Picking Mushrooms in Late Summer in the Western Half of the Island of Runmaro with Tomas Transtromer
(poem by Robert Bly)
The mushrooms loom in the grass like extremely stupid thoughts.
They are skies from which parachutes never fall.
From us, too, sometimes a poem Falls, sometimes not.
Delighted to be together, we are out in the summer woods, picking mushrooms.
1970 (poem by Tomas Transtromer)
On the way home, I notice inky mushrooms poking up through grass
They are fingers of someone asking for help,
someone who has wept For himself a long time down there in the dark.
We belong to earth.
(translated by RB)
Music: Prelude No. 3 by Federico Mompou
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