Latvian Feature
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Uldis Bērziņš Text as Participation and Other Poems
Translated by Ieva Lešinska
The absence of talent has prompted me toautothematisme:
what is a poetic text?
— So that I’d have some text topublish in Dzejas diena I
decide: I will dream it and then decideif a dream is an art form
or a lifestyle. I met a young, musicallygifted and very pious
Slovak girl, we walked through slender aisles, ontender
walkways and began to kiss. That, of course, is text — butit was
true, I swear! She made me listen to some Tatra women sing
insidethe chapel — me who cannot hold a single note! but so it
was.“So God exists? —” I ask; I know that even to ask that
question is to lie. She replies: “Ako áno, ako nie — whoElse
could have made me for you for this here existence?” Nude in
the consistory (?!), the two of us perched on a long table, legs
dangling, a nun walks in, starts mopping up — not giving us a
second thought. The joy of being, so innocent, so bright (you
know,without a struggle, without sin’s pathos — have done no
brightertexting since so long ago in high school), later on she points
atsquatting vineyards: “See, we’ve waited not in vain!
The pontiff’shere!” Indeed, I see them halt before the chapel —
but what acrowd! That bent body, the familiar, weary gait, the
light purple miter.More and more people — and look, there’s
Golem by the roadside, themuddy flab aquiver, alien bones
protruding: could that be Ýmir fromwhom the world was once
created or just a saintly fool to drag along theburden of all
flesh? Giants stagger through the foliage, the Rephaim onshort
and gimpy legs, the dreadful mutants that tail the Pope, those
horrid gray-haired wives in carts, clutching skinless sides,
they’vebeen created too? They too presented with immortal
souls? For us —so we’d not forget? Or we — for them? — She of
the light mindsays: “In this existence, He presents them so
you’d know: He has itall. To Him, all is quite as real as what
the two of you create: yourvanity and Tatra songs, your lusting
after me, your wish to serve, sopicturesque in pontiff’s image,
my blond hair, fair skin, our sweetdepravity. No, look, see the
Repahim, those formless, giant cripples?They’ll also drag
along, He’s given you this being so for a spell you’dget a sense
of the dimensions, rozumieš!”
I lust for her. I want Him to create herfor me once again but
fear the dark. I fear the darkened room, I fearthe coming night.
2000
And if they tell you stab then stab and if they
tell you lie then lie(bagritsky) but what do you
think?
And the basis of serving isto stand by your
king in truth and in lie and to do as he bids (nizami
aruzi from samarkand) but what do you think?
I want it to bethe other way round I want to
learn to do without lying I want to learnto do
without serving and I think I will manage tell me
what you think.
1969
Friday night. Strada Romana
Dreamy Jews emerge from the baths, the siren of sabbath is shrieking,how shiny, oh Domne,
thine shekels — for mother, for bride, for theauto! Lord (the moon a sharp sliver over each
head), lead us home! (Withshekels, away from this blue halva.) Quiet and swift like a rabbit
theearth overtakes the meridians. Cans full of beer. Only Romanians here.The underground
ready for war.
1998, Jerusalem
Litene
1
That which the mole keeps digging
That which the wormkeeps rigging
Čaks whispered in his hand
And breathed intohis gloss
Those words that have been lost
Boom in my earlike in a well
O, Litene, O, liar!
O, treason out of hell
2
No, Litene! No, liar!
I stumble through the briars
I run! alive! I’m just a penny
One coin among so many
See, up to my elbows,
It’s me in killer’s pose
The boy inme weeps and dies forever
The beast in me roars and shits as ever
It’s me here. It’s you, it’s him.
It’s me here. It’s you, it’s him.
The forgotten one shows up to ask: where
is that blade of grass, red with my blood?
I had a bow and arrow, my aim was very narrow
to shoot a bird in tree. And then I met my maker,
no bird was on his knee. Substance crumbles,
space expands, cold, misty draft (could that be
Father breathing?), and nothing can be seen
through glass, no matter how semantic,
no one to carry messages to coming ages,
numbers senseless, colors black and what
they taught in school, Devil takes it back,
no, nonsense. It’s me. It’s
you, it’s him.
