The Man W/o Direction by Erik Lindegren

Erik Lindegren’s

The Man W\o Direction Translated by Kim Göransson

UBwar

In the second edition of Mannen utan väg, Erik Lindegren writes: “Mannen utan väg" was written — with exception of the first five poems that came into existence in November 1939 — during the spring and summer of 1940, a time when violence, treason and brutality celebrated orgies, when the ideologies' character of backdrop and over-construction became visible to anyone who wanted to see, when the human activity was reduced to a marionette-level and the elementary humane to a corner of shame in the world space.

~

Cover art and illustrations by Kim Göransson.

You are reading a travel-tested underground book of poetic waste matter.

www.undergroundbooks.org 2

I read Mannen utan väg for the first time as a teenager, saturating in existential texts by writers such as Dagerman, Lagerkvist, Kafka, Gombrowicz, Sartre, Camus, etc. The kind of reading one is almost forced to grow out of, away from, at some point, toward more clever and controlled texts, toward a more mature and distanced reading experience and interaction with art.

Returning to the poem after 15 years, it is again this overly poetic language that I find myself drawn to, the kind of poem that would probably be ridiculed (and actually was, in certain circles, at the time it was first received) in most of today’s poetic climate for overflowing with bloated fantastic metaphors and its sincere use of the adolescent’s familiar poetic lexicon. On nearly every page you will find mention of time, mirror, death, eyes, darkness, eternity, dawns, dusks and twilights.

Surprisingly, perhaps, it is one of the more influential and well-known modernist poems in the Swedish poetry canon.

It’s also interesting to note, judging by the early drafts of the poems and how many of them vastly differ in imagery from the finished versions, that Lindegren’s focus is less on the content of the poems themselves than on the creation/ accumulation of poetic lines, writing an atmosphere, painting a broken syntax, a fragmented landscape.

As if the only way to respond to the horrors of the war is not a declaration of rational humanity against senseless barbarity, but something more sinister: recognizing that the violence is actually less barbaric than it is rational, not random but systematic, and launching an industrial counterattack of abstract poetic waste matter.

-Kim Göransson, 2014 3

for Rebecca Gรถransson w/o whom this translation would be a different kind of wreckage

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shadowless winds the road of failure on earth the strange depth seen by the sun's ascetic eye and the congenital blindness of horizons

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I. (in the hall of mirrors where not only Narcissus sits upon his pillar of despair w/o vertigo eternity nursed with a grimace the land of infinite opportunity in the hall of mirrors where a single contaminated sob escaped the crossed swords of indifference and turned the air into promise and soil that ran along all the city's windows in the hall of mirrors where perfection is hammered in tin and carried like a prisoner in the default-chest where the word commits hara-kiri in the glow of explosions and the trumpet tastes broken porcelain and dying blood in the hall of mirrors where one becomes the much too many but still wants to fall like dew in time's grave)

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II. (the eyebrow twitched its earth-toned shoulders and breathed frost crystals in the hall of mirrors: mirrors and running water like eternity-smoke like faith stacked upon faith in misery's moving load for like a tire-jack only grazes its calling so fairies drill their heel through the soil of longing and mirrors become running water and offer death its silent truth w/o fogging the glass but the one who has lost his way on the water rejoices no more the loss of life for he knows that the dream can only throw off its masks to become inexplicable as a child and that the veil is that which we don't otherwise know and that all we know is the veil in the hall of mirrors)

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III who pleads anymore to the traveller with the wheel in his hand to voices that rock on the water where no one was shipwrecked who scrubs the waters well until morning and night and takes twilight's gentle path to his cell who meets his own gaze on a trip around the universe and bends his own back into a beggar's bowl for rain that doesn't want to come and patience that has come like nightly sheets in born-again trees who throws not his only truth aside to find a larger and greener imprisonment who thinks he can break a mirror w/o blindness who thinks he can simultaneously both live and die in the dark glittered pipe organs and rattles out of the one-eyed well winded questions and songs

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IV mirrors turn their backs and the light dusts the horseshoe of happiness snakes away in poppy-sleep the truth ages and lays a game of solitaire* while the landscape collapses its ruins the blessing cries out for its lost voice feeling blindly behind the closed eyelids of centuries the steps of extinguishing enjoying to the very end the mild climate of complete oblivion the abandoned memory sinks through the floor and spins a gaping hole in the ear of the sleeping one annihilation sickly saws a body in equal parts bitter like a broken branch in November but with a death-clock behind the polished forehead I'm seized by rage's naked thistle

*Not exactly solitaire. He uses the word “patience� which is used in Swedish to mean any card game that you play with yourself.

