23 September 2026
“The Open Window” By Tomas Tranströmer From the collection Mörkseende (1970) Translated from the Swedish by Patty Crane
I stood shaving one morning in front of the open window on the second floor. Switched on the razor. It started to purr. It whirred louder and louder. Grew into a roar. Grew into a helicopter and a voice—the pilot’s—pierced through the noise, shouting: “Keep your eyes open! You’re seeing this for the last time.” We lifted off. Flew low over the summer. So much that I loved, does it have any weight? So many dialects of green. And above all, the red walls of the wooden houses. The beetles glistened in the dung, in the sun. Cellars being pulled up by the roots wafted through the air. Activity. The printing presses crawled along. At that instant, the people were the only ones who kept still. They held a minute of silence. And above all, the dead in the country graveyard were still like those who posed for a photo in the camera’s youth. Fly low! I didn’t know which way to turn my head— with my visual field divided like a horse.