We had visions, we too.

Once upon a time.

Evenings in late winter

when the snow crust glittered,

and we ran hither and thither across the garden and the barbed wire,

then sat on the kick sleds, back to back

and heard the fox shriek out Källsboda way,

like someone in distress

and the starlight rained down.

Then we must have dreamt

in the fantasy

under the high vault of heaven and the condoling edge of the woods

and the cottages in there with visible smoke.

But what did we dream about?

On that white platform.

My brother had a wind-up gramophone.

My sister collected pictures of film stars.

Her mouth was sticky from the red of crêpe paper.

She expected kisses.

Things will get better for you. 

Someone else has toiled.

But what does Good mean?

Our aunts in town had a flush toilet

and red plush curtains.

The ladies on the square, those who bought lingonberries from us, were special in their ways. We imitated them afterwards

in mum’s old shoes.

Strutted and wrinkled up our noses.

Talk about stars anno nineteen hundred and thirty five.

Could anyone really have ended up different?

*

(p11)

‍

The prettiest home

was the cottage on the ridge,

with its crooked verandah and three red walls,

grey round the back.

The warmest warmth

was the heat from the stove

and the steam around the pan with sandy soil potatoes

and the lid on.

The gentlest light

was the glow of the lamp that hugged the table

and cast shadows on the beams and in the corners.

The best of all worlds was inhabited by two.

Though it wasn’t like that.

Hell no it wasn’t!

It was only me who was unaware back then.

*

(p12)

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‍

I became the poet in the family,

for whatever reason.

Write something beautiful, said mum,

ethereal

the lilywhite and rose of her abruptly curtailed youth

She’s a devil of a poet, that chit of a girl,

said dad,

he needed to foster all kinds of pride.

But my sisters agreed:

don’t think you ARE someone.

And I wasn’t anyone,

but was seeking myself

in God.

Though all religious folk were suspect.

*

(p13)

‍

‍

This I have learnt:

that politics is one thing

and loyalty another.

As far as I remember the mornings

on the put-you-up couch at home

the yellow ringing light of the paraffin lamp

against my eyelids,

the scraping of the butter knife across the crispbread,

the gurgle of the coffee flask and the musty odour of its cork,

then I am with my folks,

then I see them moving about

there inside my love,

muted,

half in a dream

across the brown plank of the couch

I can see the round aproned stomach

move slowly twisting and turning

between worktop and table.

Another ring on the stove clatters and the gobbet hisses,

a glimpse of dirty yellow ?rallarsammet ?

corduroy

and a rucksack being put on.

Then the cold comes sneaking in from the porch.

The weight of the cat on my legs.

A tiger claw in my legs.

Standing in front of the mirror

looking at myself.

My ageing face.

Me.

Is this me?

Somewhere deep inside

in the tunnels of my eyes

small groves open up

where the grass sways and the sun shadow

plays.

Pebbles and water.

I too am there.

I too am the one

who was playing there then.

Where will I go at the very end?

There?

Nowhere?

In which love shall I live?

*

(p124)

‍

‍

Hated no one.

Loved mum.

Believed in God.

Lugged books around and swept the porch. Thought

that one day I will have made it.

Didn’t know where.

It sometimes came like small thrills of expectation.

Bubbles of joy.

It could ?skämma till

like a light from space.

It was in the doorhandle of the public library

it was sometimes in the very damp on the streets.

I felt it in the wind. I heard it in the rushing sound.

I could smell it in the walls.

It sat in the spring in my steps

when a crossed the bridges

across the River Fyris.

when I

*

(p94)

‍

‍

When I was saved as a child

in the mission hall back home

one Wednesday evening

in nineteen hundred and forty-two

what was it I wanted?

And what did It want of me?

I think I wanted

to be uplifted up

high into the spring-blue night

and to bathe

high up in the starlight

high above the mud of the fields

and the squelch of the edge of the ditch

of the gravelly dung-brown snow.

I think I wanted

to be purified

from shame and pee and the smell of cramped rooms

and snuff and the fear of brandy

and fleshly sinful lust

and pathetic humanity.

And soar high into space

in lofty crystal music.

But God lives in all such muck

that was something I later understood.

*

(p119)

‍

‍

Shhhhh – don’t say anything!

They’ve come.

Came now tonight.

I hardly dare breathe.

Was standing in the strawberry patch

the stiff legged scarecrow

in dad’s old coat

The aspen so sorrowful

The potato tops blackened

The rose hips in line

you know how they dance.

And all the lights of the house

out long ago.

Then suddenly there they were

Crawling on your arms

Hanging and dangling

in the bush of my hair

sat on my shoulders

tickled my earlobe

emerged from my pockets

were in the air all around

and sang for me

sang

little lonely songs

of such beauty

that I almost wept.

Their eyes I saw

but not their colour.

*

(p122)

‍

‍

Tamed and purring

disdainful

deep into my legs.

My sister tinkles piously into her potty.

Like a animal cub,

stamped,

in ?raffelstoppsredet

I am lying and listening

and smelling life into me.

Once and for all.

*

(p14)

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‍

Elsies poems were translated by Eric Dickens, 2013–2015. The poems were first published in an international anthology, Time That Glitters, 2017.

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