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V the hand trembles with vertigo on the stranglers’ ladder greedy tears rustle in the nightingale’s empty cage already the weeping demands more casualties even a railway accident stammers sorry a peeled eye burns: short circuits and loneliness and destiny photographs another surprised corpse the fire ravages even the uninsured heart and the guards of suffering flee into faith's background anonymous thorns dream themselves real and sway to prickle on reality's hillside but a pained cry rolls up a mountain and throws itself down a cliff to crush pain's escape rests grandiosely on the canvas of eagles while the wind shuffles the deck of polite faces

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VI the worm struggles to escape his confidant and the puppet to find rest the disease leaves its place under the microscope tired of watching shrunken pupils the suffering w/o roots opens its whitewashed eye only to be crushed under the children's fleeing feet but the jester speaks with thunder and the one for death prepared braids a barbed-wire wreath in his hair and sees the heart sink heavy like a stone to a bloody and strangely warm despair: to rest under earth with singing trees in his mouth to talk in his sleep with all the faithfully deceived no it's not yet time to look into god's eye but this stone can’t even a crowbar of will move

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VII here in this silence that erases the border between the living dead and the dead’s living wish where two halves are joined in a double blindness to better be able to hear how light falls slowly, deceptive as if it knew what it wanted when night comes and day is empty and the purpose leans out of its tower with the seal of horror to be better preserved in the throats’ darkness where the bodyguard's lances block all exits for the bliss of drowning here in this silence which erases the border where light falls and anxiety greys the storm of regeneration claims the dry earth of the future while blindness sneers through its glassless window

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VIII the tired tree can't free itself from the blood and indecision can't raise its branches the false simplicity can't speak the truth and flagellates in vain into a blood-witness gemstones tempt with oblivion's dried-up riverbed but the way to life goes through a different desert there alone with the sun I remember the world and comrade Orestes who can't speak for sand there alone with the woman I forget the sun and its tired tree in the smoldering cave its burnt eyes that wake in the evening when the desert freezes to death in spring's grieving coat when the invisible drama takes its place in the wings and in the silent desert flows a sea of men

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IX but first a hunger-tower has to mercifully fall and far illustrate the fugitive's weakness: his carved eyes with caves of a smoke-blue cold that teach anxiety's falling drops his fear of happiness the white endless hand his hardness to life his softness to death with forever spinning horizons of innocence his longing that braids with tongues of fire the eternal forest that absently draws in the water while the cloud surreptitiously lets its marble-head fall weathered to a grimace of surprising pain — O the moment of recognition how space plunges suffocating blackness O whirling springs and only his helmet so still so radiantly blind

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X hatred's black magnet has sucked in our escape and the suffering closes its chalice and begs no more in the marketplace we trade our worn-out faces forced to let the disease have its way our false spectacle of strength is performed silently the spotlight aimed ironically into our abyss but the heart distills out an unreal light that rocks our fear to a lasting quiet and swings open all doors we've been forced to lock in the terrible choice that has mutilated us it is as if this earth and heaven is ours as if our limbs radiate with riches as if the world disappeared w/o a trace like in a dream and rests at last safely in us

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XI and I only sink deeper into earth's spring that germinates in my mouth in my hands my throat while the twilight in the valley hurries its steps and the shadows fling away the glow of impatience as if they heard the earth's muffled cry in my mouth and wanted to ignite the pines’ dragging wings to escape excessively secret torments: the bloody spur's demand for nowhere — but by the springs' glowing roots where the giant's eye slipped from my embrace up to the stars' stretcher I found a monastery of strength with loose streams a hand of silence kneading the clay and I rested safely under the burden of stones under the protection of burdens in twilight's bleeding spring

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XII the day dresses up in the wind's distorted costume and again I can't trust the rain's quiet drops where they free themselves from mating branches and leaves that can't keep them can't hate them but when I turn around no one is there only the earth's surface bending and something that smiles and still I’m scared to be abducted from the earth with its unsafe fevers and secret travels where everything seems to tire and want to leave me where even the oasis refuses to appear where the scheming eye that objectively observes me doesn't even have to speak only close itself in desire where the madness is inaccessible and the mouth widens into a despaired howl that breaks down in silence

