[Julie Steiner]

"Min hud är full av fjärilar" by Karin Boye (Sweden, 1900-1941)


VERSE TRANSLATION:

My Skin Teems With Butterflies

My skin teems with butterflies.
They flutter out across the meadows to feast on nectar
and flutter back to die in small dismal spasms,
not a single grain of pollen shifted by their light feet.
The sun was made for them: ardent, boundless, older than time itself. . .

While beneath the skin and blood, in the bone's marrow,
captive sea eagles soar on spread wings,
ponderous, ponderous, forever clutching their prey.

How mightily you would tumble in spring's oceanic storms.
How your cry would resonate when the sun ignites gold-gleaming eyes.
The cave is sealed! The cave is sealed!
Bleak as cellar sprouts, in a clawed grip,
writhes the essence of my being.


SWEDISH ORIGINAL:

Min hud är full av fjärilar

Min hud är full av fjärilar, av fladdervingar -
de fladdrar ut över ängen och njuter sin honung
och fladdrar hem och dör i små trista spasmer,
och inte ett blomstoft rubbas av lätta fötter.
För dem är solen till, den heta, omätliga, äldre än tiderna...
Men under hud och blod och innanför märgen
flyttar sig tungt tungt fångade havsörnar,
vingbreda, som aldrig släpper sitt byte.
Hur vore ert tummel en gång i havets vårstorm?
Hur vore ert skrik, när solen glödgade gula ögon?
Stängd är grottan! Stängd är grottan!
Och mellan klorna vrider sig vita som källarskott
mitt innerstas tågor.


ENGLISH PROSE CRIB:

My skin is full of butterflies.
They flutter out over the meadow and enjoy their honey
and flutter home and die in small gloomy spasms,
and not a grain of pollen is disturbed by their light feet.
For them the sun exists, the hot, limitless, older than time…

But under skin and blood and inside the marrow
move heavily heavily captured sea eagles,
spread-winged, that never release their prey.
How wouldn't you tumble in the sea's spring storm?
What would your shriek/cry sound like, when the sun ignites yellow eyes?
Closed is the cave! Closed is the cave!
And between the claws writhe white as sprouts in a cellar
the fiber of my innermost.