Photo taken from: independent.co.uk
The death of poet Tomas Tranströmer and Swedish translator, age 83, was confirmed today by the Swedish publisher Bonnier, due to “a brief illness.” It was Nobel Prize in 2011, considered by many the most important living poet of Sweden. Among his numerous works are poems of Funchal and Lisbon, the latter published in the book “21 Swedish poets”, translated by Vasco Graça Moura.
Quoted by Swedish media, the publisher said were “in charge today, by the family of Tranströmer, the sad task to announce that Tomas Tranströmer died on Thursday after a brief illness.” At the stage where he was awarded the world’s largest prize in the field of literature, the writer was already in poor health.
Tranströmer, one of the most widely read poets of Sweden, wrote, among his most recent publications, “Poems and Prose 1954-2004 ” published in 2011. In the same year was awarded the Nobel because “through his condensed translucent images, he gives us a fresh access to reality” justified at the time the Academy.
He published about 15 works, making it the most translated Swedish poet in the world (50 languages), in a long career dedicated to writing and earning him several literary awards, including the Bonnier Poetry Prize, the International Prize for Literature Neustadt, the Oevalids Prize, the Petrarch Prize, the International Forum Poetry Prize and the Griffin Prize.
A large part of its work is written in free verse, despite having also been experimenting with metric language. Exercised the profession of psychologist until 1990, the year he suffered a stroke that left him partially aphasic and hemiplegic. However, the poet continued to write books, among them. “The Great Enigma: 45 Haikus ”
In 1981 the Vega company publishes the collection “21 Swedish poets” organized by Vasco Graça Moura and Ana Hatherly, and where the poem “Lisbon” appears, written by Tomas Tranströmer:
“In the Alfama district yellow electric sang on the steep sidewalks.
There were there two chains. One was for thieves.
They waved through the bars.
They shouted that they bring forth out the picture.
‘But here!’ said the driver and chuckled as if cut in half,
‘here are political’. I saw the facade, the facade, the facade
and there perched a man at the window,
had a door and looked at the sea.
Lingerie in blue. . The hot walls
Flies read microscopic letters
Six years later I asked a lady of Lisbon:.
‘is it true or just a dream of mine?’ “
GAZETADOROSSIO
Source: observer pt
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