Cracks in the Consensual Hallucination:
Swedish Poetry at the Turn of the Millennium
What is the poetry of the 1990s? Rarely has the zeitgeist of poetry
been as invisible as now, wrote a critic in a major Swedish newspaper
in 1998. It was a valid question, since the poetry in Sweden at that
time—at least compared with the by then prevalent ideas of
poetry from earlier decades—seemed heterogeneous and in lack of
a dominating poetics. But the question also discloses a logic that
seems to regulate the conditions of poetry in a minor language such
as Swedish. The possibility of different coexisting poetry-cultures
is limited. It is more accurate to talk about a continual movement
between opposition and normalization (usually identified with the
succession of new generations and decades), a movement that has tended
to be a very clear-cut and easily discernible process. Of course,
changes take place, but for each separate period a hallucination of
consensus is established. Everyone—publishers, poets, critics,
readers—seems to be very much in agreement about what poetry
is, can, and should be. This is due to the fact that the poetical
infrastructure is highly restricted. On the
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whole, one could say that it consists of one or two big publishing houses
and a handful of papers and magazines. That all the poets introduced
here are published by the same publisher (Bonniers) is, then, not a
sign of bias on our part but a symptom of this hegemony in Swedish
poetry culture. Other stages (small presses, magazines, e-zines,
and the like) are rare and are not really considered an effective
alternative. And in contrast with the United States, for example,
poets rarely hold any positions at universities—the first and
so far only university-based creative writing program in Sweden was
established just a few years ago. All of this, of course, has to do
with tradition and leads to a situation where you have to join the only
poetry game in town or perish. No alternative routes are open. And in
general, everybody, poets as well as critics, seems to be satisfied
with this condition. Now and then, stirrings take place, but with a
few exceptions, everyone's idea of poetry seems to gravitate around
one specific center. This doesn't mean that no interesting poetry is
published. And poetry does still play a prominent role at the cultural
sections of the daily papers—actually, almost all new poetry is
reviewed! But innovative or challenging forms (and typically all kinds
of Web-based poetry and poetics) are sparse, or even nonexistent.
Causes and effects are not the issue here, but it's no surprise that
among Swedish critics as well as poets the conceptions of poetry since
romanticism have mostly been grounded in a tradition of lyric
poetry. The supposed characteristics of an expressive lyrical I
(sometimes posing as a we), such as intimacy, voice, and
personal tone, are highly valorized. Intimacy, identification, and
recognition are the favorite tropes or figureheads of reading and writing
poetry. Consequently, everything that implies distance, play, or even
humor is regarded as somewhat suspicious. Form must be subordinated to
content and thematics and has to be harmoniously in sync with this subject
or I that is the poem's ultimate reference. Musicality and well-crafted,
coherent metaphorics is good; dissonance, noise, and formal awkwardness
is bad. To put it crudely. The best example of this is perhaps the fate
of Swedish concrete poetry in the 1960s. It was intensely discussed for
a couple of years but in the end had to be put aside as an anomaly or
at best as an interesting but unproductive dead end.
Another important aspect of this poetics is the intimate link between
the lyricist line and the extremely influential tradition of nature
poetry in Sweden. Swedish postromantic poetry has almost always had an
eye for the beautiful landscapes of the countryside. And just as nature
is a kind of imagined reservoir of authenticity in contemporary society,
and a threatened area as well, poetry is considered a last resort for
true personal feelings and
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thought, a holy place not to be stained by anything that smacks of
artifice. It is worth considering, in this context, that even the most
formally radical poet in early Swedish modernism, Gunnar Bjrling, had
no trouble mediating between this solid tradition and his own disruptive
poetics. Dada in nature. Why not?
