Poetry

Tranströmer is the first Swede to win the prize since the early ‘70s, and the first poet to be recognized by the prize committee in 15 years. (Despite the Academy’s avowed intent to achieve a greater “global distribution” in its laureates, his win is also part of a firmly European trend; only two of the last 10 laureates hail from non-European countries.)

So what is his work like?

“Through his condensed, translucent images,” the Academy said of Tranströmer in a statement this morning, “he gives us fresh access to reality.” This sentiment echoes a profile of the poet from his British publisher Bloodaxe Books, which notes:

In Sweden he has been called a “buzzard poet” because his haunting, visionary poetry shows the world from a height, in a mystic dimension, but brings every detail of the natural world into sharp focus. His poems are often explorations of the borderland between sleep and waking, between the conscious and unconscious states.

The octogenarian laureate has had twin careers as a poet and psychologist, with his work in the latter field focusing in particular on “juvenile offenders.” While he is not, in the words of Swedish Academy Permanent Secretary Peter Englund, “prolific” (“you could fit [all his work] into not too large a pocket book,” the Nobel spokesman claims), Tranströmer has had a lengthy writing career; his first volume of poetry was published when he was in his early 20s.

In a brief video interview recorded shortly after the announcement of Transförmer’s win, Englund said, “You can never feel small after reading the poetry of Tomas Tranströmer,” recommending that the uninitiated start with two Tranströmer volumes, both of which are available in English translation: “The Half-Finished Heaven” and “The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems.” Others recommend starting elsewhere — for instance, with the 1974 work “Baltics.”

A 1990 stroke — as a result of which he can no longer speak, and is paralyzed on his right side — left Tranströmer with serious physical handicaps, but failed to stem his creative impulses. (He addressed the life-changing event in his work “The Sorrow Gondola.”)

Music plays a powerful role in his written work, and in the years since his stroke, Tranströmer has channeled his creativity not only through his writing, but also through the piano (the instrument is a lifelong “passion,” according to the poet’s unofficial website), which he plays with just the five fingers of his left hand. You can hear a recording of his music here:

02-Zdenko Fibich Andante ur Stimmungen, Eindrucke und Erinnerungen op. 47 by bro1045

In a pensive 1989 interview, the poet placed himself firmly in the Modernist camp, discussing the elements of his writing that are uniquely informed by his Swedish heritage — a preoccupation with weather, the influence of Baltic sensibilities, even a keen interest in nature that can perhaps be chalked up to the legacy of Linnaeus. He also praised his friend and frequent translator Robert Bly, lamenting that it was sometimes difficult for Swedish poets to find gifted translators capable of rendering their own verse into artful English:

I’m lucky because I’ve been translated by poets who happen to know some Swedish, but it’s not so common with a small language like Swedish — it’s more common that you are in the hands of a specialist in the language who might have very little interest or feeling for poetry. … It’s a sad fact that so many of our best Swedish poets are untranslatable because the structure of their writing comes too close to the structure of the Swedish language and this makes them almost impossible to translate. And other poets can be translated easily. It’s the same in all languages.

As to Tranströmer’s politics, Bill Coyle wrote in 2006 that the poet was “unlikely” to win the Nobel precisely because his work is not overtly political:

There’s also the unfortunate fact that the choice of [Nobel] recipient often seems guided as much by politics as by literary considerations. Tranströmer is not an apolitical poet, but there is nothing about him — no confinement by the state, like Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn or Joseph Brodsky, no sense that he speaks for his people, like Heaney or Walcott, no rabid opposition to the United States, as with Pinter — to excite the more narrowly political.

On the same topic, Tranströmer himself has said (in the same 1989 interview quoted above): “I am very interested in the politics but more in a human way than in an ideological way.”

Like many of the other authors whose names have been batted around speculatively over the past few weeks, Tranströmer has been no stranger to Nobel gossip over the years; he’s been in the running (informally, of course — nominations are not revealed for 50 years after a Nobel Prize has been awarded) for at least two decades. In fact, it is a measure of his sheer staying power that he receives these Nobel laurels a full 21 years after he was awarded the Neustadt International Prize for Literature. (He’s earned several other prizes — such as a Lifetime Recognition Award from the Griffin Trust for Excellence in Poetry — since.)

