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, 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
happily
perhaps tell them,
after,
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
withers
under my
feet
i hear moose
crying
invent some
pain, purple
beginnings
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
sleeps?
what do i
silence?
i walk woods to
cheers, boulder
palms, feet
wither, can i
weep? where can i
shatter?
kanske imorgon
en bergsrygg, ett hemland
min brutna rygg
ser ni det inte?