The history of Swedish literary modernism has been written before, but
a few remarks are worth making here, as it most certainly has an impact
on poetry today. The first modernist displacements of poetic discourse
actually took place in the Swedish-speaking parts of Finland. In
the poetry of Edith Sdergran in the mid 1910s, influences of German
expressionism were perceptible, and some ten years later, both futurism
and dada infiltrated the poetics of such poets and writers as Bjrling
and Henry Parland. With the Swedish translation of T. S. Eliot's The
Waste Land in the early 1930s, and with the orientation toward French
postsymbolist poetry and surrealism in such writers as Gunnar Ekelöf and
Artur Lundkvist, the ground was laid for a modernist breakthrough in the
years of the Second World War. Contemporaneous with a literature that
dealt explicitly with the political situation, a massive introduction
of modernist poetry and prose emerged. Translations proliferated and
varying writing practices related to early French and Anglo-American
modernism were integrated into the works of such Swedish writers as
Erik Lindegren and Karl Vennberg. Even though some poetry was accused
of being incomprehensible (and actually caused a debate on the hermetic
poetic language of modernism), a certain form of high modernism turned
into literary doxa during this period.
When a new generation was formed in the early 1950s, a backlash took
place: The only way to transgress the supposed radicality of an earlier
generation was through restoration. This being a kind of textbook
cliché, it is necessary to point out some exceptions. In certain
underground circles, the introduction of modernism was intensified. The
French connection was expanded to include such names as the Marquis
de Sade, Comte de Lautréamont, Antonin Artaud, and Henri
Michaux. The first readings and translations of Gertrude Stein's poetry
appeared. And not until now was the relationship to futurism and dada
more extensively elaborated. Worth mentioning, too, is the manifesto
of concrete poetry, "Hipy Papy Bthuthdth Thuthda Bthuthdy" (1954) (the
title from A. A. Milne's books about Winnie the Pooh), by the poet-artist
÷yvind Fahlstrm, and the writings of the Estonian-Swedish poet-critic
Ilmar Laaban. The contemporary reception of their work was, however,
nonexistent. Its effects weren't to become visible until the next decade.
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Despite this integration of modernist writing practices into Swedish
poetry, radical linguistic experiments were rare. With the exception of
Gunnar Ekelöf's debut sent på jorden (Late on earth) from 1932
(and some of his later nonsensical verse) and the extremely disruptive
syntax and elliptical poetry of Björling in some of his collections
from the late 1930s and onward, the explorations of the twilight
zones of language were yet to come. In the beginning of the 1960s,
an opposition against the symbolist and romantic brands of modernism
was formed. This opposition took two different, but not completely
unrelated, directions. To reduce them to their designations: new
simplicity and concretism. Poets from both camps wanted to open
up poetry to linguistic forms and practices that had been neglected by
earlier poetry. While the new simplicity explored the forms of everyday
language and natural speech, concrete poets such as Bengt Emil Johnson,
Jarl Hammarberg, and Åke Hodell turned their interest toward radical
artifice. Later in the 1960s, when the political engagement became
imperative, aesthetic radicality had to be subdued. This was the choice
of popular realism that put its mark on the poetry of the late 1960s and
throughout the 1970s—with some brilliant exceptions, such as Lars
Norén and Erik Beckman.
If discussions of form were anathema during the 1970s, they became the
talk of the town in the 1980s. The need for poetological reflections
was urgent. And through the work of some young critics and scholars, an
intellectualization of poetry and criticism occurred. Poststructuralism,
deconstruction, and hermeneutics coalesced and formed a new frontier,
but it was a rather specific version of this mix that was established. If
the formally innovative poetry of the early 1960s had something in common
with the politicizing of poetry in the late 1960s and the 1970s, it
was the interest in what one might call a minor literature. The
investigations of the liminal zones of writing (in concrete poetry
and text-sound compositions, for example), as well as the ideas of a
"democratization" of poetry from a class perspective. Both indicated
a certain displacement of a romantic and high modernist canon. The
theoretically informed discussions of form in the 1980s tended, however,
first and foremost, to reestablish such a canon. It was very much
a continuation of romanticism through other means. Not surprisingly,
Friedrich Hölderlin, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Paul Celan became a center
of gravity for poets as well as critics. And, not surprisingly, there was
a renewed interest in a select group of early Swedish modernists, such as
Ekelöf and Björling, who lent themselves to the reading models in vogue.
