Poems by Hanna Riisager Translated From Swedish by Kristina Andersson Bicher
We're excited to spotlight women in translation with these poems by Hanna Riisager translated from the Swedish by Kristina Andersson Bicher. Happy #TranslationMonth and happy reading! —The Editors
(Oxygène) In a clean dry heat a pile of bodies by name by the sea their voices, pulsing, waver their way here; you you are tall and outstretched in the flashing weather calm on your stomach or crouched in a crevice gathering into something your concentration tearing something apart with its gaze Islands of luminous thrift it is exactly that hue All these distinct pastels I can tell you their names I can give them grand, distinctive definitions but I don't want to I want to be in the picture but it should be without image Spots of light, the mountains’ pixel points grain everything disappears you are only color your lips after a bath breath-bereft of bubbly pink- gas They point pronounce the names again, again ; y o u a rose-colored gravel of seashells on the bottom of the bucket remains of the jellyfish liquid hydrogen a thirst in me precipitates out of the word hydrogen atom It is a lamp post it is a winter day you stand at the crosswalk they shout come ; icicles in the airlittle wisps of perfume and frozen breath Stamping in a circle still in a cluster an exhilarated suspense bound in you like snow, your notions slowly descend from the post I wanted you pink and imageless I wanted to shout come! I precipitate out of the word babysitter syndrome You remain in the same form it is independent of me you breathe deep get set burst out into directionality oh such a lively little child hopping on the white stripes swirls disappearing into pink-crepe crimson-dye between long calves in slalom in white shoes dressed in lace seeable Nordic gracious but agile for a girl as they say rolled out in a breath of relief red (inheritance) rooted it’s called mother branch the stems around cut off the enticement the cut edge temptress wean yourself from it so that branch and stem become united tree plants like milk that gives milk of milk milky milk-white and cut and cut and cut and mother and this intolerance toward that which cannot be grafted in the open it's a huge suction under glass (white) I fold the clothes I lack hangers I count socks and underwear pantyhose I iron pillowcases and towels and sort and make the bed with clean sheets fold around corners smoothe stretch secure with safety pins dry delicate garments slowly fold tablecloths of hard-pressed linen the shine the egg-yolk (mothers) egg without a shell you must be able to imagine that a hen can lay an egg without a shell the body is protected by the clothes the language protected by the silence sign the hand’s imaginary contours over the mouth the poem is a murder it is to kill die and I died if you should die the poem is a mother's because I live and write poems (PUPIL) Your guardian gaze, red light shines As if in your innermost eye there lives a restless lucky spider As if the threat came from an apprehension Spotted band of shadow across the cheek, snow Rosary of deep red stones in frozen furrows, nine button eyes – nine pomegranate stars it is the apple of the eye : STIFFNESS WIDENING It is the eye’s lucky daughter who looks back from the center of my white, sterility field I don't see myself anywhere You no longer see yourself; you see As if you had just given birth to yourself What you see: How I eat my way out of the iris The cell nucleus that moves itself The egg that splits itself You must be able to imagine that an eye can give birth to a mini doll figure spider girl, apple eye – Now she goes over the hand’s sore palm and waters it with blood She doesn't care what was stamped before She doesn't care about what I've written The hand drinks the words that she sprinkles and in the cracks of the skin they take root The spider torso’s long lashes inset the carbuncle Cobwebs flow from the eye stone spill every day, bent neck wonderful threads (Where I Is) It's called motherism because you’re searching in my eyes. Call me angel child, eldest child, she who inherited. She who bled constantly thick streams, black roses, red roses on the sheets. Thick stalks, deep-in-snow. You reach for the rose’s fairytale heaven made of enamel, my brain’s empty bowl. I come from behind like the dawn which means you see within the darkness, the image
About the author and translator
Hanna Riisager is a Swedish poet and critic living in Stockholm. She has an MA in literary studies from Stockholm University. She is one of the founders of the feminist publishing house Dockhaveri förlag, which published her first full-length poetry collection, För Kvalia (2015). För Kvalia was short-listed for the Swedish Authors' Association debutante prize (Katapult prize) in 2016. Excerpts from För Kvalia have previously been translated into Romanian (Poesis International), French (La Traductiére) and Greek (Vaxikon). Work translated into English have appeared in Asymptote, ANMLY, and Four Way Review and are forthcoming in Plume and DIAGRAM.
Kristina Andersson Bicher is the author of Heat, Sob, Lily (MadHat Press, 2025) and She-Giant in the Land of Here-We-Go-Again (MadHat Press 2020), and Just Now Alive (2014), as well as the translator of Swedish poet Marie Lundquist’s full-length collection I walk around gathering up my gardenfor thenight (Bitter Oleander Press 2020). Her poetry appears in literary journals including AGNI, Ploughshares, Hayden’s Ferry, and Narrative. Her translations and nonfiction have appeared in The Atlantic, Brooklyn Rail, Harvard Review andothers.