{"id":242,"date":"2012-08-08T00:12:55","date_gmt":"2012-08-07T22:12:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blogg.uit.no\/llu001\/?page_id=242"},"modified":"2012-08-08T00:12:55","modified_gmt":"2012-08-07T22:12:55","slug":"works","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/blogg.uit.no\/llu001\/translations\/works\/","title":{"rendered":"Works"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

WORKS\u00a0Poems by Liv Lundberg, 1999<\/h1>\n

translated by Susan Schwartz Senstan and the poet<\/h1>\n

 <\/p>\n

PART ONE: SCULPTURE<\/h1>\n

<\/h1>\n

<\/h1>\n

<\/h1>\n

\u00a0(sculpture)<\/h1>\n

a sculpture in a room<\/p>\n

simple elements of material and time<\/p>\n

will assemble a picture<\/p>\n

which looks like you<\/p>\n

this is the picture of you<\/p>\n

\n

nose tip, ear lobe, jaw bone<\/p>\n

in the throat are stuck the words<\/p>\n

no mouth has uttered<\/p>\n

clothes stitched around a body, a purse<\/p>\n

with identity papers<\/p>\n

whoever you may be<\/p>\n

with your pale, unclear face<\/p>\n

a birth certificate<\/p>\n

a signature<\/p>\n

\n

shadow and sun, the daily<\/p>\n

almost machinelike repetitions<\/p>\n

they say they know who you are<\/p>\n

they say you are<\/p>\n

a picture of yourself<\/p>\n

you look like a sculpture in a room<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

\n

(contour)<\/p>\n

\n

a body, barely sketched<\/p>\n

in all simplicity<\/p>\n

newborn, unfinished as a primitive sign<\/p>\n

\n

a naked contour to fill with the work of cells<\/p>\n

limbs loosely jointed<\/p>\n

head dancing on the spinal column<\/p>\n

like a bird on a jet of water<\/p>\n

in the play of drops: fragments<\/p>\n

of feathers, cartilage, bone<\/p>\n

\n

and minerals<\/p>\n

in my mind<\/p>\n

I want to watch your creation<\/p>\n

if it is you<\/p>\n

if it is me<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(marble)<\/p>\n

\n

a sleeping child<\/p>\n

in words from the future<\/p>\n

cheek resting against<\/p>\n

a\u00a0\u00a0pure topographical dream<\/p>\n

in form\u2019s meditative childhood<\/p>\n

to awaken later<\/p>\n

in a marble surface<\/p>\n

face lifted by the flight of its eyes<\/p>\n

skull burdened by the shadow of its meaning<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

\n

\n

(henry moore)<\/p>\n

\n

passing through the arms of henry moore<\/p>\n

like a child through its mother<\/p>\n

in the entanglement of sensibility<\/p>\n

in a space orchestrated<\/p>\n

by its surfaces<\/p>\n

\n

a truly naked being<\/p>\n

through passages of a body without end<\/p>\n

absolutely real, unreal<\/p>\n

as you are<\/p>\n

born<\/p>\n

a person filled with blood<\/p>\n

carved out of stone, a statue<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(vision)<\/p>\n

a vision visits you<\/p>\n

finds you home in bed one fresh hour<\/p>\n

warm and dreamy, unripe<\/p>\n

it tells you it is complete<\/p>\n

more or less<\/p>\n

a consummate creation<\/p>\n

needing just a hand and a hammer<\/p>\n

a little of your labor, a few hours\u2019 work<\/p>\n

to rise up and remain standing<\/p>\n

longer than a life<\/p>\n

out in the gardens of reality<\/p>\n

its stony feet in the fragrant grasses<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(group)<\/p>\n

\n

to stay out there<\/p>\n

upright alone and neutral<\/p>\n

or as a group of three<\/p>\n

draped female figures<\/p>\n

a bond immortalized<\/p>\n

in stone<\/p>\n

like a social law<\/p>\n

a kind of love<\/p>\n

\n

or just to sit, the two of you<\/p>\n

on a bench<\/p>\n

out on a ridge with cliffs and grasses<\/p>\n

your stony eyes turned southwest<\/p>\n

like a king and a queen<\/p>\n

surveying<\/p>\n

their non-existent realm<\/p>\n

dreaming of peopling that wasteland<\/p>\n

with peculiar children<\/p>\n

a whole family of figures from the borderland<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(light machine)<\/h1>\n

