där i gläntan strålar ängen
lyser av sig själv
se så sårbart ängen strålar
nästan svävar strålar så
*
ängen vrider sig upp mot himlen
upp mot frihets inget
vrider sig upp mot uppåt
upp mot himmels blått
nästan gungar, vrider sig så
*
ängen vrider sig upp mot uppåt
upp mot himmels tomhet
mjuka kurvan ängens vridning
att vrida är att vara
*
se så långt den ängen kommit
i sin strävan emot inget
i sin frihet ifrån banden
och lyckats att bli fri
se så fri den ängen är
nu så lätt den lyfter
så lätt allt är i frihet
så enkelt kring sin axel
*
se så fri den ängen är
från att vilja vara annat
se så fri den är från längtan
så fritt det är att vara fri
Längs med gräns
Eva Ribich
Listen to the poems read in the original Swedish by the poet:
The poems in Eva Ribich’s Längs med gräns (Along the Border; Albert Bonniers Förlag, 2003) puzzled me at first. Though seemingly slight, they resonated with a quiet, beguiling self-possession. It was a surprise to discover that despite being highly regarded in Sweden, Ribich’s work had never been translated. Though a novice, I took that on, wanting to make it available to English-language readers.
The poems are elusively spare. Unsentimental, alert to beauty, danger, and the tangled nature of being, they sidestep linguistic fanfare while suggesting rich ambivalence. The language is mostly restrained and purposeful, twisting grammar slightly for effect, and creating a few neo-archaisms. Ribich builds an image like a bricklayer—with deliberate repetition, rhythm, assonance, alliteration, and internal rhyme—confident in the power of precision to reveal meaning. Even the smallest observation demands consideration in the context of metaphor and gestures at multiple interpretations, ranging from intensely private unease to a more generalized eschatological angst. In this series about the field, longing gives way briefly to rapture, if also qualified, ambivalent, and complicated.
In translating, I first tried for close equivalence, pleased if I could find a cognate, even as I noted how it sometimes fell short. With stockpiles of synonyms, English expects more verbal variation than Swedish; I interchanged “meadow” and “field” for ängen, hoping also with that to capture something of the original assonance or alliteration. I took the liberty, too, of rendering vrida variously as “torque,” “twist,” and “turn.” The word “free” is repeated so strikingly often, though, that I chose not to undermine it with many alternatives.
The dominant, trochaic meter, with its Old Norse roots, proved an interesting challenge because of the different ways the two languages work. In Swedish, a definite article is formed by attaching the indefinite article as a suffix to the noun; en äng (a field) becomes ängen (the field). With the stress on the first syllable, a trochee snaps easily together. In English, however, a direct translation yields an iamb—ängen becomes the field—with the stress on the second syllable, a foot more usual in English poetry. One famous exception is Hiawatha. Digging into this, I discovered that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in fact based Hiawatha’s trochaic meter on Old Norse verse, which he knew well and—along with poetry in a staggering number of other languages—he translated. Recognizing how central the meter was, I was careful to recreate it as fully as possible, so often disregarded the definitive article and shifted word order around instead.
Throughout the process, I was exceptionally fortunate in being able to consult Eva Ribich herself. From a distance, she generously clarified meaning and weighed in on tricky phrasing. This help was invaluable as I worked to render something of her unique perspective, with its spare aurality, unflinching eye, and philosophical heart.
The poems are elusively spare. Unsentimental, alert to beauty, danger, and the tangled nature of being, they sidestep linguistic fanfare while suggesting rich ambivalence. The language is mostly restrained and purposeful, twisting grammar slightly for effect, and creating a few neo-archaisms. Ribich builds an image like a bricklayer—with deliberate repetition, rhythm, assonance, alliteration, and internal rhyme—confident in the power of precision to reveal meaning. Even the smallest observation demands consideration in the context of metaphor and gestures at multiple interpretations, ranging from intensely private unease to a more generalized eschatological angst. In this series about the field, longing gives way briefly to rapture, if also qualified, ambivalent, and complicated.
In translating, I first tried for close equivalence, pleased if I could find a cognate, even as I noted how it sometimes fell short. With stockpiles of synonyms, English expects more verbal variation than Swedish; I interchanged “meadow” and “field” for ängen, hoping also with that to capture something of the original assonance or alliteration. I took the liberty, too, of rendering vrida variously as “torque,” “twist,” and “turn.” The word “free” is repeated so strikingly often, though, that I chose not to undermine it with many alternatives.
The dominant, trochaic meter, with its Old Norse roots, proved an interesting challenge because of the different ways the two languages work. In Swedish, a definite article is formed by attaching the indefinite article as a suffix to the noun; en äng (a field) becomes ängen (the field). With the stress on the first syllable, a trochee snaps easily together. In English, however, a direct translation yields an iamb—ängen becomes the field—with the stress on the second syllable, a foot more usual in English poetry. One famous exception is Hiawatha. Digging into this, I discovered that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in fact based Hiawatha’s trochaic meter on Old Norse verse, which he knew well and—along with poetry in a staggering number of other languages—he translated. Recognizing how central the meter was, I was careful to recreate it as fully as possible, so often disregarded the definitive article and shifted word order around instead.
Throughout the process, I was exceptionally fortunate in being able to consult Eva Ribich herself. From a distance, she generously clarified meaning and weighed in on tricky phrasing. This help was invaluable as I worked to render something of her unique perspective, with its spare aurality, unflinching eye, and philosophical heart.
Eva Ribich was born in 1970 in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and moved at the age of four to her mother’s native Sweden, growing up outside of Stockholm. Her first poetry collection, Med kinden mot det gula, (With Cheek Against the Yellow; Albert Bonniers Förlag, 1997) was awarded the Stig Carlson Prize. Among many awards since, she has received support from the Albert Bonniers Stipendium Fund for younger and emerging writers, and the prestigious Gerard Bonniers Prize for Lyric Poetry, for her collection Ljuset kommer in underifrån (Light Comes in from Underneath; Albert Bonniers Förlag, 2007). In addition to ten volumes of poetry, she has recently published, together with her wife, the poet Charlotte Jung, a translation to Swedish of William Carlos Williams’s work—Den röda skottkärran och andra dikter (The Red Wheelbarrow and other poems; h:ström – Text & Kultur, 2020). Ribich divides her time between Chicago and the Swedish countryside.
Julian Anderson was born in North Carolina and studied English and German at Duke University and The Ohio State University. Now living in Columbus, Ohio, she works as an editor and writer. Her short fiction debuted in The Southern Review, and her stories have been published widely, most recently in Bayou Magazine. A story in The Kenyon Review won a Pushcart Prize and was translated into Spanish for Tamame. Her first novel, Empire under Glass (Faber, 1996), was awarded a prize by the Association of Writers & Writing Programs. She has just finished a new novel, based on a nineteenth-century tragedy on the Ohio River. She has received many grants of support from the Ohio Arts Council and has been a Fellow at both the Sewanee and Bread Loaf Writers’ Conferences. Two early years in Scandinavia have recently rekindled an interest in Swedish.
