Poem
Valzhyna Mort
BELARUSIAN I
even our mothers have no idea how we were bornhow 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 anymore
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
© Translation: 2008, Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press, , 2008
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press, , 2008
HET WITRUSSISCH I
Zelfs onze moeders wisten niet hoe we ter wereld kwamenhoe wij zelf hun benen uiteen duwden en naar buiten kropen
zoals je na een bombardement uit de ruïnes kruipt
we wisten niet wie van ons een jongen was en wie een meisje
en aten aarde alsof we brood aten
maar onze toekomst was als een turnster op de dunne
draad van de horizon, en wat deed zij daar
niet allemaal
de teef.
we groeiden op in een land waar
met krijt de deuren werden gemerkt
en ’s nachts twee of drie auto’s voor kwamen rijden
en ons meenamen – maar
in die auto’s zaten geen mannen
met machinegeweren
en geen vrouw met een zeis
nee – zo kwam de liefde naar ons toe
om ons mee te nemen.
alleen in de openbare toiletten beleefden we de vrijheid
en voor een paar roebels vroeg niemand ons wat we er deden
’s zomers vochten we met de hitte, ’s winters met de kou
maar toen ze ontdekten dat wij zelf onze taal waren
en ze onze tongen uitrukten begonnen we te praten met onze ogen
en toen ze ons de ogen uitstaken praatten we met onze handen
toen ze onze handen afhakten begrepen we elkaar met onze tenen
toen ze ons in de benen schoten, knikten we van ‘ja’
en we schudden van ‘nee’... en toen ze onze hoofden levend
opvraten, kropen we in de schoot van onze slapende moeders
alsof dat een schuilkelder was
om opnieuw te worden geboren.
maar ginds, aan de einder, sprong de turnster van onze toekomst
door de brandende hoepel
van de zon.
© Vertaling: 2009, Roel Schuyt
БЕЛАРУСКАЯ МОВА I
Нават нашыя маці не знаюць як мы з’явіліся ў сьветяк 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.
© 2008, Valzhyna Mort
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press,
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press,
Poems
Poems of Valzhyna Mort
Close
BELARUSIAN I
even our mothers have no idea how we were bornhow 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 anymore
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
© 2008, Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: 2008, Copper Canyon Press,
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: 2008, Copper Canyon Press,
BELARUSIAN I
even our mothers have no idea how we were bornhow 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 anymore
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
© 2008, Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: 2008, Copper Canyon Press,
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: 2008, Copper Canyon Press,
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