\n

a light moving machine<\/p>\n

on its own drive<\/p>\n

with the force of the wind<\/p>\n

a delicate exploration of light<\/p>\n

its building up and breaking down<\/p>\n

\n

the disappearing<\/p>\n

light of night, light\u2019s morning gift<\/p>\n

to the wedding party<\/p>\n

the grating light from the locked ward<\/p>\n

\n

the sculptural planes of the light<\/p>\n

on a face, your face<\/p>\n

reached for and embraced<\/p>\n

by shadows<\/p>\n

\n

the forsaken light, monotony\u2019s<\/p>\n

grey light<\/p>\n

which wipes away the contours<\/p>\n

of a person<\/p>\n

until content and form unite<\/p>\n

\n

\n

the eye that sees closes<\/p>\n

around its dark pupil<\/p>\n

and leaves the light<\/p>\n

to extinguish itself<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(rodin)<\/h1>\n

\n

I see<\/p>\n

naked newborns with outstretched arms<\/p>\n

I see something suffering, extended<\/p>\n

stretched out like a woman<\/p>\n

under observation<\/p>\n

and the thinker thoughtful<\/p>\n

bent over<\/p>\n

\n

I see an omnipotent arm raised<\/p>\n

by the lawmaker, the tablet writer<\/p>\n

standing before the unfinished figures<\/p>\n

stiffened, silenced<\/p>\n

in their becoming<\/p>\n

\n

I see<\/p>\n

a humble witness<\/p>\n

enter through the monastery gate<\/p>\n

to write down all these days<\/p>\n

noting the contemporary explanations<\/p>\n

on the computer<\/p>\n

in his cell<\/p>\n

with the nightmare\u2019s gift for precision<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

\n

(the cave)<\/p>\n

\n

I study the hole from outside<\/p>\n

ponder over its introversion<\/p>\n

the form of its concealment<\/p>\n

one entrance only; an inconspicuous crevice<\/p>\n

I slip in<\/p>\n

\n

in cave fascination<\/p>\n

unlit cavern corridors<\/p>\n

the light from my headlamp<\/p>\n

caresses formations<\/p>\n

of stalagmites<\/p>\n

and stalagtites<\/p>\n

\n

my feet tread carefully<\/p>\n

on the purely physical side<\/p>\n

of the excavating<\/p>\n

feeling of the cave<\/p>\n

\n

patterned in mental grey tones<\/p>\n

clothed in secrecy<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0(still life)<\/h1>\n

\n

who threw the angel out of heaven<\/p>\n

a shining, blue black splash of matter<\/p>\n

amorphous, ugly, alien creature<\/p>\n

from the outskirts of space<\/p>\n

or from the inner globe exploded<\/p>\n

in lava spurts<\/p>\n

and solidified into a stony moment<\/p>\n

\n

who drew<\/p>\n

the ragged coastline of the marriage<\/p>\n

between order and chaos<\/p>\n

who twisted the cave inside out, smashed the masks<\/p>\n

of those who dance, who die<\/p>\n

\n

discovered<\/p>\n

the physical law of wisdom<\/p>\n

its blue black exterior<\/p>\n

and recorded its de facto despair<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(giacometti)<\/p>\n

\n

giacometti at gallery louisiana<\/p>\n

I am twenty-one<\/p>\n

and just as vanishingly thin<\/p>\n

as the elongated creations<\/p>\n

which fill the space between heaven and earth<\/p>\n

with distance<\/p>\n

stretched out across a world which tapers<\/p>\n

and extends<\/p>\n

with the soles of their feet forged to the base<\/p>\n

like giant, wingless birds<\/p>\n

stiffened in their stride<\/p>\n

standing woman. walking man<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

existence barely exists<\/p>\n

in my vision<\/p>\n

equally thin and ambiguous<\/p>\n

a shock of insight:<\/p>\n

I am, am not<\/p>\n

\n

the exposed, extended creations<\/p>\n

have taken the space into their bodies<\/p>\n

the light into their shadows<\/p>\n

taken possesion of my sight<\/p>\n

adorning themselves with my eyes<\/p>\n

like shining spheres<\/p>\n

surrounding me<\/p>\n

with their precarious bronze balance<\/p>\n

a crass plea<\/p>\n

to exist<\/p>\n

to act<\/p>\n

to ache<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

PART TWO \u2013 SHAPING<\/h1>\n

(cross)<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

a cross<\/p>\n

a simple cross mark<\/p>\n

you stand at the crossroad<\/p>\n

where the four winds meet<\/p>\n

encircled by the horizon<\/p>\n

watching an arrow fly<\/p>\n

into infinity<\/p>\n

blood drops, nail wounds<\/p>\n

a cross<\/p>\n

civilization\u2019s simplest sign<\/p>\n

you must choose your direction<\/p>\n

go just go<\/p>\n

just become a human being<\/p>\n

a star, a flock of birds<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(line)<\/h1>\n

