Under sommaren var fyra poeter och akademiker i Tranås. En av dem, den irländska poeten Derek Coyle, ville arbeta med tre av översättningarna av dikter från Palliativ vård: ”Starbucks in Prague”, ”The Tempest” och ”Balls”. I grunden översatte jag dem tillsammans med den walesiska poeten Mel Perry och i nästa steg skapade Derek en form av remixer som jag tycker är otroligt spännande – och inte minst smickrande. Temperamentet och rytmen är en annan men fraserna känns ändå igen från originalversionerna. Håll till godo – lasta mig för skavankerna och Derek för grooven.
Balls
When he parks his car,
their boy stands
in the driveway,
and the tension
in his pants
is a serpent stirring.
They look at each other
with longing, fear,
and hatred, all
directed at the same
point of origin.
He passes the child,
who starts to hit
a tennis ball
against the wall,
the tension in his pants
a serpent in the deep. She
does not smile, but
meanders out
of her jeans.
And afterwards,
she asks to be beaten,
and he hits her, the tension
in his pants, that serpent
biting. Its pulse,
it’s similar to the one
her son beats the ball
against the wall with.
His eyes have opened.
Starbucks in Prague
The backpackers are around
our age, groping
after an undemanding youth,
new freedoms. They eagerly
poke on their pads
and phones, as if
wanting to be somewhere else;
or, at the very least,
to receive confirmation
for being here. A homeless man
enters through the door,
his eyes exhausted, filled
with fear, holding a cup
with a few coins in the bottom.
We all stare down
at our screens, and let
the staff run him out.
And I,
I am completely silent.
The Tempest
‘After such an event
you are bound to be changed,’
you said. And I agreed.
Then we bought snacks
and sat down to watch Shakespeare,
The Tempest, but we changed channel
half-way through,
to check how many people had died
in the heat. We saw
corpses deployed in rows,
human lamenting, skilfully
captured by the photographers.
An old woman broke
down before the reporter;
she had lost her entire family,
and was a strong symbol.
‘The greatest disaster ever,’
you said, and I agreed. Then
we continued with the rest
of the play, munching
on our sour cream and onion crisps.
I think,
to honour the dead,
we bought no fireworks that year,
for the New Year’s Eve festival,
but still,
we enjoyed champagne, food,
all the beautiful women
and men, such fun
we had. ‘All of Europe
stopped’, you said. ‘So powerful.’
And I agreed.
For three minutes
we thought of the dead,
and I thought of an electric mixer
I wanted to buy. Mostly,
I did think of those
who died, while everything else
continued, while everything else
continued.
Peter Nyberg 
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