By the River by Tomas Tranströmer

By the River

Talking with contemporaries I saw heard behind their faces

the stream

that flowed and flowed and pulled with it the willing and the unwilling.

And the creature with stuck-together eyes that wants

to go right down the rapids with the current

throws itself forward without trembling

in a furious hunger for simplicity.

The water pulls more and more swiftly

as where the river narrows and flows over

in the rapids—the place where I paused

after a journey through dry woods

one June evening: the radio gives the latest

on the special meeting: Kosygin, Eban.

A few thoughts drill despairingly.

A few people down in the village.

And under the suspension bridge the masses of water hurl

past. Here comes the timber. Some logs

shoot out like torpedoes. Others turn

crosswise, twirl sluggishly and helplessly away

and some nose against the riverbanks,

push among stones and rubbish, wedge fast,

and pile up like clasped hands

motionless in the uproar . . .

       I saw heard from the bridge

in a cloud of mosquitoes,

together with some boys. Their bicycles

buried in the greenery—only the horns

stuck out.

(Translated by Robin Fulton)