hard to be uncertain, scared, divided

This is an acquisition from wintercreek productions, like a lot of the poetry I post; in addition to being an extremely awesome person, wintercreek has exquisite taste in poetry. I love this one.

Yes, of course it hurts when buds are bursting.
Why else would springtime hesitate?
Why would all our ardent longing
be bound in what is frozen, bitter-pale?
The scales were the bud all winter.
What is this new thing, tearing, breaking?
Yes, of course it hurts when buds are bursting,
pain for what grows
and what is closed.

Yes, certainly it's hard when drops are falling.
Shivering with dread they hang so heavy,
holding tight to the branch, but swelling, slipping—
the weight pulls them downwards, no matter how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, scared, divided,
hard to feel the depth call out and beckon,
yet keep still and merely tremble—
hard to want to stay
and want to fall.

Then, when things are worst and nothing's helping,
burst as though in jubilation the buds on the tree.
Then, when fear can no longer hold them,
fall in a glitter the drops from the branch
forget that they were frightened by the newness,
forget that they were anxious about the journey—
feel for a second their greatest safety,
resting in that trust
which makes the world.


Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister.
Varför skulle annars våren tveka?
Varför skulle all vår heta längtan
bindas i det frusna bitterbleka?
Höljet var ju knoppen hela vintern.
Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger?
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister,
ont för det som växer
och det som stänger.

Ja nog är det svårt när droppar faller.
Skälvande av ängslan tungt de hänger,
klamrar sig vid kvisten, sväller, glider—
tyngden drar dem neråt, hur de klänger.
Svårt att vara oviss, rädd och delad,
svårt att känna djupet dra och kalla,
ändå sitta kvar och bara darra—
svårt att vilja stanna
och vilja falla.

Då, när det är värst och inget hjälper,
brister som i jubel trädets knoppar.
Då, när ingen rädsla längre håller,
faller i ett glitter kvistens droppar
glömmer att de skrämdes av det nya
glömmer att de ängslades för färden—
känner en sekund sin största trygghet,
vilar i den tillit
som skapar världen.

—Karin Boye (1900-1941), "Yes, Of Course It Hurts," or "Ja visst gör det ont" in the original Swedish, from För trädets skull or For The Tree's Sake, 1935. The poem is translated here by Christel Carlsson.

When I went looking for a citation for this translation I found many other translations and no citation, but I still like this translation the best. Poetry in translation is always tricky, and I don't know Swedish well enough (or at all) to tell how this one does, but the meter and movement of the English really work for me—as, obviously, does the poem as a whole. I know that feeling, Karin Boye. (Update: I've been told that this translation is really good!)