The buildings of capital, the hives of the killer bees, honey for the few.
He served there. But in a dark tunnel he unfolded his wings
and flew when no one was looking. He had to live his life again.
— from The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems, translated by Robin Fulton
A dedicated poet, Robert Grunst, told me years ago to read Tranströmer, meaning, among other things, that those who know poetry know Tranströmer, and have known for some time. Odd then to happen upon people making claims that Tranströmer is an unknown, and that the Nobel Prize announcement constitutes a shock. The only response to such people is: read the poetry. It makes the case for itself, even in translation.
In the middle of life, death comes
to take your measurements. The visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
is being sewn on the sly.