This development proved extremely productive for poetry as well as for
criticism and not the least for the interchange between them. Many
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cogent poets entered the stage in these years, such as Stig Larsson,
Katarina Frostenson, Ann Jäderlund, and Ulf Eriksson. But today, it seems
as if it was the opening of the field of theoretical reflections that
was the most important legacy of the 1980s and the restricted canon that
was promulgated, although it proved to be fruitful at a certain moment,
soon became a kind of straitjacket. And it is in this vacuum, in the
paralyzing shadow of a select group of poets from Pindar to Celan, that
the poetry of the 1990s has developed, and it is here one can find the
roots to the low voice and the unobtrusiveness that has characterized
much of Swedish poetry from these years.
Stig Larsson (b. 1955) made his literary debut with the novel
Autisterna (The autists) in 1979. By then he had already founded
the magazine Kris, which was to become the most influential
theoretical venue for a new generation of writers and critics. Larsson's
first collection of poetry, Minuterna före blicken (The minutes
before the gaze) was published two years later, and since then he
has published another fifteen books of poetry. Besides poetry he has
written novels, plays, and screenplays, and has also directed two
films. Even though his position is controversial, to say the least,
he is no doubt one of the most influential Swedish poets since the
1960s. As the enfant terrible of contemporary Swedish literature,
he has, through his writings and through innumerable provoking moves
in mass media, annoyed fellow writers and critics as well as the
public. Larsson's writing is characterized by an extreme sensitivity
for styles or manners of writing, and is marked by a continuous effort
to avoid getting stuck in a recognizable form. As soon as a style is
discernible or possible to identify, it must be erased, and the writing
must find new paths. Another decisive and related trait has been the
figure of mania that is explicitly staged in the poem "Mania" from 1987,
a poem that ends, "It seems as if I'm writing down everything that comes
into my mind. Am I? Help!" The poem discloses a conception of writing as
a flow of words or linguistic matter, beyond the control of the writing
subject. The result is a double movement, combining a manic, overstrung,
expansive, and exorbitant writing, incessantly transgressing the norms of
what is appropriate and suitable for poetry, with a relentless probing
into the style and the mode of writing. The ostentatious, verbose, and
awkward babbling exposes an acute sensitivity to the valors and tones
of spoken language. But while this may appear as a natural speech, it
is everything but natural. Maybe it is more accurately designated as a
"hyper-speech," as an artificial elaboration of the idiosyncrasies and
oddities manifesting "the strangeness of the ordinary." What is at stake
is an expansion of poetry toward its
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other. It is a poetry at war with the smooth surface, one that dares (or
even seeks) failure and doesn't try to cover up the errors and delusions
occurring in the process of writing. In this sense, it can be described
as an antipoetics. As a consequence, Larsson's pursuit to escape the
refinement of poetry has, through the 1990s, led him to venture writing
"bad" (a project explicitly focused in the poem "Distress or a deaf,"
from Natta de mina [Tuck one's own to the night], translated
here). As a logical consequence of this project, Larsson, in 1995,
declared that he had stopped writing poetry. Since then, he has published
four books of "poetry" concerned primarily with biographical material
and displaying an explicit intention of writing the authentic—the
truth—as opposed to fiction. This is, of course, not to be confused
with a naïve and unreflected truth telling. If anything, Larsson's
poetry went even further into a labyrinthine performative reflection, a
"hyper-reflection" on the workings of the text, staged as preemptive and
strategic manipulations of the reader's reactions and expectations. The
text becomes a laminar flow of digressions and metareflections, of voices
and textual levels, making it fraudulent to decide one fundamental level
or voice.
