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Caroline Söderlund

Updated: Mar 3

Caroline Söderlund is a Swedish-Estonian writer based in the London area, where she studies English and Creative Writing at Royal Holloway University of London. Her poetry and fiction have previously appeared in The Orbital and The Chamber Magazine. Her poems work across languages and are often polylingual hybrids of Swedish, English, and Estonian. She is interested in roots, language’s connection to identity and home, and the border between understandability and linguistic integrity.



metsavaim, metsavaim,

where do you go at day’s end

            where do you lay your golden beak,

golden claws, what do you call

            your pillow? the screaming

stops in the morning, but you

            cannot sleep, is it cold

up there, in oaks,

            in crowns?

are the leaves soft

            under your feet?


            metsalinnud, metsaloomad

they all know

            your name, they listen

to your humming

            in the evening,

in awe and

            wander, an old tune

a black tarn, gold

            hazel bushes, shadow wings

over the branches

            of a birch. they hear,

never wonder

            about the words

                                                sammuga they call –

                                                            laula, metsavaim

                                                     juhi mind koju


päike on lõunas

            juba ammugi

listen, metsavaim

            the hunger

of jahimehed, greed

            of jättilane, barking dogs, run

metsavaim, do not sing, somewhere they are

            lost, somewhere

a cry

            give jahimees sons back

kotka from sky

            let them live



            perhaps tell them,


            kui sul hea päevad on,

                        siis pea mind ka meeles


perhaps through the window

            they will ask

the wind

            your name

      and metsaloomad

fall asleep

                        in a breeze

                                                of oaks






Lille Vill Vallareman

in the morning i wander

mountains, i wall

their sheep

in silence

carry their

words, the grass


under my


i hear moose


invent some

pain, purple


sun over mountain spine

            a comb

                        högt över högfjället

troll fights,

boulder embrace

and lake

spilling, fir

flaming, needles

drown my

shoulder bones

                                                ett skri

                                    bortom fjällets kam

i run

boulder blows

fire in

arms and

lake in tow

dig a river for

village people

to praise

me to

scream for

all of them

none of them

ett rop

            en bergskam där, kanske

wisdom has wrinkles,

she hums in the

evening,      just

who will lead us home

at night? who will quiet

our bouldering arms?

a mantel of

twigs on my

wing bones

            solen lyser upp fälten,

                                    där någonstans

                                                                        de är gröna och frodas

where do i go when house

hurts, mountain

mocks, screaming


what do i


i walk woods to

cheers, boulder

palms, feet

wither, can i

weep? where can i


kanske imorgon

                                    en bergsrygg, ett hemland

                                                min brutna rygg

                                                                                                ser ni det inte?




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