Quadro de Vladimir Paine( 1955), pintor de origem bielorussa
Belarusian I
even our mothers have no idea how we were born
how we parted their legs and crawled out into the world
the way you crawl from the ruins after a bombing
we couldn’t tell which of us was a girl or a boy
we gorged on dirt thinking it was bread
and our future
a gymnast on a thin thread of the horizon
was performing there
at the highest pitch
bitch
we grew up in a country where
first your door is stroked with chalk
then at dark a chariot arrives
and no one sees you any more
but riding in those cars were neither
armed men nor
a wanderer with a scythe
this is how love loved to visit us
and snatch us veiled
completely free only in public toilets
where for a little change nobody cared what we were doing
we fought the summer heat the winter snow
when we discovered we ourselves were the language
and our tongues were removed we started talking with our eyes
when our eyes were poked out we talked with our hands
when our hands were cut off we conversed with our toes
when we were shot in the legs we nodded our head for yes
and shook our heads for no and when they ate our heads alive
we crawled back into the bellies of our sleeping mothers
as if into bomb shelters
to be born again
and there on the horizon the gymnast of our future
was leaping through the fiery hoop
of the sun
Valzhyna Mort, born in Minsk, Belarus
БЕЛАРУСКАЯ МОВА I
Нават нашыя маці не знаюць як мы з’явіліся ў сьвет
як мы самі рассунуўшы іхнія ногі вылезьлі вонкі
так вылазяць пасьля бамбардыроўкі з руінаў
мы не ведалі хто з нас хлопец а хто дзяўчына
і жэрлі зямлю і думалі што жрэм хлеб
а нашая будучыня – гімнастачка на тонкай
нітачцы далягляду, што там яна толькі
не вырабляла
бля.
мы вырасьлі ў краіне дзе
спачатку крэйдай крэсьляць дзьверы
і ўночы прыязжаюць дзьве-тры машыны
і звозяць нас але
ў тых машынах былі не мужчыны
з аўтаматамі
і не жанчына с касою
але так да нас прыязджала каханьне
і забірала з сабою.
толькі ў грамадскіх туалетах мы адчувалі свабоду
дзе за двесці рублёў ніхто не пытаў што мы там робім
мы былі супраць сьпёкі летам, супраць сьнега зімой
а калі апынулася што мы былі нашай мовай
і нам вырвалі языкі мы пачалі размаўляць вачыма
а калі ў нас выкалалі вочы мы пачалі размаўляць рукамі
калі нам адсяклі рукі мы размаўлялі пальцамі на нагах
калі нам прастрэлілі ногі, мы ківалі галавою на «так»
і хісталі галавою на «не»... а калі нашыя галовы з'елі жыўцом
мы залезлі назад ў чэравы нашых спячых маці
як у бомбасховішчы
каб нарадзіцца ізноў.
а там, на даляглядзе, гімнастачка нашай будучыні
скакала праз вогненны абруч
сонца.
Valzhyna Mort, born in Minsk, Belarus, made her American debut in 2008 with the poetry collection, Factory of Tears (Copper Canyon Press). Mort received the Crystal of Vilenica award in Slovenia in 2005 and the Burda Poetry Prize in Germany in 2008. She has been a resident poet at Literarisches Colloquium in Berlin, Germany, and has received a Gaude Polonia fellowship in Poland. She teaches at the University of Baltimore.
There is an urgency and vitality to her poems; the narrative moves within universal themes—lust, loneliness, the strangeness of god, and familial love—while many poems question what language is and challenge the authority that delegates who has the right to speak and how. The New Yorker wrote, "Mort strives to be an envoy for her native country, writing with almost alarming vociferousness about the struggle to establish a clear identity for Belarus and its language." Library Journal described Mort's vision as "visceral, wistful, bittersweet, and dark," and Midwest Book Review called Factory of Tears "a one-of-a-kind work of passion and insight."
