Sweden

Strindberg. Bergman. Garbo. Pippi Longstocking. And—who could forget that Eurovision smash?—ABBA.

Oh, and Beowulf. Now I know at least some of you must have read at least some of this—and not just in Seamus Heaney’s translation. Yes, the poem is in Old English, but it describes Swedish-Geatish wars.

So, 6 June is Sweden’s national day. It was officially made the national day by the Riksdag in 1983—before that it was known as the Swedish flag day. The country began celebrating the date early in the twentieth century—it honours the 1523 election of King Gustav Vasa (which ended the Kalmar Union ruled by Denmark), considered the foundation of modern Sweden. The day only became an official holiday in 2005.

The Kalmar Union, affecting the union of Sweden, Norway and Denmark, occurred in 1397, though in reality most power was help by local regents though the country was officially under Danish rule. When King Christian II of Denmark tried to enforce Danish rule in Sweden, he ordered a massacre of Swedish nobles known as the 1520 “Stockholm blood bath.” This had the effect of inspiring resistance among the Swedes, and led the 1523 crowning of King Gustav Vasa.

Hey! The population grew significantly in the 18th and 19th centuries. Apparently this was attributed to “the peace, the vaccine, and the potatoes.” (The vaccine was smallpox.) This pithy explanation of the population increase was made in 1833.

So, Sweden was officially neutral in both World Wars. Though the country was under significant German influence in World War II—blockades isolated Sweden from the rest of the world, and the government felt it couldn’t openly contest Germany.

Today’s poem is by Tomas Tranströmer. Throughout his professional life he has worked as a psychologist, and since his first book of poems was published in 1954 he has been a major voice in contemporary Swedish literature.

Sketch in October

The towboat is freckled with rust. What’s it doing here so far
       inland?
It is a heavy extinguished lamp in the cold.
But the trees have wild colors: signals to the other shore.
As if people wanted to be fetched.

On my way home I see mushrooms sprouting
                                                   up through the lawn.
They are fingers, stretching for help, of someone
who has long sobbed to himself in the darkness fown there.
We are the earth’s.

—Tomas Tranströmer.
translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry