1

His bearing when he sings is that of an Italian
When he drinks he’s physically gone and mentally there like a Russian alky
Yet he’s pure Aryan
An out-and-out Swedish poet
Occasionally – but only occasionally
He’s had notions of moving to Norway
The salary this neighboring land pays writers
Is ten times that of his

2

It’s said he’s the number three poet in Sweden
That in his prime
His portrait was everywhere
On the walls of the Metro in Stockholm
This spring, he came to Kunming
And in a rooftop Chinese garden
He issues a warning to Chinese colleagues
“Beware Romanticism”
He says: “I’m a bit pessimistic about Chinese poetry”
But quickly adds: “Two three years ago”

3

The day of recitations at the poetry festival
He spends reclining in a hotel room
Conserving energy as he reverently awaits
The arrival of the rite of a poet’s life
At dusk in a mini-van on its way to the venue
He treats everyone to cocktails
Decocted from strawberry juice and Chinese spirits
Of course he drinks the most
That evening the recital is well received
And that night
His efforts to get us into a bar
Get no response

4

The next day at breakfast
In the notepad of the female group-leader
He draws the lifelike figure of a female nude
We feel immediate relief
So! He wants some of that
After thinking it through all night
A slapdash Chinese poetry critic surmises
“It’s a metaphor – he wants bread”
Later we finally figure it out
He wanted coffee and the companion too

5

I’m arranged to be at an outside venue
Following the leisurely notes of an ancient zither
During my recital in the ‘Collection Among the Flowers’ teahouse
His performance in the audience
Especially catches the eye
He grins like an idiot
His look when not smiling
Also over the top
When he asks for a book of my poetry
I’ve just given away the last copy

6

A well-intentioned older Chinese lady
Notices he doesn’t change shirts during the week
He’ll first go to Thailand on the way back to Sweden
Leading to knowing laughs from the men
On that last night
I don’t even have time to say goodbye
He seems like a phantom
As he slips into an outside bar
And I see no more of him
But now I remember
The night we stayed at the Stone Forest
While he hovered
Over a pretty Thai girl flirtatious as a snake
He’d also seemed something of a ghost