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62 Satyamurti One day he wasn’t there. I still miss him. I know – you might well ask. But I never saw anyone so beautiful, so completely harmless. Don’t laugh – in my mind, I call him Gabriel. Only Joking Jokes were what he had to say for himself; they stood for small talk he didn’t know how to, for ordinary love you he didn’t know how to. Did my mother, refined as Reigate, ever laugh? Some demon drove him to embarrass, as if to say I’ll really give you something to despise, and I not knowing who to side with When I think of cringe, I think of that. When I brought friends home I’d will him: talk shop, fishing, anything. It took years not to mind What goes . . . a sailor, a dog and a paper bag . . . under the ground?
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HarryMartinson FivePoems TranslatedbyRobinFulton HarryMartinson(1904–1978) grewupinJäämshöög, Blekinge, in southwestSweden.When hewassixhisfatherdiedandthen hismotherdepartedtotheU.S.A., leavinghimandhissisters as‘parishorphans’, fosteredouttovariousfamilies. Hisescape fromthiswastosail theoceansfrom1920to1927. Returning to his native tracts, he eventually became one of the best knownwritersof hisgeneration, hisproseandverseappealing widely, bothtoacademicsandtothe‘common’ reader. His booksnaturallyreflect hisupbringing(Näässlornablomma / BlossomingNettles, 1935, Väägenut / TheWayOut, 1936), and his wanderings (Resor utan måål /Journeys with No Destination, 1932,KapFarvääl/CapeFarewell,1933)and thenhisinterestin science and social questions (Verklighet till dööds / Reality to Death, 1940, Väägentill Klockrike / The RoadtoKlockrike, 1948). His ‘space odyssey’ Aniara (1956) records a space mission off-courseandheadingfor nowhere: theworkreceivedanew lease of life as the basis for Karl-Birger Blomdahl’s opera (1959). HiselectiontoTheSwedishAcademyin1949wasseenas a gesture towards a generationof more or less self-educated

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62

Satyamurti

One day he wasn’t there. I still miss him. I know – you might well ask. But I never saw anyone so beautiful, so completely harmless. Don’t laugh – in my mind, I call him Gabriel.

Only Joking

Jokes were what he had to say for himself; they stood for small talk he didn’t know how to, for ordinary love you he didn’t know how to. Did my mother, refined as Reigate, ever laugh?

Some demon drove him to embarrass, as if to say I’ll really give you something to despise, and I not knowing who to side with When I think of cringe, I think of that.

When I brought friends home I’d will him: talk shop, fishing, anything. It took years not to mind

What goes . . . a sailor, a dog and a paper bag . . . under the ground?

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