Summer Rain
I
That rain that roams the world
That rain that splashes inthe yard
That rain that hesitates behind the window
That summerrain
Should come inside.
Open the window and let the summer raininside
And also its
Trusted companions
Smells.
Thesmell of the street of the fleet of earth of
buildings of parks ofarks of potatoes of tomatoes of
smoke of oak of pine of brine ofnettle the smell of
speed and of slowness the smell of the sun ofshadow
of carp of melon — a whole host of smells.
Of NewYork Mallorca and York of
the Mediterranean and Carribean ofIstanbul and
Liverpool of Berlin and Sakhalin, all those smells
Come along with the rain.
Also one sharp smell that rots.
Ofblood.
II
Come inside summer rain
And wash the blood off the walls.
Rainas you rained over trenches open and closed.
Rain summer rainrain
And wash off that rotting blood.
Wash it off the forestsand the pavement.
And off the face I just imagined.
And off theother one I cannot imagine.
And off the girl in the trench.
Andoff the pages of the book.
And off the leaves of the alder.
Andoff the sleeve of the soldier.
Wash it off Latvia and off myself.
III
The summer rain raining Jānis and Juris shooting
Jewsin the forest.
Each has just one rifle but there’s a whole big crowd
of Jews.
The barrels are getting red hot but Jews keep on
coming.
And twenty years pass and then twenty-five and
there’s againa Jānis and a Juris and they are singing
that song and as thesummer rain is raining I walk up
to them and sock them between the eyes.
IV
A part of my nation was shot dead and buried inthe
ground to rot and I was in my mother’s womb and
could not defendthem.
Jews were shot they were born in our country they
spokeLatvian they served in the army with the
Latvians this land belonged tothem as much as to us.
A part of my nation lies in trenches inBiķernieki
and in other trenches from Liepāja to Daugavpils
(whatfor?)
What for?
What for shit fuck go fuck yourselves youassholes
you motherfuckers you fucking pigs tell me why?
Becausethey leafed through the paper right to left?
Because they went tothe synagogue?
Because they had curly hair?
Oh, I see!
Because they smelled of garlic?
Because they had crooked nosesbecause their shops
were closed on Sabbath?
Because they babbled inYiddish?
Why oh why am I not yet alive the axe lies by the
stove howcome you go on living give me that axe my
God why am I not yetalive.
(Jānis dries his clothes by the stove goes off again.)
V
Where was the Latvian God hiding
When the summerrain was raining?
VI
The summer rain smells ofNicosia.
The summer rain smells of Nigeria.
It smells of bloodwhen it rains.
And therefore.
He who was born in that land is aLatvian.
He who goes to my school is a Latvian.
He who knowsthat language is a Latvian.
He who builds those cities is aLatvian.
He who ploughs those fields is a Latvian.
And if yousay no he is not I walk up to you and
sock you between the eyes beforeit’s too late.
1967
Astra
An abstracted clown, surviving
only inprint (not much, I agree)
I turnmy indirect and cancelled gaze
upward: yes, asters are up there, theastra
The sky so black overPrague and Riga,
over tongues and powers that be— what’s that?
It’s August, yes, only thecentury’s
changed; that’s why the asters so bright, the astra
Hey, man, I lift up my empty gazeand
I know even through the layers of mud: that’s it
Asters again, eternal, blinking, whiteasters,
bright asters, the astra
Brother
I
Our Lord is tied to the crossand he suffers and is happy. The ropes cut into his shins and wrists,and Our Lord knows that His hour has come and that it should be so.
And for a moment His vision clears andglancing down Our Lord sees soldiers priests men women boys donkeydrivers His disciples and other people look at Him some cry others laughsome understand others don’t.
And OurLord says no I am no son of god I am a man if I were the son of god Iwould come down from the cross and walk away but I don’t come down thispain is killing me I hurt I love my disciples John in particular Iunderstand the high priest Pilate I feel sorry for poor Judas I am sorrybut how good it is to be human you do not know Father I am a man I willdie of thirst and pain but John stands down there looking up at me heunderstands me I will resurrect in him.
Our Lord dies at the cross but John walksthe world crisscrosses the seas preaches people love one another thustaught Jesus from Nazareth.
