljumma diskvattnet smeker våra händer varandra   I köket är det fullt med folk Vi är ensamma nere i diskbaljan Ensamma med vår kärlek Nere i det ljumma vattnet         Ytva Votkinsk     We stand silently by the sink When I grab a plate Our hands meet down in the dishpan She cleans them, I wipe them dry Below the water our hands meet In the lukewarm dishwater Our hands caress each other   The kitchen is filled with people We are alone down in the dishpan Alone with our love Down in the lukewarm water                 From AmourÖ, 2003             Translated by Lars Nordström   [Ytva Votinsk is a station along the Trans-Siberian Railroad]     *     Gdynia nittonhundrafemti     Båten den sämsta full av rosthål, tål inte styv kuling ofta tvungen att dreja bi Besättningen gravrostigt alkoholiserad full av smuggel missbruk och loppor Maten utgången burkmat Glåmig står jag vid relingen ser inåt staden förstörd av krig Hamnbassängen full av fartygsvrak Min själ svag av sjösjuka   Äntligen lägger vi till, ångpannan pyser lättad s/s Bifrost söndriga wire runt anfrätt pollare Kaj med taggtrådslukt, bråte, ruttet tågvirke Grå kalasjnikovvakt ser lömskt på mig Ånej, stopp min unge man Jag smugglar cigaretter åt stewarden Visitation, skranglig bil till arresten Kvittar lika tänker jag Inlåst funderar jag över livets fula gråhet inte ens en tom liten blomvas av plåt Grå filt med mörkgrå ränder Takets 15 watt utan ström Någon knackar på cellens dörr nyckeln vrids om, in kommer ljus En rund kvinna i sextiårsåldern hennes varma ögon ler På brickans ljusgröna duk två smörgåsar och skinande talgljus En kanna te och doft av nybakad rågkaka Aldrig har jag kännt mig så hemma Musica? Säger hon, hittar dammig radio knaster och ljuv musik uppstår: Mozart?         Gdynia Nineteen Fifty     The worst ship imaginable covered with rusty holes, can’t take a moderate gale often forced to heave to The crew, badly corroded alcoholics full of smuggling, abuse and lice Canned food past the expiration date Gloomily I stand by the gunwale looking at a city destroyed by war The harbor filled with wrecked ships My soul weak from sea sickness   Finally we dock, relieved the boiler gives off steam s/s Bifrost throws its worn hawsers around corroded bollards Dock smelling of barbed wire, rubbish, rotten ropes Grey Kalashnikov guard watching me slyly Oh no, stop there young man I am smuggling cigarettes for the steward Patted down, rickety car to the guard house Does not make any difference to me Locked up I contemplate life’s ugly grayness not even a small empty metal flower vase Gray blanket with dark gray stripes No power to the 15 watt ceiling bulb Someone knocks on the cell door a key is turned, light enters A heavyset woman in her sixties her warm eyes smile A tray with a light green table cloth two sandwiches and radiant tallow candles A pot of tea and the fragrance of newly baked rye bread Never have I felt at home like this Musica? She says, finds a dusty radio crackling and delightful music emerges: Mozart?                 From AmourÖ, 2003             Translated by Lars Nordström     *       Torneå skärgård     Längst ut står vi Längst ute vid havet Högst upp på hopptornet Senhöstens tvåsamhet   Ljummen septemberafton Mild bris från Österbotten Hon är retsam och fräck: Hoppar du får du hela mig! Tio meter ner till havets vågor som ett grönt trevåningshus Alldeles naken är hon med flimrande sommarsolbränna   Denna luftfärd vågar jag den ner till havets djup? Stranden tom och övergiven Endast hon den sköna och han som ska offras åt havets gud   Ut i det okända slänger jag mig Det brusar genom luften En fiskmås skriker Det dånar under vattnet Frustande som en säl dyker jag upp tittar efter henne Högt däruppe i det blå vinkar hon med ett finger   Uppför alla stegar störtande som en galning Flåsande når jag ända upp Där ligger hon lugnt utan att skyla sin solmjuka nakenhet Kisande med leende ögon säger hon: Jag skojade bara         The Torneå Archipelago     We stand at the far edge At the far edge of the sea On top of the diving tower The two of us together in late fall   Mild September evening Gentle breeze from Österbotten she is teasing and bold: If you jump, you can have all of me! More than thirty feet down to the waves of the sea like a green, three-story building She is completely naked with a flickering summer tan   Do I dare this flight through the air down to the depths of the sea? The beach is empty and abandoned No one but her, the beautiful one and he who is to be sacrificed to the god of the sea   I throw myself into the unknown The air makes a rushing sound A seagull cries There is a roar under the water I surface snorting like a seal looking for her High up there in the blue she waves a finger   I climb like a madman up all the ladders Panting I reach the top She lies there calmly without hiding her sun-soft nakedness Squinting with smiling eyes she says: I was just kidding                 From AmourÖ, 2003             Translated by Lars Nordström