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XIII how many day trips with you in my arms shall I not lay behind death's white crest only to bid farewell to these binoculars’ visions and hang the desert's freckles on anxiety's nail stiff and darkened rests the eye in its socket and the hammer-blows sound in outer space's bird tent arm in arm with the echo the finish line flaps in the wind but the winner has already fallen and bled out for sale: his memory and his consciousness which clear as crystal has overturned the hurricane his smile at the souls’ lack of kindling and the lack of tears that heal chapped lips I press his hand while the loss grows and death buys more and more lives on credit

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XIV in the hollowed-out fog broke a water lily heaven and the blinded trees swung their trampoline it was spring and I rolled up my desert and the oracle woman lifted her veil of ashes I was happy to bury my hand in her dress but alas beyond the rainbow reigned dynamite gift me now an image of her maggot-stung nudity and I will believe the cause of the rage nothing will disturb her sleep in a gutter nor her womb stigmatized by a snake over connected headstones I will shed my leaves and paint my heart with steaming courage I will count to the holy number of decomposition where everything turns over into its opposite

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XV the drums wander in the morning light's spike-yard and a body awakes in the light from an extinguished spirit a hand pours out and doesn't know where it belongs until it slowly shrinks before everyone's eyes what remains of hope shall now fixate death that hovers in the hostile voices' rifts all bridges explode only these rifts remain and this shame that's been covered by a canvas of saliva see the sun announcing a taunting a cruel pietĂ but who lifts the fallen from her lips who approaches the poisonous anxiety that lives under the crime scene's seedling in the collective heart no rather death suffering a dead fate and the betrayed blood that flows weakly around the nightingale's well

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XVI the walking dead holds up his emaciated hand in a warning that glides spinning across the valley the icy tones of emptiness whip his purity infused with sparkling pain and doubt's light imprisoned deserts drag after his fingers but hopefully sings the mummy's filled pot behind the blindness' annual rings his lookout sways and the hiding place trembles before the blind man's gaze* soon from cloudy eyes' anchor-place he will witness the stones’ journey down the rapids’ axes soon the talon of silence will slay his shadow and snow fall sleepless in all fear's dead-meat for I follow a man who is more than blind whose legitimate suspicions can never be proven

*Using “Blind man’s” for "Blindbockens" here, which literally means a Blind Billy Goat’s, but which is the Swedish equivalent of the English children's game "Blindman's Bluff".

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XVII I saw him shiver in consciousness' hard light while algae drowned shells and green along his limbs I saw him hold his breath for four dark days and nights waiting for the day to offer a question I saw the night walk by with wonder in its eye this wonder that is worse than a recognition I saw him tortured by everything he had loved and how his heart sank to fill out the emptiness I saw him sink down under earth's indifferent hatred reduced to a metronome's cruel secret I saw him grab after the shirt of the past and his divining smile bend itself toward nothingness I saw his mouth widened like a crucified x a simple equation for torture of the third degree

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XVIII I saw his vague image in the yellowing stream and the unforeseeable in a handful of past time I saw overthrown skies near his smoking feet and the sun's ripped sail under the swan's wing I saw the negative: all that was also him when the dream had shed its silver in twilight's bath I saw his unending thousand-headed delta that already tasted the salt: the all-encompassing sea I heard a clock in the pillar's darkening light strike twelve ringing times in memory of the dust in memory of the child that has found its voice and doesn’t fear tomorrow's fright though this is the instant when the clockwork is wound and the fog comes and the revolver seeks a hand

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XIX the hands fumble and weigh down each other's promises one foot tears his mouth but the endurance cools the weathervane's roasting forgetfulness cuts into our flesh but no wheel arches the wound toward the screaming skies no past hurries by toward the waterfall's rumble no movements hurt in the all-too tight womb the ocean's last surf loses itself in the labyrinth and the lanterns are lighted in the coral-eyes of the drowned and when they reflect themselves in the demon's bleeding lips we are flushed invisible into each other's caves and the whispers grow in power and glory as if they were carrying a drowning girl in their arms but we are washed along walls we are rocked in lead our hand is no more lifted in the burning sun

