Willy Kyrklund, translation

II. From Knight’s Move, Issue 02, May 2008, Translation

This Translation is about what perhaps happened, not necessarily what did. What appears here is a possible translation, a sort of dialogue.

Extract based on the Swedish text Polyfem förvandlad by Willy Kyrklund, Bonnier Alba, 1964. Polyfem förvandlad directly translated as Polyphemus metamorphosed has not yet been published in the United Kingdom.

- Anna Tebelius
September 2007

My hip is exquisitely rounded and soft, especially from behind. Your hand continuously travels along its curved surface, travels along its curves again and again, travels and travels its softness again and again.

Hermaios – Apparently it happened very quickly Marioula told me, she suggested no pain was involved, but I suspect this was to comfort me. I remember how the rays of the sun refracted on the branches of the tree in the garden, how I had picked lettuce in the morning and that there was no more olive oil.

Hermodoulos – Hold me a bit tighter, I want to stay in your arms forever, I feel so lonely, I wake up and I feel so lonely, and I remember that it was windy and I remember putting a shawl on when going out into the garden.

Hermodoros – I have this energy inside of me, it is building up inside of me, and I can feel how it increases day by day, how somehow it is piling up, little bricks being laid one on top of the other to build a wall. A wall reaching further and further up towards the sky, so high I no longer see where it finishes, and I think that if this wall succumbed then the hardness of the bricks falling to the ground would destroy everything else along with it.

Hermofilos – You are so lucky, you who do not remember one day from the next. When you wake up you are reborn and I’m a pleasant surprise. You’ll find a notebook with detailed information about this body lying next to you and you please me by reading out the notes you have taken concerning the exact location of a specific mole, the concave shape of my behind and that we went swimming yesterday. You are so lucky; you who only have words, new words, every morning an original text.

Hermoforos – I want to be with you. I want to stay as close as possible I can to you, because I think that you are the nearest I will ever get to not have to remember. Every day the whole world starts over, every night, when you fall asleep with me in your arms you wake up to a new existence. I do not share this privilege, as the first thing I do when I open my eyes is to remember. For you everything is both possible and impossible, you who are truly immortal, as you die each night. And I, I lie there knowing that tomorrow you will read to me from your notebook the notes you made about the colour of my hair and how we went swimming again.

Hermopompos – but I feel so guilty, can’t you see, I feel like a traitor for trying not to remember, or thinking perhaps that my memories are not true. I know, everything has been noted, but these are just words, and certain things cannot be noted, and when I think of this I feel so lonely. The words are simply repeated over and over every morning and with each sunrise a bit more of all that which was between those words is being erased, all that could not be noted. Then I feel your caresses are not enough.

Hekatompompos – and you don’t help, but I can’t blame you for it. I feel sometimes that my memories stretch back thousands of years but this can’t be true. I feel sometimes that what I remembered must have been a dream and that I will be able to wake up here in my bed, in my flat, and be able to brush it all aside. And if I think it was a bad dream this makes me feel even lonelier.

Hermokles – I am so proud of my garden, I think I have managed it quite well considering that the soil is very thin around here. Don’t you think it is relaxing to sit in the shade of the almond tree, listening to the wind throwing itself towards the garden wall, and have you noticed that if you listen closely you can hear the sea?

Hermosthenes – I suppose it just happened, there was nothing I could have done about it, but I seem to be returning here day in and day out. And all that really happened was that everything became meaningless.

Hermopompobrontofilos – I envy you, each day you give me more words and I thought this would ease it, but the more words you give me, I feel it becomes more difficult to remember that which I had promised to remember. At the same time with this predicament, this burden that I must carry of remembering all those inessential details of what happened last week I feel I am drowning in memories. I must remember and I cannot remember and each memory carries me a bit further away from that which happened in the beginning.

Heliodoros – I had told you to get some more olive oil, I had pointed to the bottle over there in the corner of the kitchen, and I had asked if you could go past the old baker to get some bread as I was preparing fish for dinner.

My name is Thressa.
My name is Thessalis.
My name is Kressa.
My name is Melissa.

Thalassodoros – If ever you return from the shops. I have not forgotten. I have not betrayed. Do not believe a word of what I say – I have never betrayed. And when you return from the sea, the almond tree crying its slow tears and the crickets whining, then there is a thing that I will show you, a strange, incomprehensible thing, that almost worries me, even though I know it is not dangerous. The white lily, you remember that one by the garden wall, has suddenly, overnight, transformed in colour and become red as blood.

Knut Hamsun etc by David Price

The Practise of Digression


Then, without waiting for an answer he continued:

'What strikes me most about ants and beetles and other gentlemen of the insect world is their astonishing seriousness: they run backwards and forwards with such important expressions on their faces, just as if their life really meant something. Just think: Man, Lord of Creation, most exulted of beings is looking at them – but they've no time for him; what's more, a gnat will sit on the nose of the Lord of the Creation and use him for food. It's insulting. Yet, looked at in another way, how is our life any better than theirs? And why shouldn't they give themselves airs, if we are permitted to do so? Now then, my philosopher, solve that problem for me. Why don't you answer? Eh?'

'I would prefer not to.'

'This', he said to Mike, 'is undoubtedly something in the nature of a set-back. I have drawn blank. The papers bring out posters, 'Psmith Baffled'. I must try again. Meanwhile, to work. Work, the hobby of the philosopher and the poor man's friend.'

'That's understandable. Their habits are very peculiar. Very peculiar' He kept pushing the float. The water was not quite up to his chest. 'They lead a very tragic life', he said.

'No, pardon me,' he replied. 'Well, yes, if you like; why not? It doesn't matter what you call it. I've been in such a delightful rapture all day, whether it's hallucination or whether it isn't.'









On The Eve, p.22-23
Bartleby The Scrivener
Psmith in the City, p.169 in The World of Psmith
A Perfect Day For Banana Fish, p.10 in For Esme – with Love and Squalor
Mysteries, p. 71

Willy Kyrklund, Polyphemus metamorphosed

TRANSLATION EXTRACT ‘POLYPHEMUS METAMORPHOSED’ WITH POEM RESPONSE, 2008.

All words, when there is no action, to be hollow and foolish.
Polyphemus sits dazzled on his cliff, taking the lie of the sea, prepared with a giant boulder in his embrace, he waits for Nobody. All words, without consequence, empty and mad.
The name of Polyphemus signifies “he who speaks a lot” or maybe “he who knows many songs”.
He sits on the precipitous cliff blue in the far distance, turning blue he himself an element of the cliff.
He sits looking out into the foaming spray, guarding for Nobody’s return, at last, to this coast. He is waiting, that after all the right wind will come, that a storm, sweet as honey shall expel he who erred again onto these same cliffs.
He waits for Nobody and his lips moves in the breeze. He is talking to himself, but the words are muted by the wind, maybe he sings. All words, which hold no deed are useless and vacant.

Polyphemus

(- I'm in the look out
high up on the rocks
carefully taking the lie of the sea
I notice how the colour changes
as a boat approach

Then a great storm
blown in from the all knowing open waters
and I get excited
this is how it started before

For a moment I rest in the interstices
on soft sea weed
but when the storm is over
disappointment as I sit and count the driftwood

I know this place
I got my calling when things changed
the disaster happened
to stay here on this big boulder
wait until the gods send back
sighing what was lost.)

Authors

Willy Kyrklund
Cora Sandel
Stig Claesson
Hjalmar Söderberg
Ida Börjel
Tomas Tranströmer
Magnus Florin
Stig Dagerman
to be continued.