[Birthe Myers]

Certainly I agree. Bittergök I have not heard of, it must be local Smålandsk, but Gøgeunge means exactly in Danish what it means in Swedish. The 'Gøg' lays its egg in smaller birds' nests and the young 'gøg' grows so much larger than the hosts' babies, that not only does it eat all their food, it pushes them out of the nest too early so they die, while the small foster parents struggle to satisfy the murderous changeling's large hunger. A bitter thing, indeed, for the parents, and a bitter thing to think of yourself as a gøgeunge.

[Ann Drysdale]

I have stayed my hand a long time because I, too, was horrified by the subject-matter at first, after I'd sorted out who was doing what to whom at the beginning. Death allows himself a first-person designation after a while, but the first stanza had me fiddling with the syntax and so the gist of it crept out of left field and hit me before I was ready.

And as soon as I'd told myself what I just told you, I realised that this was what the poem was telling me. In all the ordinariness and innocence of the play of children there lurks this long-legged scissorman who pops up and snips their gizzards in what seems to be a totally arbitrary fashion. He is everything that lurks on the edge of childhood, half-seen and smelling of malevolence. Mister Punch and The Childcatcher and the whitefaced clown. He is there in all cultures. This is a particularly good likeness.

The relentless horror had a surprising effect. I heard a reedy giggle that went as quickly as it came, and was surprised to realise it had come from me. I read the poem again, peering through my fingers. It got easier.

Death is a fact of life. The only way to live with him is to come to an accommodation - to look at him without turning away. And, if we really want to gain a hold over him - laugh. I can't quite do that yet, but I'm working on it.

[Maryann Corbett]

Originally Posted by Ann Drysdale

And as soon as I'd told myself what I just told you, I realised that this was what the poem was telling me. In all the ordinariness and innocence of the play of children there lurks this long-legged scissorman who pops up and snips their gizzards in what seems to be a totally arbitrary fashion. He is everything that lurks on the edge of childhood, half-seen and smelling of malevolence. Mister Punch and The Childcatcher and the whitefaced clown. He is there in all cultures. This is a particularly good likeness.

I just want to celebrate that this explanation of the poem's workings is very near to being a poem itself.

[Janice D. Soderling]

What Maryann said. I got goosebumps when I read Ann's explication.

[Birthe Myers]

It is so very interesting that you say death also is the white clown, Ann.
I have long tried to find sources that substantiate the theory that the white clown represents death/God/the ruling classes while the ragged, clumsy clown is - us! It seems so obvious. The white clown is meant to be frightening; like nature he has no heart, loves no one and nothing.

And Santa, in his red suit, coming down the chimney, is really the devil, a jolly, red devil (in market place and church plays), but that is just an aside, death needs no devil to be frightening enough.

[Janice D. Soderling]

I want first of all to thank Birthe, Andrew and Maryann for pointing out to me some instances of carelessness and ignorance. I took this translation from my files and read only the English before I sent it off. I realized as soon as Birthe (invaluable translating friend) pointed out the error in "there where it meekly stirred" that I had not thought it through properly. I did a lot of frowning over that line when I was working on the translation and that line was a proviso I forgot about.

I also realized that three last minute changes (S1L2 "talking" to "telling" and S2L6"cleansing" for "rinsing" and S3L3 "pot" to "tub") should not have been made. It now reads like this:


Now listen to Death
telling about the children

One played by the rain barrel
Throttled it handily
with one tender touch
It is a shiny little scoop
for rinsing life's sewers
Smiling I slipped around the corner

One bloody on the road
I drank it
A leaky little pot
grief oozing in every direction
My knuckles gleamed wet
I simply shut the gate
to the meadow where filth grazes


Maryann, I dithered so with that punctuation, you are quite right, "trust the reader" and it is all gone now.

Also to Andrew: thank for your comments about this below. All incorporated.

I'll ride you inside out
goad you wide awake and dew-drenched
Like a squirrel I'll shell
life's kernel right out of you
I'll tempt you I'll sleeping-doll you
put on the clothes and I'm your doll
I never blink

And though I also agree, Andrew, that "windowsill" is stronger than "sorrow's windowsill", the original does have "på sorgens fönsterkarm". It was carelessness that dropped it from the crib.

Now that I have that out of the way, a few comments about the poem.

A few weeks ago, when looking for something else on my bookshelves, I ran across a little booklet titled Tjugo diktanalyser: från Södergran till Tranströmer (Analyses of twenty poems: from Södergran to Tranströmer), by Björn Julén (1962). I hadn't read it for decades, so I set it aside to review. As soon as I read Sandro's poem, I began to translate it.

I also ordered several of his books secondhand and if I can obtain permission from his estate, it is my intention to translate the whole of Bittergök. It isn't a merry collection. The responses here have encouraged me that I might just be able to pull it off.

Long time ago I was accepted for several summer residencies. At two of them, Sandro was a guest instructor. He was generous with his time and knowledge at the podium and in our evening mingles. I assure everyone that despite a rough start in life, he was an extraordinarily kind and empathetic person.

Seree has found and shared useful links that expand ways to regard the content of the poem (thx). I'm not going to try to tell anyone what they should take away from a reading of this poem, for though it can (and should) be read on several levels, one thing it is not, is sadistic. I approach it on an existential level. The poem/poet looks life (and death) right in the eye. Death is cruel, death takes the innocent, the undeserving, the unsuspecting, the most tender, the most loved. Death is capricious, indifferent and totally without mercy.

The poem is like the old woodcuts of danse macabre where death dances with the mighty and the lowly, the old sage and the innocent child, dances them to extinction , and it is so Death dances through this poem.

Now I have used all these words and not come close to the excellent explication which Ann made and for which I thank her. I want also especially to thank Don for his impassioned defense of a poem which I think is true and unflinching and which gives cause to ponder.

Again thanks to Andrew for an amazing Distinguished Guestship, thanks to Adam for all volunteer work keeping the Translator Board running and thanks to all translators and commentators who took part in this event which I have enjoyed tremendously.

[Andrew Frisardi]

I also ordered several of his books secondhand and if I can obtain permission from his estate, it is my intention to translate the whole of Bittergök.

Very cool, Janice. Looking forward to it.