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XX what does death shake out of its sleeve that we don't know a moth-eaten riddle a map for a thousand greedy eyes a dragon's music that we all hear but nobody understands a tower of clouds that buries all our echoes a cripple's engraved name plate in the well of wells and the pillars’ stone-heavy defiance on the sun temple's lawn a demon that wanders dressed in anxiety's doldrums and the ocean's oblong eyes with the glow of belladonna the whistle of rain on the slain dog in the yard shrilly fake like a cancelled miracle and still disappointment is forced to birth light again wonderful, unexpected like an elder on spring's roof and the flesh becomes words and the revelation blooms and the orbits of the planets cut the unsuspecting eye

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XXI to love w/o knowing it to listen still to the sound of truth's tireless keys to hide a caress inside and feel the fever fall softly under the threshold of the storm and to close inside the vastness and explode a shell to more clearly glide with the clouds to remember everything that has hurt with a smile's veil and cast a stone far into eternity to be able to reassemble everything one has taken apart and again hear crickets like time's rousing small sounds to feel the pain murmur in blazing halos to have the sap's view highest in the tree’s crown to push your wish in front of you on well-oiled wheels and know that the worst and the best remain

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XXII still like a well the room is filled with your dreams the night's seed grows large in hidden hands decay's leaf sleep safe by your heart and spring's ice-sheen broken in the prism of your forehead melts down and wets your roots in your sun and like a braille love song is your skin a weak reparation for the day's hard memory but the one who fought among the surf enters among the tree trunks in the night's dreamed forest and sees your sleep like the memory-care of fragile green stems and time's drops in yesterday's womb and the rose-window slams in the wind w/o scents and the ocean’s blue ice-freedom flaps like a banner and through the night your closed eyelids shimmer

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XXIII the tight heart squirms but sunburned glows the scars in love's knife-cut profile and therefore the birch's yellow medallion falls so calmly in this depth of stones' lips and the tongue of stones doesn't melt the Host in remembrance of the summer mountain's swollen veins but the rustle of the broken spider web scared the bird of forgetfulness to wings of iron and they scratched in the sky's clear blue moss and splashed red on the mighty clenched fist until the ring sounded and the mountain tops broke for the sun to linger longer to cool the blood to an autumnal foam hammer the scars to a light's pendulum blow

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XXIV and she asks what have you done with your unconscious love and nature's grey eye loses its wonder and all things spring up from the ground in this stillness where the flood and the grave oversee in eternal sleep and we sat in the greying light until our bodies became low like the earth and quietly fended off all words* like trespassers in our trust until my word fell to the ground and she and the sky bowed down so that we were as close to earth as the sky in trust so that we no longer knew where the secret was if up or down for there was no direction and everything was as close as I'd known in the dream this until I stood up with my head over the clouds and she cried over seeing me in this defiance**

* The swedish word “låga” could mean either “low” or ”flame” **The context here doesn't quite inform whether the Swedish word "trots" is to mean "despite" in an abrupt and unfinished way or a more complete but grammatically suspect "defiance" 35

XXV the faithful bee buzzes for the wilted rose the rabid dog drinks out of the sunken storm's throat and the flying Dutchman slides on board his bride to bury himself in her fury-cut hair on the race track the black night's lance grows and in the air the wash-lady's tragic mask glimmers on the dandelion-wall even the tar-bubbles are breaking and the butterflies’ blinders pray their last prayer on skies from verandas desert-charred clouds are stacked and the pulse's tambourine causes the wild boar to tremble a taboo summer wrings itself nervously on a crystal clear No the tiger lily's mouth sinks slowly into the past from time's trailer hurrahs are hurled against death garrisons resting dully under the rain’s silent leap

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XXVI in the hood of dusk the lovers’ farewell shivers their blackened faith blooms a bleeding love and the ground catches fire and burns off their eyes but the shadow-play on the prison wall kills their vision and their fingers wander on the frontier’s dream of purification and destiny’s gloomy flight in somersaulting plumage and they listen to a word that beats in their veins and they fumble at their brow in the vulture’s closed circles and their moments unite with this fuse that branches out in the depth’s children-coffins of glass until the explosions press deep into the clouds’ lungs and the rain falls red and warm like their blood and a harmonica interprets ragnarok in ashes and dreams* of love’s flames that cause hell to extinguish

