A poet
winning the Nobel Prize of Literature is something that almost never happens.
The last time it did was on 2011. That year, the Swedish poet Thomas
Transtromer, who used to live very close from the Swedish Academy, obtained the
award. I hardly ever read poetry. I guess I lack the guts and composure to immerse
myself in a literary exercise that is far more challenging than novels and
short stories. Or perhaps is just a matter of building a habit. Of course, many
great novels and short stories are founded on poetry, but their structure and
breath are different from poems.
Transtromer
passed away on the 26th of March of this year and the cultural
sections or literary supplements of many newspapers around the world published
profiles and comments about his work. Among them, I found a note in the New
York Times that contained the poem “Further In”, which was published in
1973 in his book Paths. Its
descriptive reflection is astonishing. In 27 lines, the poet synthesizes the
essence of stories contained in fantasy books such as J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter saga or J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy. Dragons, fire,
a forest, footprints and stones are included in a rhyme that flows from a daily
scene (the traffic in a city at sunset) to a dream-like journey at the
encounter of an object that transmutes reality. Here’s the poem:
On
the main road into the city
when
the sun is low.
The
traffic thickens, crawls.
It
is a sluggish dragon glittering.
I
am one of the dragon’s scales.
Suddenly
the red sun is
right
in the middle of the windshield
streaming in.
I
am transparent
and
writing becomes visible
inside
me
words
in invisible ink
that
appear
when
the paper is held to the fire!
I
know I must get far away
straight
through the city and then
further until it is time to go out
and
walk far into the forest.
Walk
in the footprints of the badger.
It
gets dark, difficult to see.
In
there on the moss lie stones.
One
of the stones is precious.
It
can change everything
it
can make the darkness shine.
It
is a switch for the whole country.
Everything
depends on it.
Look
at it, touch it ...
A
rather worn-out metaphor states that the work of a good poet brings light to
the shadows where common men reside. For instance, the Academy said that Transtromer
was awarded the prize because “through his condensed, translucent images, he gives
us fresh access to reality.” I remember that a Mexican writer used to say that Pablo
Neruda was the King Midas of Hispanic poetry. It seems great poets are the
owners of a sort of philosopher’s stone, which can be either a blessing or a
curse.
