I am amazed over the fact that a whole pice of work can seem so distant, right up to the very end, where it just suddenly grabs a tight hold.
ingen kan råna dej på din sorg
Bruno K. Öijer was my first favourite Swedish poet when I was younger. I saw him at Orionteatern a few years back, think it was in 2002, a year after Dimman av allt, the work that ended the magnificent trilogy after Medan giftet verkar (1990) and Det förlorade ordet (1995). In Dimman av allt, Öijer wrote about a dead mother; his mother, all mothers:
vad du än fick med dej
hoppas jag att du kan ta fram det ibland
och utan att bli ledsen
utan att längta tillbaka hit
This latest work seems to lack the dirt I always felt came with Öijer's poetry. It's cleaner, he seems older, more together; as if he was a voice in an awful world he has finally started coming to terms with. Not always a bad thing, but not that interesting either. Except for the ending.
Or is it that I am older?
A re-read or two might clear things up. After all, it's Öijer.