II
Not finding me, my brother goes to peopleand asks every single one: “Are you my brother?” The guardsconsider it suspicious; the boy is brought before the judge of the land.The judge asks: “Soweth thou sedition?” The boy answers:“I sow not. I’m looking for my brother.” Then the judge says:“Let him go.” I hear peoplespeak of a spirit-ridden boy and then I take a guess: “It must be anew John the Baptist”. Indeed, the boy is now followed by a wholehost of disciples, beggars, cripples and cured patients. The evangelistsays — just as the prophet Isaiah has said: “he hath borne ourgriefs and carried our sorrows” — yes, but no one couldlighten his burden, nor show him the way. I glimpse him one morning in aJerusalem crowd and elbow my way closer to get a better look, oh, it’s aman of my own age, his beard still without grey. I call out:“Rabbi! Here!” and say my name, and he takes me by the handand says: “Are you my brother?” and I say: “Yes, we areall brothers,” and I feel a bit strange, for what does this man ofgod want of me, and I slip away. And then one day I hear a bugle and seethem lead one man who is carrying a large wooden cross. I say, who isthis man, they say, king of the Jews, the Nazarene! I get closer to takea look — a man of my own age, but oh my goodness… — and helifts his eyes, looks at me and I begin to recognize him, but they leadhim along yelling — king of the Jews! king of the Jews!
III
I open the Bible and read that up there inthe heavenly home my father sees that I am alone and sends my youngerbrother to me. The boy comes down into the world (I have myself a wholeworld built!) but how would you know me if I hide my eyes as if inguilt. Once in the agora I hear them talk about a boy who’s known tofeed whoever is starving cure whoever is ailing he goes from door todoor and asks then one then another if anyone has seen his brother. Andhe sees me on the street but knows me not in soldier’s casque he sees meup on stage and knows me not in actor’s mask he sees me in a vat stompgrapes amongst the slaves and with the sons of Levy at the harvest feasthe sees me walk the desert with that quiet horde armed with knives hesees me with the customs lads frolick at the Roman feasts I know you seeme on the street and do not know it’s me brother brother brother bro’tell me where you go he meets me again but knows not that I am so hiddenmy smile and my breath. I hear cries and laughter rattling of metalbugle and wind soldiers are leading my brother through the city of kingsI run I catch up I fall to the ground I wallow in dust so the soldierstrample me under their feet I run after them I scurry up that hill withthe others I dodge neither the sword nor the whip I do not give up Iawaken at night in the dark and lo four disciples are stealing away withmy brother mutely like thieves I whisper as if in a daze bring him overto me bring him over to me bring him over to me and they lift him up ontheir shoulders and bring him over to me and from your pierced hand dewdribbles onto me.
196?
On Old Age
(John chapter 21 verse 18 verily
verily I say unto thee when thouwast young thou
girdest thyself and walkedst whither thou wouldestbut
when thou shalt be old thou shalt stretch forth thy handsand
another shall gird thee and carry thee whither thou wouldestnot)
but Peter just laughs.
Rabbisays Peter why carry on about old age
guess what you are to dieyoung.
A young man is afraid his lifecan be
taken away what are you going to take from an oldster his
life a bird in a tree.
A young man isafraid he can be put in chains
an old man is free even thrown in apit his freedom
a bird in the sky.
II
(Old age iscoming) no wish to go on lying (old age
is coming) no taste forboasting old age has arrived
and you are what you are (sick ofpretending).
Old age comes like rainfrom the sky
To wash away dust.
III
But some keep bending their backs up to the last
pail in hand until they die aghast
they draw and draw andnever know from what
they pour and such and never know for what
year chases year and half their life is over
is old age comingno old age passes them over.
they start to boast of who andwhat they’ve been
what they have done and what they’ve seen
they hold on to their things (but they rot and rust)
yearchases year till the cup it runneth ov’r
they lie in coffincandles burn and life is over
and old age comes and goes and passesthem over
IV
If only my heart continued to see
Idon’t care about the eyes.
V
Another good thing aboutold age that your back
is stiff.
For an old man it’s hard to bend hard toflex for
an old man he has to stay his ground whether he likes it ornot.
The penny remains on the groundhumility unexpressed
(shoelaces untied but that hardly matters).
VI
God let me live to old age.
