Three From Small Chimes by Göran Sonnevi


Even the faces that love
carry the heart of treason    and it won’t
cost you a thing We place
the face’s ass on top of somebody else

Every sleeping face in
the world The brittle girl
whose skin was made to tremble,
twitch at every word   And

the coarseness of my face next to hers
My sleep’s heart was beating her
sleep’s heart      She may already

have forgotten me, as one forgets
a dream   I have not forgotten
her She was no dream


And the language will arrive at last
We do not know what’s first
or what is last      The concepts will
define each other The re-

alities define themselves   We
have named each other then   What is
your name? I have already forgotten,
lost it   The permutations were

too many We have been entangled for too
long Bone of each other’s bone
Word of each other’s word   Now

we can’t be disentangled, can’t
be parted ever or at all?   No—
Even now together we stand up


Young starlings are moving now
in the grass, green so far, before
the flight The blue tit beats on the pane
An airplane is heard in space

When death arrives it will arrive
in silence, later with an incredible roar
in burnt out ears An incredible
light, in blinded eyes

What help to us the darkness of an image
We have nowhere to go   We are
no longer even like the children

or the birds     Our souls whirl
in violent flight The vortex of our language
in the greater vortex; through its eye—

After the Swedish of Göran Sonnevi by John Matthias with Göran Printz-Pahlson

Issue Three

Editorial: The Swedish Army Knife

Gunnar Harding

Anselm Hollo

Marie Lundquist

Göran Printz-Påhlson

Göran Sonnevi

Jesper Svenbro

Pia Tafdrup

Søren Ulrik Thomsen

Tomas Tranströmer

Gungerd Wilkholm

Reviews of: Michael Anania

Reviews of: Wild Honey Press

And: The Word From Russia

Samizdat Magazine, © 2000-2001 R. Archambeau

Do not reprint without permission