September 21: Poet of the Week, Tomas Transtromer, "After a Death," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

Since it is approaching Saint Marty's Day, which, coincidentally, usually falls during the same week that the Swedish Academy announces the recipient of the year's Nobel Prize in Literature, I have decided to feature Tomas Transtromer as the Poet of the Week.  Two years ago, Transtromer won the Big Prize, which was convenient since he lives in Stockholm and had a very short commute to the Prize Ceremony.

Transtromer is not well-known in the United States, but he is an incredible poet, his work lyrically complex.  I must admit that I have become a great fan.

After a Death

by:  Tomas Transtromer

Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside.  It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to feel the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
 

You all know how I've been struggling in the weeks following my sister's death.  Up days and down days.  Today was mixed.  Cleaning out my e-mail inbox at work, I came across a message my sister sent to me three years ago on my birthday.  The body of the message wasn't profound.  It was simply the words of "Happy Birthday" typed out, like so:

Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, dear Martin.
Happy birthday to you.

For a few moments, I could see her sitting at her desk, early in the morning, typing those words and then clicking the "send" button.  It made me both incredibly happy and incredibly sad.  I didn't delete the message.  In a couple of weeks, on Saint Marty's Day, I will open it again.  Reread it.  Think of how she would call me at work on my birthday, sing in my ear at five o'clock in the morning.

For me, my sister's e-mail was like Transtromer's shimmering comet tail, the afterglow of a life cut far too short.  I am participating in another nature essay event this evening, and, as I stand up to read, I will be thinking of her.  The bright flash of her among the stars.

So, my question this evening for my Ives dip is this:

Does my sister know how much she is missed?

And the answer:

And then Ives blinked and found himself standing on the sidewalk beside his wife, across the street from the Church of the Ascension.  On the pavement, just by his feet, was a large piece of canvas, and under it a body, stretched out.  Then the officer lifted off the canvas and shined a flashlight onto the face to reveal the shocked and bewildered expression of his son.

Edward and Annie Ives confronting the death of their son.  It's incredibly moving, and the two words that always stick with me are "shocked and bewildered," as if Robert can't believe what's happened to him.  Maybe my sister feels the same way, wherever she is.  Or maybe she's looking down on me, right now, wanting to tell me she's OK.  Happy even.


That thought gives Saint Marty some comfort.

Adventures of STICKMAN