\n

the playful line came first<\/p>\n

along with the gesture<\/p>\n

\n

the straight line is military<\/p>\n

disciplining the scribble<\/p>\n

\n

into a legion of points on the march<\/p>\n

a target-seeking arrow in the bow, a lifted spear<\/p>\n

\n

a line, infinte<\/p>\n

or confined between two points:<\/p>\n

\n

a line drawn, a boundry set<\/p>\n

by a person who is \u2013 and owns<\/p>\n

\n

the straight line divides the world<\/p>\n

into over and under, into heaven and earth<\/p>\n

\n

into this and the other side<\/p>\n

the straight line<\/p>\n

\n

treats the surface of space<\/p>\n

radically and unequivocally : connects or divides<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(point)<\/p>\n

\n

a point is always alone<\/p>\n

the zero the silence<\/p>\n

before anything has begun<\/p>\n

\n

a point born of the moment<\/p>\n

when a fingertip touches matter<\/p>\n

a stick or a pen taps a surface<\/p>\n

\n

a point is a minimum<\/p>\n

can not expand or alter<\/p>\n

without becoming other than itself:<\/p>\n

\n

a spot, a small circle or a line<\/p>\n

the tantrics say the point is light itself<\/p>\n

colourless before the start of colour<\/p>\n

\n

the point<\/p>\n

to which everything is returning<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(form)<\/p>\n

\n

in the almond form<\/p>\n

two circle segments meet<\/p>\n

vulva: eye and mouth<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(human figure)<\/p>\n

\n

a figure of clay<\/p>\n

a rather small man<\/p>\n

stands with his head tilted<\/p>\n

in the fields outside the village<\/p>\n

humble almost pleading<\/p>\n

with enormous ears and his hair<\/p>\n

gathered at the nape of his neck<\/p>\n

one arm, draped<\/p>\n

around him<\/p>\n

collecting himself<\/p>\n

a form of being human<\/p>\n

simply being<\/p>\n

present in his life’s work<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

PART III — INSTALLATIONS<\/h1>\n

(meaning)<\/p>\n

1.<\/p>\n

the rooms chained together<\/p>\n

through corridors and stairways<\/p>\n

start to relate to each other when double doors are thrown open<\/p>\n

so the light from tall opposing arched windows<\/p>\n

meets in the airy room<\/p>\n

where light crosses light a human being stands<\/p>\n

still, almost transparent<\/p>\n

and waits<\/p>\n

and grows<\/p>\n

2.<\/p>\n

in the shadows along the garden wall<\/p>\n

flows a canal, the dark water mirror<\/p>\n

adorned with coloured leaves<\/p>\n

scattered by a natural autumn hand<\/p>\n

\n

we arrive by crossing the stone bridge\u2019s arc<\/p>\n

and see a person pass<\/p>\n

under the vault of the arcade<\/p>\n

a glimpse of body between column and column<\/p>\n

like a measure of the building’s rhythm<\/p>\n

and life content, a study<\/p>\n

in mankind\u2019s construction of meaning<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(tension)<\/p>\n

