There came a letter – a reflection on home, memories and golden moments

My mother was a big fan of poetry, and she would often read poetry out loud to us, in Swedish or English or Spanish. (A galopar, she would read, a galopar hasta enterrarlos en el mar, and all those rolling Spanish r’s would send shivers down my back. She was rather fond of Rafael Alberti’s poems…)

Mostly, though, she would read us Swedish poets. During all those years when we lived far, far away from Sweden, my mother took it upon herself to ensure that we had some knowledge of our culture and our language. Long sessions reading poetry left her a bit teary-eyed: she had days when she suffered greatly from homesickness.

Anyway, as a result my sister and I became relatively conversant with Swedish poets. To this day, I think both of us have adopted some of our mother’s favourites as our own favourites, and one of the authors my mother was especially fond of was Pär Lagerkvist.

Lagerkvist won the Nobel prize in 1951 in recognition of fantastic essays, poets, novels. Many of his novels have been translated, and I suppose so have many of his poems—but poetry is hard to translate, as it is often a blend of the sheer musicality of the chosen words and the content as such.

One of my favourite poems by Pär Lagerkvist is called “There came a letter” – Det kom ett brev. In Swedish, it goes like this:

Det kom ett brev om sommarsäd,

om vinbärsbuskar, körsbärsträd,

ett brev ifrån min gamla mor

med skrift så darrhänt stor.

Ord intill ord stod klöveräng,

mogenråg och blomstersäng

och Han som över allting rår

från år till år.

Där låg i solen gård vid gård

inunder Herrens trygga vård,

och klara klockor ringde fred

till jorden ned.

Där var en lukt av trädgårdsgång

och av lavendel, aftonsång,

och söndagsfriden då hon skrev

till mig sitt brev.

Det hade hastat natt och dag,

utan att vila, för att jag

långt borta skulle veta det

som är från evighet.

I suppose by now I lost like 70 percent you, right? Trying to decipher a foreign language is hard, and running poetry through Google Translate can end up with very, very odd results. I have tried my hand at my own translation further down, but before you throw yourself at it, I’d like to explain why I love this poem. First of all, it is about a letter from home. (No wonder my mother became all weepy when she read it. “Home,” she would sigh) It is also about faith, the certainty that somewhere in all this chaos there is a higher being, a benevolent higher being—God.

Lagerkvist was raised in a very religious home, and even if he grew up to be agnostic he returns time and time again to the issue of faith in his writing. In this poem, it is his mother’s quiet belief in Him that cares for us all that whispers its way through the words, reminding her son that some things are eternal.

And now on to my translation:

There came a letter

There came a letter about growing wheat,
about currant bushes and cherry trees,
a letter from my aging mother,
the handwriting shaky and somewhat large.

Word by word she wrote of clover fields,
ripening rye and blossoming meadows.
She wrote of Him, who year after year,
holds His hand over us all

Sun-drenched farms lay side by side,
a landscape under His tender care
and bells rang out the promise
of peace on earth

There was a scent of garden paths,
of lavender and evensong,
of the lingering Sunday peace
in which she sat to write to me

This letter had travelled day and night
so that I,
so far away from her,
should be reminded of that which is eternal.

I’m not entirely sure my translation does Lagerkvist justice, but I hope I managed to get some of the beauty of it across.

For me, this poem breathes peace. It conjures up images of halcyon summer days, of a world where life was, perhaps, simpler than it is now. Although I suspect if I were to tell my grandmother that her life was simpler (not easier, just simpler) than mine, she’d snort and tell me life has always been hard—but with miraculous moments that make the hard parts worth it.

My mother totally agreed. “Golden moments have to be treasured”, she’d say, which was why on occasion I’d come home from school on a Wednesday to find the table set with sparkling crystal and silverware because sometimes one just had to celebrate on an ordinary day.

Back in the early seventies, my mother, sister and I were taking a walk on an August day. In some days, we would leave Sweden and return to Bogotá. My sister and I both knew that on the day of departure, our mother would cry—she always did when she left Sweden after our extended summer stay.

But on this day, we were still in Sweden, and the air was warm, the sea sparkled. My mother came to a halt. “Remember this glorious day, girls,” she said. “Remember it for always.”

Älskade Mamma, fifty years on, I remember that day. It was the 31st of August and you were wearing your favourite summer outfit—long ruffled skirt with matching top in purple cotton adorned with miniature flowers in white, purple, yellow, red. Your hair was, as always, perfectly coiffed, a couple of bobby pins ensuring none of the curls you so disliked danced free around your temples. On your feet were sandals—heeled, of course. You stood looking out at the water, your arms wide open as if you wanted to embrace the sea, the landscape. “A wonderful moment,” you said. And it was.

When my mother passed several years ago, my sister put together a playlist for the reception after the funeral. First on that playlist? What a Wonderful World – of course, how could it be anything else when celebrating a woman who was always looking for the golden moments to carry her through the dark?