Ann Jäderlund (b. 1955) published her first book of poetry,
Vimpelstaden (The streamer city), in 1985 and has since published
another five collections of poetry as well as a children's book. In her
debut, Jäderlund quoted a passage from Wittgenstein, and this has been
evoked as well as disavowed by critics ever since. But there are reasons
to acknowledge this reference. In relation to the Wittgensteinian poetics
in late twentieth-century American poetry, which Marjorie Perloff has
discussed in her Wittgenstein's Ladder (1996), one can propose
that Jäderlund, in her elaborated play with grammar and syntax, uses a
similar strategy of estrangement to displace some of the foundations of
the lyrical tradition sketched above. Not the least in her first book,
one can perceive a subtle and perhaps "Wittgensteinian" critique of the
supposed alliance between linguistic meaning, subjective inwardness, and
lyrical expressiveness. When Jäderlund's second collection of poetry,
Som en gång varit äng (As once was a meadow), came out in 1988,
it caused an intense and in part virulent debate. The starting point
was an accusation of incomprehensibility, which led to a divide between
more conservative male critics and a younger generation informed by
postmodernist theory. Her poetry was considered by some of the latter as
an example of "écriture feminine." Even if this debate proved to
be productive for young women poets, it also led to some reductive and
stabilizing interpretations of Jäderlund's poetry. Som en gång varit
äng showed emphatically how she was engaged in a critical scrutiny
of a Swedish tradition of romantic lyric
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poetry, especially the conventions and mechanisms of nature poetry and
love poetry. By using a small vocabulary of poetically and erotically
charged words, where shifters and fillers are almost completely abandoned,
and by substituting syntactical and grammatical patterns for rhythmic
and sonorous constellations, her poetry stages an ironic pastiche
of the expressive subject as well as the animated landscape of the
nature lyric. The poems show almost no traces of localizing markers,
of signatures and dates. Inwardness and emotions are replaced by a flat
economy of words, where established patterns of meaning begin to move and
float in different directions. Through cuttings and patchings-together
of words, visually acute and artifactual neologisms are formed (see, for
example, the translated poems from Snart går jag i sommaren ut
[Soon in the summer I walk out] from 1990). Jäderlund's treatment of
language as sensual matter, her tasting of words and their sound and
sense, does often echo nursery rhymes and the child's play with words
as well as the permutations of concrete poetry. In her later poetry, she
has intensified, even more, the exploration of rhythmic figures and the
possibilities of working with reduced verbal material, which is obvious
in her sixth and latest collection, Kalender röd (Calendar red)
(2000).
If Stig Larsson and Ann Jäderlund have become established as major figures
of the contemporary scene in Sweden, Jörgen Gassilewski (b. 1961) is
still considered by some critics as a kind of poetry prankster. Since
his debut with Du (You) in 1987, he has proven to be a far
more heterogeneous poet than the others presented here. His first
collections bore traces of John Ashbery's The Tennis Court Oath
and exhibited an active use and disfiguration of established modernist
poetical forms. But in the same way as Stig Larsson has engaged in an
exploration of hyper-speech, Gassilewski has, during the second half of
the 1990s, moved toward similar, but much more strict and artificial,
investigations of everyday language. In his later poetry, his background
as a conceptual artist has become more visible, and he is also one of
a few poets today who has explicitly acknowledged the legacy of the
concrete poetry of the 1960s. This is shown in his pleasurable play
with sound similarities and permutational techniques. In his poems,
he subtly works with disturbances and noise on different levels of the
text and produces dislocations and abrupt changes of perspective. Shifts
in scale and in focus, as well as borderline clashes between different
contexts or motifs, can also be put forward as important devices in
his poems. Even though the poem translated here, from the collection
portarnas bilder (The images of the gates) (1999), is a kind of
strained artificial tailing of the workings of
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a "natural speech," he often elaborates a more radical parataxis, and
the visual arrangement is always an integral aspect of his poetry. The
materialistic stance in his work does, however, go far beyond a mere
formalistic approach and is informed by an acute awareness of temporality,
mortality, and bodily decay.