*Ragnarok represents a kind of apocalypse in Nordic Mythology

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XXVII you observe the pigeons’ last journey in the sun’s landscape and the seals’ light-hearted dance in death’s ear here in this loneliness where the soul’s trap-doors open and you sink down in the irrevocable’s hard harmony to wander in frost’s azure-blue city where spring’s woman shivers in cold and desire on the magnet mountain’s top oh how fleetingly the dress is thrown on the balustrade in the mild light from autumn’s dying hoof-blows how the world situation spreads its stains across the oceans and the spoils of conscience collapse in the tower bell’s refuge how the empty the birds of the crypt oxidize in your inside how sadly your questions triumph over the answers how the words bounce in the wind on the sidewalks’ memories harder than heels and your prayers to yourself

*Not the animal seal 38

XXVIII to shoot an enemy and roll a cigarette to catch fire and go out like a lighthouse in a storm to sit like a fly in the net of the interested to think you’re born unlucky when really you’re just born to be a function of everything that doesn’t work to be something else or not at all to be fitted like the grey stone into hatred’s wall and still feel the stones’ agreement like the happiness of heather to feel everything lost in the steaming rain to revel in the tension of the smoldering pyre to doubt that this must be the last time to affirm everything as long as it’s not repeated to break through and reach a view where lightning hunts to revenge mankind

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XXIX far out in the ocean Medusas’ head swings with graying snakes and a masthead of eternal grief we remember what we recognize our brothers’ blood their shrouding in the women’s burning sorrow their misplaced eyes in death’s begging hand we recognize what we know and we wait wait for the wing-flap of liberation above our head humiliation’s end and our own life — O whirlwind of hate that tears open our chest drill us through with life when we have to bleed lift us like a trophy in your escape to the sun carve us a blood-eagle with dusk’s spear for deep in our chest Medusas’ head lives with greying snakes and tears of stoned grief

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XXX by the nightmare’s goal the lion runs out in the moment of death it enjoys its freedom after we bewitched and dragged by our hair again have seen the abyss we’ve always predicted but was then the dead stronger and the humiliation holy must again the living hecatombs be sacrificed for the killed dead the murdered dead and the screams of the wounded speak for mankind of how no one could guess how common the horror how homesickness vomited in nausea’s paralyzed chalice until the lion with a leap stood out on the arena and with lifted paw gave us jubilation and death and we understood: not the dream not the thought but this this that always have to be and be overcome

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XXXI but when morning dawns the city changes the endless jubilation of the saboteurs ring in the party’s ear parks and streets and houses stumble by drunkenly and slur of happy memories from a past plague lookouts landscapes people call trumpets and crowns everything dead to the charlatan himself: my eye deceived us it only sought the bottom the wall to appear as a conqueror the sacrificed live my solitary life in a gravel pit and the blood and the meaning flow down in the earth I compared myself with us and nothing was right I killed you and me so that we could live with human lips weighed down by death we were forced to this smile of self-appreciating idiocy

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XXXII O wish-cramp with swing music and plundering hands and love breast against breast end the ether-mask’s sigh you rival of invalids the death-dance’s little ramshackle with the horrors in advance and the bandage of simplification you trampler of weaves with hymn of high heels and nothing quick enough to gain meaning or end your surprise gives us only the same familiar of the spirit homelessness that visits our magnet and seduction gives death and space a moonlit solo blue mantles of crystal that maybe cool the leaves’ green mesh where the caught eye stares at flesh’s flags falling from empty hands smiling when naked to the waist we commit unlawful entering in death’s flood and the pain’s fully booked halls

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XXXIII the invisible within us tears apart all spaces and all racetracks are absorbed in the measurable absence and the seconds are stoned and the perspectives run into cruelty’s suns with the thirsting dwarves of shadows that carves into its leather-flesh to give the skeleton air and hands over what happens to the breaking point’s waltzes until the vision calls to the darkness of thorny peaks from the armchair of eternal rest: a denying continent that raises its mirror image on a shield of sun and insanity in a favorable moment for our eternal blindness that rocks the chewed-down’s parasite on the positive’s waves and writes in spit on the future’s jealous cliff: embalm the galley-slave’s worn oars in the hall of amazement embalm the sublimation and tragic fates in fast forward