A decade ago, reviewer Noah Isenberg wrote of Tranströmer in the New York Times: “[The poet]’s direct, elegant style is perhaps best encapsulated in a line from his poem ‘Preludes’: ‘Truth doesn’t need any furniture.’” While the same is arguably true of literary talent, Tranströmer’s lifetime of eloquence renders this new, distinguished decoration richly deserved.

Hear Tranströmer discuss one of his own works, “Schubertiana,” below (via tomastranstromer.net) — and, for more from the Nobel Prize Committee (or to send Tranströmer a personal “greeting”) visit Nobelprize.org.

Much of Levine’s most famous work describes Detroit, the city where he was born, raised and — as a young working man — educated in the rhythms of factory life. “I’m a Detroit-sized poet,” he once said, explaining why the city was a perpetual source of inspiration to him. Levine studied at Michigan’s Wayne State University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop — where he came in contact with Robert Lowell (“as a teacher, he was a disaster”) and John Berryman (“an inspiration”) — and spent much of his own teaching career at California State University, Fresno.

Reviewing two volumes of Levine’s poetry for the New York Times in 1979, Herbert Leibowitz called Levine “the elegist of lost souls beaten down by forces they could not understand or control,” and went on: “By providing brief verse chronicles of their struggles to survive — their dead-end jobs, sexual fevers, run-ins with the police, fugitive pleasures — and by conferring names on their anonymous selves, Mr. Levine could partially reinstate these victims in our consciousness, even if he could not rescue them from the malevolence of history.”

Those words were written decades ago — and Levine has published a great deal since then — but they describe a poet whose work may be more relevant than ever today (as Dwight Garner argues in an eloquent literary profile of Levine in today’s New York Times).

What are his most famous works?

Levine’s “Ashes: Poems New and Old” and “What Work Is” won the National Book Award in 1980 and 1991, respectively; “The Simple Truth” earned the Pulitzer Prize in 1995.

The poet’s latest volume, “News of the World,” was published two years ago.

What are his responsibilities as poet laureate?

Along with his new title, Levine will get $35,000 for his services between this coming October and next May (unlike his British counterpart, he won’t be invited to indulge in a barrel of sherry) – as well as “maximum freedom to work on [his] own projects.” CBS points out that several recent poets laureate have chosen to use their position for the public good; Levine himself has already discussed his desire to make use of the “bully pulpit” he’s been given.

But based on his evident reluctance to write on demand (he’d hardly relish the chance to compose “a poem to Congress,” he says), it’s probably a good thing that Levine won’t be called upon to conjure odes for momentous state occasions.

Is he pleased?

That might sound like a stupid question, but gifted artists aren’t always overjoyed to be recognized with public accolades. (Remember Doris Lessing’s ticklingly weary response to the news that she had been awarded a Nobel Prize?) Levine hasn’t reacted with anything like Lessing’s now-famous disdain, but in an interview with his local paper, the Fresno Bee, he did downplay the importance of major awards:

“The single greatest reward was the writing of the stuff itself, the poetry,” [Levine] said. “And the second biggest one had to do with my students, mainly here at Fresno State. I had some amazing students here who went on to wonderful careers as poets.”… Levine acknowledges that it’s nice to be recognized, but he insists that no one should get too excited about awards and honors. In the overall picture, they mean very little.

Levine further told the AP: “I’m a fairly irreverent person and at first I thought, ‘This is not you. You’re an old union man.’ But I knew if I didn’t do this, I would kick myself.”

The project has understandably received attention since it was announced. Christle has already explained some of the background to the Guardian; I called her around lunchtime today for a live poetry experience of my own. Here’s a transcript of our conversation, with minor edits for the sake of fluency:

Heather Christle: Hello, this is Heather.

Emma Mustich: Hi, Heather. My name’s Emma, and I’m a culture blogger at Salon.com. I wondered if you might be willing to read me a poem — and chat for a little while about your project.

HC: Yeah, I’d love to. That sounds great!

EM: Well, if it’s all right, the poem I’d like to hear is “Parallelograph.”