These poems were translated from the Belarusian by Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Wright.
music
Arthur Lourié ‒ 5 Préludes fragiles, Op.1
https://youtu.be/mStIP_3b_Rk
Belarusian I
even our mothers have no idea how we were born
how we parted their legs and crawled out into the world
the way you crawl from the ruins after a bombing
we couldn’t tell which of us was a girl or a boy
we gorged on dirt thinking it was bread
and our future
a gymnast on a thin thread of the horizon
was performing there
at the highest pitch
bitch
we grew up in a country where
first your door is stroked with chalk
then at dark a chariot arrives
and no one sees you any more
but riding in those cars were neither
armed men nor
a wanderer with a scythe
this is how love loved to visit us
and snatch us veiled
completely free only in public toilets
where for a little change nobody cared what we were doing
we fought the summer heat the winter snow
when we discovered we ourselves were the language
and our tongues were removed we started talking with our eyes
when our eyes were poked out we talked with our hands
when our hands were cut off we conversed with our toes
when we were shot in the legs we nodded our head for yes
and shook our heads for no and when they ate our heads alive
we crawled back into the bellies of our sleeping mothers
as if into bomb shelters
to be born again
and there on the horizon the gymnast of our future
was leaping through the fiery hoop
of the sun
Valzhyna Mort, born in Minsk, Belarus
БЕЛАРУСКАЯ МОВА I
Нават нашыя маці не знаюць як мы з’явіліся ў сьвет
як мы самі рассунуўшы іхнія ногі вылезьлі вонкі
так вылазяць пасьля бамбардыроўкі з руінаў
мы не ведалі хто з нас хлопец а хто дзяўчына
і жэрлі зямлю і думалі што жрэм хлеб
а нашая будучыня – гімнастачка на тонкай
нітачцы далягляду, што там яна толькі
не вырабляла
бля.
мы вырасьлі ў краіне дзе
спачатку крэйдай крэсьляць дзьверы
і ўночы прыязжаюць дзьве-тры машыны
і звозяць нас але
ў тых машынах былі не мужчыны
з аўтаматамі
і не жанчына с касою
але так да нас прыязджала каханьне
і забірала з сабою.
толькі ў грамадскіх туалетах мы адчувалі свабоду
дзе за двесці рублёў ніхто не пытаў што мы там робім
мы былі супраць сьпёкі летам, супраць сьнега зімой
а калі апынулася што мы былі нашай мовай
і нам вырвалі языкі мы пачалі размаўляць вачыма
а калі ў нас выкалалі вочы мы пачалі размаўляць рукамі
калі нам адсяклі рукі мы размаўлялі пальцамі на нагах
калі нам прастрэлілі ногі, мы ківалі галавою на «так»
і хісталі галавою на «не»... а калі нашыя галовы з'елі жыўцом
мы залезлі назад ў чэравы нашых спячых маці
як у бомбасховішчы
каб нарадзіцца ізноў.
а там, на даляглядзе, гімнастачка нашай будучыні
скакала праз вогненны абруч
сонца.
Valzhyna Mort, born in Minsk, Belarus, made her American debut in 2008 with the poetry collection, Factory of Tears (Copper Canyon Press). Mort received the Crystal of Vilenica award in Slovenia in 2005 and the Burda Poetry Prize in Germany in 2008. She has been a resident poet at Literarisches Colloquium in Berlin, Germany, and has received a Gaude Polonia fellowship in Poland. She teaches at the University of Baltimore.
There is an urgency and vitality to her poems; the narrative moves within universal themes—lust, loneliness, the strangeness of god, and familial love—while many poems question what language is and challenge the authority that delegates who has the right to speak and how. The New Yorker wrote, "Mort strives to be an envoy for her native country, writing with almost alarming vociferousness about the struggle to establish a clear identity for Belarus and its language." Library Journal described Mort's vision as "visceral, wistful, bittersweet, and dark," and Midwest Book Review called Factory of Tears "a one-of-a-kind work of passion and insight."
These poems were translated from the Belarusian by Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Wright.
music
Arthur Lourié ‒ 5 Préludes fragiles, Op.1
https://youtu.be/mStIP_3b_Rk
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