\n

the narrow trunks of young trees<\/p>\n

can yield to the tension<\/p>\n

strain their arching to the utmost<\/p>\n

to participate in the building<\/p>\n

\n

that which cannot bend, will break<\/p>\n

rigidity is full of fear<\/p>\n

to be so staunch, so inflexible<\/p>\n

in its upright axis\u2014<\/p>\n

pride:<\/p>\n

\n

I am who I am who I am<\/p>\n

immutable<\/p>\n

until the impact hits<\/p>\n

and the break can not be fixed.<\/p>\n

\n


<\/p>\n

(two chairs)<\/p>\n

\n

on a desolate heath<\/p>\n

between mountain ridges<\/p>\n

by the shore of a lake<\/p>\n

lies a little stone cabin<\/p>\n

its low broad door hewn of rough wood<\/p>\n

\n

we peek inside<\/p>\n

and see the light fall<\/p>\n

at a slant in broad twin stripes<\/p>\n

down from the high window frame<\/p>\n

across the chalky rough surface of the wall<\/p>\n

\n

below the window, pushed into the corner<\/p>\n

two spindled chairs with straw seats stand<\/p>\n

pressed together tightly<\/p>\n

as if shrinking from an unwelcome visit<\/p>\n

\n

from a person<\/p>\n

who might break in with the whole burden of loneliness<\/p>\n

collapse onto one of the chairs<\/p>\n

and start a monologue to which there is no reply<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(cell)<\/p>\n

\n

we imagine a person<\/p>\n

in a room<\/p>\n

with masonry walls, paint peeling<\/p>\n

the only furnishing<\/p>\n

a wash basin and a radiator<\/p>\n

mounted beside<\/p>\n

a bolted door<\/p>\n

\n

a holding cell<\/p>\n

for locking up and keeping<\/p>\n

unfortunate times, uncomfortable skin colours<\/p>\n

confusing blows against the head<\/p>\n

the body search and deportation<\/p>\n

of someone<\/p>\n

who can only plead<\/p>\n

guilty or at least to being an accomplice<\/p>\n

to his own debasement<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(auditorium)<\/p>\n

\n

a french museum of contemporary art<\/p>\n

is built of thick, black petroleum pipes<\/p>\n

angled with elbow joints<\/p>\n

against walls of snow white marble<\/p>\n

cool, formal as antique columns<\/p>\n

in a landscape of light<\/p>\n

\n

we listen to sophisticated french theories<\/p>\n

about transmodern space-time works<\/p>\n

at the new millenium<\/p>\n

we don’t know what to believe<\/p>\n

having lost our old imperatives<\/p>\n

locked in the illusions of art and knowledge<\/p>\n

wandering in the dizzying state<\/p>\n

of europe<\/p>\n

\n

no exits are visible<\/p>\n

the eye\u2019s only way out is through a barred window<\/p>\n

with a view past the treetops<\/p>\n

to a red sunset<\/p>\n

glowing like a detonation<\/p>\n

mirrored in the glistening oily black surface<\/p>\n

\n

we tread carefully<\/p>\n

we do not know how far it is to the bottom<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(face)<\/p>\n

\n

the picture of a human being<\/p>\n

a face, objective as fate<\/p>\n

face to face with silence and the room<\/p>\n

the portrait of a young woman approaching death<\/p>\n

portrayed like a thing among other things<\/p>\n

against a rough brick wall, a broken pipe<\/p>\n

a doorway, and this questioning<\/p>\n

almost wanting to beg<\/p>\n

for forgiveness<\/p>\n

\n

being as face<\/p>\n

a human being who will soon not be<\/p>\n

a human being squarely facing nothingness<\/p>\n

wondering, it is the eye that sees<\/p>\n

the clear eye<\/p>\n

that does not want to know any more<\/p>\n

\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(box)<\/p>\n

\n

a box not yet opened<\/p>\n

no one knows what\u2019s inside, empty or full<\/p>\n

of small things, treasures, a dead man\u2019s belongings<\/p>\n

codes left behind that no one wants to break<\/p>\n

no heirs have come forward<\/p>\n

no one has claimed the memories<\/p>\n

maybe no one knows where to find the key<\/p>\n

but the box will never disappear<\/p>\n

from a person\u2019s inventory<\/p>\n

we all carry with us such black, rectangular boxes<\/p>\n

when we leave home, get married and<\/p>\n

break up to set off on new<\/p>\n

and equally dubious journeys<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

(witness)<\/p>\n

\n

we are modest witnesses<\/p>\n

to what we see<\/p>\n

we are responsible for what we report<\/p>\n

from strange, fossilized places<\/p>\n

in accounts of hardening, dehumanizing, disintegrating<\/p>\n

and dinosauric experience<\/p>\n

in evolution’s gradual, skillful<\/p>\n

contact with matter<\/p>\n

\n

time’s distances<\/p>\n

are burning their ice ages<\/p>\n

into our palms<\/p>\n

like liquid nitrogene<\/p>\n

\n

\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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