"Poetry comes rather from the hand than from the mouth. A way of
breathing offers a way of writing, a syntax—that is cultivated
into a personal language-forming: a form . . . Through the labor of
the hand appears this new body of text, that is thrown back to me from
the sheet of paper like an unknown other." Thus writes Helena Eriksson
(b. 1962) in the introduction to an anthology of poetry of the 1990s,
published in 1998. Eriksson's first book of poetry, En byggnad åt
mig (A building for me) (1990), as well as the second one published
two years later, was marked by a visionary or orphic stance that could
be traced back to a postromantic tradition from Arthur Rimbaud and
surrealism. This modernist current had a strong renaissance in the
Danish poetry of the 1980s, which most certainly attracted Eriksson at
that time. From the mid-1990s, however, her poetry has made a decisive
turn toward more reductive and minimalist forms, a reduction of the
romantic lyrical imagery, that first and foremost has been staged as
a turning away from the symbol and the metaphor, no doubt informed by
her readings and translations of contemporary French poetry, above all
Anne-Marie Albiach. This reduction has since then been driven further
and further until all that is left of the imagery is some fragments
of archetypal and mythic figures and attributes, Gothic and exotic
kitsch and knick-knack, which creates ironic edges when combined with
the harsh and austere forms. Eriksson's method seems to be based on the
cut, on graphic, rhythmic, and syntactical caesuras. Her poems discard
musicality in a traditional sense and disclose a distrust of every form of
poetic beauty. The linguistic cuts in her texts create edges or joints,
awkward and idiosyncratic encounters between minimalistic parts and more
talkative passages. Her poems often appear as silhouettes and set pieces,
where the significance of the white spaces, the cutouts, the voids, or the
blanks is insistent and carries a crucial charge. Instead of narrative
forms or metaphors, her texts are open compositions organized through
graphic constellations and acoustic figures, where the word's position
on the page is as important as its semantic coordination. A consistent
theme in her work is related to the threat against the vulnerable body,
an imminent violence. One could characterize Eriksson's poetry as an
austere and fierce sensualism.
The first book of Lars Mikael Raattamaa (b. 1964), Ur krakars gäld
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(From the debt of the wretched), was hardly noticed by the critics when
it appeared in 1989. Last year, when he published his fourth collection
of poetry, Helgonlegenderna: väv (The legends of saints: Texture),
it was the most critically acclaimed book of poetry that year. If his
early poetry showed marks of a certain modernist melancholy, his two
latest books exhibit an acute receptivity and openness toward all kinds
of texts and technologies that regulate the machinery of contemporary
society—a tendency that is continued in the poems published
recently in the magazine Ord&Bild. Last year, Raattamaa
presented a short poetics statement in the largest daily paper in
Sweden, Dagens Nyheter, where he dismissed the idea of poetry
as a dialogue and instead proposed the idea of poeisis as an
investigation into what cannot be contained in the dialogue's work of
reducing alterity and oddity. Instead, poetry can drift toward social,
cultural, and linguistic noise, and thereby evoke the strangeness of
the ordinary. The poetry of Raattamaa is also aware of the political
implications of poetical forms and juxtaposes the flow of modern
information society with patterns transposed from traditional forms of
verse. Different materializing linguistic operations and sampling are
used in pursuit of a writing that can respond to and serve as a critique
of today's culture. As a professional architect, his interest in urban
spaces has also informed his writing. The geopolitical borderlines,
centers, and peripheries of today are inscribed and "exscribed" in his
texts. Names and dates are accumulated, and the city and the suburban
ghettos of Stockholm, as well as the conflicts in the Balkans and in
the Middle East, are constantly invoked. These markings do, however,
transgress every mimetic procedure and produce alternative poetical
geographies constituting lines of flight, de-territorializations of
hierarchies and center-periphery relations that are taken for granted
and reproduced by the images and stories of corporate mass media. But
Raattamaa's poetry is also interfoliated with a manifold of different
modes, pitches, and textures clearly displayed in the poem translated
here, "The Children That Float," where matter-of-fact observations are
torqued and mixed with sublime exclamations, mockery, and bathos. In
Helgonlegenderna: väv, meditative reflections, narratives, and
suggestive, rhyming lullaby-like poems produce counterpoints or relief
effects in a political body of poetry.
