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Lasse-Maja, nickname of the notorious thief Lars
Molin, acknowledging the fact that he frequently,
and over extended periods of time, operated in
female disguise. In 1813 he was given a life sentence
and incarcerated in the fortress of Carlsten.
He received a pardon in 1838 and died at Arboga
in 1845, at an estimated age of 60. Stories about
his exploits became popular reading matter, and
tradition has it that his redeeming social value
consisted in "taking from the rich and giving to
the poor."
Every night
the water rises again, every night
he is flooded by his own blood
infusing him with darkness, every night
the rough beard stubble pushes through
the pores of virginal cheeks. Where can you escape
when all passages lead back into yourself,
lead only farther into the mountain, into grey walls
grown out of the rocks, grey cliffs
grown out of the sea, grey stone walls
grey stone clouds, waves of grey stone.
Every night, the whole bloody island is immersed
in the sea, like a mousetrap, every night
the convicts crowded together
too tight in their own stench, no one knows
whose fear it is keeps him awake. Their chains
hold them together, the chains
and the sea and the rocks of Bohuslän
out of which, every day, in the daytime
they quarry new stone
for new prison walls.
Hellyes!, there had been times
when he too had accomplished sea-change
from man to woman, times
he sallied forth in gladness
in a blue gown, trimmed with lace.
Yes, once he stole
the entire world
and stuffed it in his mouth
and swallowed it. Ate up
the entire world
until it started shining bottle-green
out of both his eyes.
Ran, as one possessed,
holding his skirts
through the forests by Hjälmare
ran through the sloe thickets, noisy with sparrows
white legs flashing across the stream
& down into the beds of maids and hired men,
spilling his seed with the silver candlesticks
under the mattress, then flying away
through back doors, chimneys, outhouse shitholes.
See, it was all there inside him: the woods
the stream, the man, the woman, the fire, the excrement.
Stopped, at last
by a wall, a stone wall
not permitting metamorphosis
or only the final one: the turning
into stone. And imperceptibly
life shades into the fossil,
into xylography, so gently, though
one cannot tell
if those one addresses
are of the quick, or the dead.
High up on the walls the rookies in blue
stride back and forth. Lasse-Maja expels
a long, brown stream from his mouth
the very same mouth even the Vkar wanted to kiss
once upon a time. Lasse-Maja
dictates his "Memoirs"
to the seagulls
and if their laughter is strident,
it still is appreciative.
He found a tree, its crown
more like a huge green skirt
to climb and crawl under. The dogs found it too
and him. Sheriff and ruddy peasants
congregated at the foot of the tree
and slowly he began
the long descent
Groaning, in chains
at the bottom of the black prison cart
gliding away
down a darkling lane
the treetops flowing backward
across his face.
Hellyes!,
the chains, even the chains
he contained, and the stone. Every night
they pull him down into the dark,
and every day
and every night: iron and stone.
Slowly he sinks into himself, into iron and stone
while the world, little by little,
steals back everything else.
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