Cuts & Collected Poems 1989: 2015

By Maria Haskins

'Cuts' is Maria Haskins' first collection of poetry written in English. Also included in this book are her three previously published and very well-received collections of poetry: 'Blue' ('Blå'), 'Honey' ('Honung'), and 'The Third' ('Den tredje'). All have been translated from the original Swedish to English by the author, and are available in English for the very first time.

Maria Haskins made her literary debut in Sweden in 1989 with 'Blå' ('Blue'), a well-received collection of poetry published by Swedish publishing house Norstedts. Her two other collections of poetry 'Honung' ('Honey') from 1992, and 'Den tredje' ('The Third') from 1995 received many favourable reviews in Sweden, and her poetry has been included in several anthologies.

Her English language debut 'Odin's Eye' - a collection of science fiction short stories - was published in March, 2015.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria Haskins
• Release date: Nov 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311558831

Book preview

A NOTE ABOUT THIS BOOK

This book contains four collections of poetry: 'Cuts', my first collection of poetry written in English, and translations of my three, previously-published Swedish collections of poetry - 'Blå'/'Blue', 'Honung'/'Honey', and 'Den Tredje'/'The Third'.

Translating my own poetry has been both easy and completely impossible, and many times I’ve been reminded of three quotes in particular:

Translation is the art of failure. – Umberto Eco

Poetry is what gets lost in translation. – Robert Frost

The dictionary is based on the hypothesis – obviously an unproven one – that languages are made up of equivalent synonyms. - Jorge Luis Borges

They are all correct. Yet, here is this book, full of translated poetry. I hope everything wasn’t lost in translation.

Maria Haskins, October 2015

CUTS

(2015)

PEEK

Are you afraid?

I am.

I can see your heart-

beat

inside me.

I can see your life

flicker

on the screen.

But I don’t know how it ends.

Do you already know

this place, this bed, this room, this light?

Do you already know

who you are, who I am, who to be?

Do you know that no one

not one, not ever, nothing, never, no,

not like you.

There is nothing to say,

no words, no name, no lullaby,

not yet.

There is only one sound, one word, one you

inside me.

~~~~

INCUBATOR

Inside.

This soft skin,

this dried cord,

these curled fingers

these sheer eyelids.

Outside.

Stainless steel,

abrasive paper towels,

and the smell of soap.

I am beside you,

beside myself

clean white knuckles

holding on

to this ripple of breath

to this frayed strand of wakefulness

to this life:

barely even written, barely even legible, barely even spoken.

Yet, there he is,

he is here

wrapped in pale flannel warmth

and cold fluorescent light,

tethered by plastic tubes, wires, bits of tape.

Still.

Inside

and outside,

he shimmers:

reflected in the clear plastic

already free

already touching the water

already touching the water's edge

already shivering.

~~~~

SPARROW

This small bird,

sleeping,

head tucked under wing.

I didn’t see it, I just felt it,

a flutter of wings,

a whisper,

when they lifted you out of me.

And I know

that you already can fly

with closed eyes, closed fists.

Even when you are sleeping

that bird-heart trembling in your chest,

that sparrow-dream

tucked under wing.

~~~~

WATER

I am the surface in between -

mirrored sky

rippled depth

only a reflection -

cupped

in the palm of my hand.

And under, underneath, underneath me

are

the mute and the blind

the unseen and the unsaid,

the white teeth bared,

pale dreams glistening unsheathed,

the taste of blood on the knife’s edge

between the tongue and the scream.

When it's quiet, quiet like this,

a space in between,

sun cutting through,

bright eye peering down,

I can feel

the distant calls of birds,

sharp, like needles, touching my skin,

black ciphers,

spider veins traced

on my shivering hide.

~~~~

MOTHER

Seaside,

low tide,

sand prickly with dead crabs,

gulls screaming for storm and carrion.

You, next to me, looking at the waves,

letting the ocean touch you:

ankles first, then your knees, then the edge of your diaper.

I hold on to your hand, tighttighttighttight.

The ocean is grey and raspy,

full of sharp teeth, broken glass, e-coli, and salmonella.

But you're laughing.

You take one more step

I want to scream: It’s dangerous!

But instead I just stand here, watching you.

Everything is dangerous,

can’t be helped or fixed.

Not even by the faithful application of

sunscreen

seat belts

flotation devices

helmets

vaccines

penicillin.

Everything dies anyway.

~~~~

GRANDMOTHER

These hands, so tired, resting on the windowsill.

Early spring outside,

light blue sky:

that which does not seek the darkness,

but still finds it.

My memory fluttering

like a table cloth on the table outside,

like a curtain in the open window

like a white sheet drying on a line

held on by pegs and claws

ripping