The selection of poetry presented here can be considered, then,
as both representative and unrepresentative of Swedish contemporary
poetry. Representative, since all five poets are considered
today by most critics and readers in general as important, even though
controversial for some. Unrepresentative, since they all seem to
distance themselves in different
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ways from the central lyrical tradition evoked in the beginning of our
introduction and which still holds a firm grip on most poetry published
today. Maybe distance is the wrong word. One could say, rather,
that they have established an active and problematizing relationship to
this tradition. Through a variety of techniques and modes of writing,
they all reflect on its logic, its constitutive elements and structures,
and try to de- and rework these modes and techniques from the vantage
point of the present. The lyrical I, as well as the forms of narration,
perception, expression, and representation, is scrutinized and recast
in five different ways by these five very different poets. These are
not the only poets in Sweden responding to these concerns. At least two
other interesting poets deserve to be mentioned. Camilla Hammarström,
who started out in the early 1980s with a poetry influenced by Stein
and who has explored both the visual aspects of writing as well as the
poetic potentials of everyday speech; and Ulf Karl Olov Nilsson, who,
more insistently than any other poet in Sweden today, has invested in a
parasitical practice of poetry, where sampling, collage, and translation
serve as the driving forces of innovation.
A common denominator for all of these poets is an interest in the complex
materiality of poetic language and culture and a calling into question of
the dogma that certain ways of writing are "natural" or "authentic." By
exploring the physicality of the word as well as its traces of social
use and history, their poetry dissolves this dogma and opens up
new possibilities to think the relationship between language and the
world. Poetry has always been characterized by materializing operations
transgressing the necessary conditions for informational exchange. But it
is nevertheless important to remember Wittgenstein's dictum, that poetry,
even though it is written in the language of information, does not partake
in the language-game of information. The domain for poetical enactment
cannot primarily be the poem's subject matter. Rather, it seems as if
the only way for poetry to act, to create an agency that reaches outside
of poetry and interacts with culture and society without leaving poetry
altogether, is to work on and with poetry's material means—perhaps
in the same way that contemporary visual art has multiplied its material
means. And in a culture where the global media tend to "naturalize"
and recuperate every linguistic and aesthetic representation, and where
new (digital) technologies repress their own technicity in fantasies of
immediacy, there seems to be a place for a poetic materialism.
In the last years there have been several debates or attempts to discuss
the situation of Swedish poetry in this media culture of today. One
recurrent theme has been the marginalization of poetry. Although this
is obviously
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a return of the apocalyptic figure of "crisis," which is an immanent
movement of thought in the writing of contemporary history, it may
also indicate a change in the infrastructure of Swedish poetry sketched
above. Given the globalization and transformations of media at large,
it is difficult to see why the infrastructure of poetry should remain
intact. There are also signs of such a change worth considering. One
can mention the growing interest in public poetry readings in Sweden
during the last ten years. If this started on the fringes, in the forms
of poetry slam, spoken word, and other related phenomena, it has by now
infiltrated the "major" scene. One can also note that some small presses
and poetry magazines exploring and introducing other forms of writing
have appeared (for example, Lejd, OEI). And even though
lamentations can be heard, these are changes that might not be so bad.