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XXXIV among the coral’s stiff mouth and whole-hearted separateness among the murderers’ breath which covers everything in fog among the lies that drill through truth’s eye until it stares more stiffly than the flogged dead among the moments that glide on the rails of torture and with a jerk disappear into the unreal’s hole-passage O silence of black years in the poisoned prison towers with nightmare’s melting oven for the prisoner’s magma-pain O exploded hand and death’s dried-up recitative in a golden shrine for wilted leaves and revolutions O confused voice from the broken bow’s string don’t escape with your echo into the future’s shielded nook but instead decipher the unreadable text: catch the sighing hammer’s fall toward a fate that wasn’t yet yours

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XXXV when we’ve wandered through death’s tunnels it was time for hope to drive us to a new despair we felt how we walked in a machine’s oily air in a despised acrobat and the eternally human inside the navel gleamed a chromed tragedy and a spectator swung in the curtain’s false rope a prompter stood bent over the old ravine to synchronize destiny’s beat with reality but we felt how the revealing always leaves us waiting until its too late and the tears have already fallen how the heart always cheers too soon and slips on the scene encumbered by watered choirs how the intrigue collapses but the suspense remains until a new wandering begins for the most devastated

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XXXVI the song burns and I dry the red glow from my forehead hope is crushed and falls into the ocean from misdated towers my only fate longs for its star but no rays are allowed through the sweat-towel of memory in this fog where the victims drift around in their circles where no one walks lightning out of the clouds but where I see how the shriek of despair doesn’t even leave a grain of dust in this deep grove always torn-up by someone’s grief and tired that the defeated heart always must pay a fine with an unconscious counterfeit to want to live again but still with dreams to be scrubbed clean in other waters like the largest trees’ roots reach down to water that for long can ripple the centuries’ water-life in the sough of springs where the depth at last defeats itself

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XXXVII panting in our own net our impotence explodes and the consumed lover’s hatred for himself disguised to an abyss our fate rises prepared for something more than annihilation’s port the torso reluctantly frees itself from the night’s iron grip by darkness forced to recall light w/o faith over the mute eyes humility’s haze spreads and the many travel-ready have to wait for a clearer view dissolved to truth the dust of immortality sticks to the denied illusions’ bumblebee-body the drilled-through zenith embraces a shadow’s flutes here in bleeding outer space the whisper of rain glides that birth now awaits us by the calf of seeing stones that out in the water someone stands shoulder to shoulder with god

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XXXVIII I dream of the memory of the hind hoof in the labyrinth like the unaffected’s word to the one who saved his life of mirrors and running water like eternity-smoke like faith stacked upon faith on misery’s moving load of everything that’s been repeated and grown into an unreality like the red lips’ song of love and loss O memory: O fury and god who melts all down to nothing and hounds the comprehensible to death say anyone if maybe the days’ feet wander on truth’s drum ahead with a light for us say the wind that whirls between the horizons’ gates and seeks its position between soaring and weight say the wanderer that wanders deeper still into the world and seeks her talisman of darkness and light

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XXXIX never have you who begs for the gift of coherence retreated when the violin runs its orbit around the heart’s dark planet that turns its face to us by the tone made silver that turns its face from us to the struggle in the dark for you my chaos my glowing home that I bless and hate or indifferently gather in the smile’s streams that casts its well in my eye where I walk the earth ready to travel and ready to stay: weighing death in my hand and the life in my love and faith’s mountain in front of me like a staff w/o a shepherd planted in god while the guillotine in the blue dusk’s blue heart separates my body from the desolate gliding clouds so that I force the dark to long and freeing embraces reach the happiness that is given by all and nothing

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XL and the one who understands nothing will remember nothing of a time that decorates its wounds with paintings of bodies but the one who stays won’t set his roots w/o remembering and three heavy steps in the empty ravine where the vulture now sits on stone on stone in the blood’s heavy building and the one who travels won’t have another goal than to discover the star that awaits its discovery the new creation’s star that only a few have seen but to which I dedicate this our truth before death this rattrap’s abyss and long hour of waiting this artificial calm that time has burned into my forehead this splintered faith whose shards will molder and sprout yet to the future’s dream and to the past’s dream in the labyrinth and the unaffected’s word to what has saved his life

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THE underground 55

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