Helena Boberg, trans. Johannes Göransson

from Sense Violence

 

                                                             One
                                                             incredible
                                                             eyelid
                                                             flutters

                                                             Living poppy
                                                             hidden
                                                             in the eye's darkness

                                                      : Self barely
                                                   perceptible or
                                                           flower-like


That mouth                                              
which closed against the light                             
speaks sometimes, despairs sometimes


                      In your room
                      I cannot
                      control myself


                                                      The little fetus
                                                      that quivers
                                                                 demands
                                                                 or just exists
                                                                 like a tongue

 

                                                                             Hungers
                                                                             for your tongue
                                                                             as for
                                                                                 salted butter


We dreamed together
    about the state before childhood
    when we could not yet talk
                                                                                                                    The gaze turned
                                                                                                               toward drowsy memories

                                                     Girls
                                                  their hair swims in the wind
Observe like an animal
of wild voices


                                                                Trying
                                                                again to push
                                                                into the dream

                                                                Every conversation
                                                                an invasion

                                                                The neighbor woman
                                                                with this night's cigarette
                                                                She looks
                                                                straight at me

                                                                Her eyes
                                                                The withdrawn
                                                                gaze

                                                                Exposed like
                                                                a captured animal

                                                                The
                                                                too-soft hair
                                                                that will not
                                                                grow

a Botticelli angel

                                                                Alone
                                                                like
                                                                a silk stocking
                                                                in the dawn-
                                                                weeping


Touches on the memory of a bird
with spread-out feathers

               Rounded
               like rose petals
               At the root
               pale red

I didn't want to destroy

                                                     I eat from
                                                     her body
                                                     so that I will
                                                     never grow

                                                                Her face
                                                                moves
                                                                in mine
: lacks purpose or reason

                                                          Cool my cheek
                                                          the sadness is
                                                          too great
                                                          to wear around

As a word                                                                            
she no longer                                                                            
exists                                                                            
outside me                                                                            


                                                             Ett
                                                             oerhört
                                                             ögonlock
                                                             fladdrar till

                                                             Levande vallmo
                                                             gömd
                                                             i ögats mörker

                                                      : Själv knappt
                                                   urskiljbar eller
                                                                 blomlik


Den där munnen                    
som slutit sig för ljuset                   
talar ibland, förtvivlar ibland


                      I ditt rum
                      kan jag inte
                      behärska mig


                                                      Det lilla foster
                                                      som rister
                                                                 kräver
                                                                 eller bara finns till
                                                                 som en tunga

 

                                                                             Hungrar
                                                                             efter din tunga
                                                                             som efter
                                                                                 salt smör


Vi drömde tillsammans
    om tillståndet före barndomen
    då vi ännu inte kunde tala
                                                                                                                    Blicken vänd
                                                                                                               mot dåsiga minnen

                                                     Flickorna
                                                  deras hår simmar i blåsten
Betraktar likt ett djur
av vilda röster


                                                                Försöker
                                                                tränga åter
                                                                in i drömmen

                                                                Varje samtal
                                                                en invasion

                                                                Grannkvinnan
                                                                med nattens cigarett
                                                                Hon ser
                                                                rakt på mig

                                                                Hennes ögon
                                                                Den tillbakadragna
                                                                blicken

                                                                Utsatt som
                                                                ett nyfångat djur

                                                                Det
                                                                alltför mjuka håret
                                                                som inte vill
                                                                växa

En Botticelliängel

                                                                Ensam
                                                                som
                                                                en silkesstrumpa
                                                                i grynings-
                                                                gråten


Snuddar vid ett minne av en fågel
med utspärrade fjädrar

               Rundade
               som rosenblad
               Vid roten
               blekt röda

Jag ville inte förstöra

                                                     Jag äter av
                                                     hennes kropp
                                                     för att själv
                                                     aldrig växa

                                                                Hennes ansikte
                                                                rör sig
                                                                i mitt
: saknar mål eller begrepp

                                                          Svalka min kind
                                                          sorgen är
                                                          för stor
                                                          att iklä sig

Som ord                                                                             
finns hon                                                                             
inte längre                                                                             
utanför mig                                                                            


 
 

Helena Boberg (b. 1974) lives and works in Stockholm, Sweden. Her books include Repuls (Repulsion, 2011)  and Sinnesvåld (Sense Violence, 2013). A sometime member of the Surrealist Group of Stockholm, Boberg draws on psychoanalytic, surreal, and feminist discourses in her poetry. She also participates in the feminist-literary project Poetry and Equality in Sweden and the Middle East, which over the past three years have involved women writers from Sweden, Palestine, Iran, and Iraq in workshops to facilitate translating and networking among female poets, based on sharing experiences with literary practices and living conditions. An excerpt from Sense Violence was published as a chapbook by Garden-Door Press in the U.S. in 2017, and the whole collection is forthcoming from Black Ocean.