HC: Sure, that sounds good. Let me just find “Parallelograph” in the table of contents. It’s funny, I ought to know the numbers really well by now, but it’s all become kind of a blur I think.

EM: How many calls have you had so far today? [I called about 12:30 p.m., so she'd been "open" for two and a half hours.]

HC: Let’s see … Actually, I’ve stopped counting, because it just became too much to keep track of. I don’t know, maybe a dozen so far. It’s funny — at first, it was mostly just individuals calling, and since it’s been getting picked it’s been much more people calling from newspapers and radio shows and things.

EM: Do you do all this from an office? Or do you just pick up the phone wherever you are?

HC: Wherever I am. I’m mostly at home — right now I am. I teach at Emory, but I’m just teaching one class for the summer session. I have read some poems in the grocery store, and I just read one outside while I was playing with my neighbor’s cat. I’m about to go to the hardware store, so I’m hoping I might get to read someone a poem while I’m standing next to hammers. [Laughs.] So should I go ahead and read this poem?

EM: Sure.

HC: OK.

“Parallelograph”

that is not a bird          that is a large dark area          it is the same thing          as your                head          when I do your head in silhouette          there could be a nation          that         outlawed the profile          or only thought of outlines          from the front          it is the           same as your imaginary life          you have just given your concession speech                        bravely to a small crowd of supporters          they could be thinking anything and                   aren’t          you can’t tell a large dark area to give up           everything is possible                       and not happening            to me in this plausible room           despite the five thousand            ways you might reach me           the phone is not ringing           it could be         but it is not                          I elect to see but one thing at a time          one broken toe          one gone-bad                sausage          I could possess a freakish lack of power          like I could be a                         puncture           but instead I am a vice           it all goes on without          or else beside                me           like in this version of the world           there is no gold  

[Spacing adopted from La Petite Zine]

That’s it.

EM: Thanks!

HC: You’re welcome. Someone else was calling — I wasn’t sure if you were hearing beeps on your end.

EM: No, nothing!

HC: OK. I’m never sure if people can hear those beeps or not.

EM: Do you get self-conscious at all, doing this all day?

HC: Not really, no. I thought that I might before it started, but it’s felt very comfortable the whole time.

EM: Would you ever do this face-to-face with people? Or is it the phone in particular that interests you?

HC: Oh, interesting. I mean, I do readings in person — that’s part of my life as a poet — but I suppose it is a little different with the one on one. I’m not sure whether I’d do one-on-one readings, face to face. Although there is a group that does that, actually, The Poetry Brothel. But that’s not really my style so much.

I think the phone is actually especially important to me because these poems imagine these phone calls happening so much, and this possibility that the reader might answer somehow — well, like in that poem I just read, in “Parallelograph,” the poor speaker is feeling really sad that nobody’s calling.

I didn’t have this project in mind when I wrote the poems, but after writing them, I realized how especially poignant it might be to make that action actually occur in the real world.

EM: Yes — I was going to ask whether you had this project in mind as you were writing.

HC: No, not at all. It just kind of happened as I was putting the book together, once the poems were all written.

EM: What kind of phone are you using? Is it a cellphone?

HC: Yes, I’m on a cellphone. But I didn’t want to publish my actual phone number, so I set up a Google voice number, so it just gets forwarded to my cellphone. And it means that I can turn it off for the hours when I’m not doing this.

EM: Your hours are pretty long, aren’t they? Today you’re available from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., I think.

HC: It’s funny — people tend to call in clusters for some reason. Definitely as soon as I get in the shower somebody calls.

EM: My last question: Who’s the most surprising caller that you’ve had?

HC: Probably Julian Marshall from the BBC. That completely flabbergasted me.

EM: They didn’t warn you before he called?

HC: They warned me — I knew that they were going to have someone from ‘Newshour’ calling, but I didn’t know it was going to be actually Julian Marshall. He’s someone whose voice I’m very used to coming out of the radio or my computer, but to suddenly hear his voice coming out of the phone was quite something. [Laughs.]

EM: I know you have another caller on the line, so I won’t ask any more questions. But thanks so much for the poem, and for chatting!

HC: Oh, thanks for being interested, and for listening to the poem. Take care!