{"id":3435,"date":"2011-10-14T07:50:17","date_gmt":"2011-10-14T07:50:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/poetry\/?p=206"},"modified":"2011-10-14T07:50:17","modified_gmt":"2011-10-14T07:50:17","slug":"3-poems-by-marius-burokas-translated-by-rimas-uzgiris-2-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2011\/10\/14\/3-poems-by-marius-burokas-translated-by-rimas-uzgiris-2-2\/","title":{"rendered":"7 Poems by Marius Burokas translated from Lithuanian by Rimas Uzgiris"},"content":{"rendered":"

Cave-dwellers<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All those people, still seated<\/p>\n

in their cars, in the afternoon<\/p>\n

before it ends, work already done.<\/p>\n

One hour, two, three.<\/p>\n

They wipe their sweaty hands<\/p>\n

on pants, or on the seat.<\/p>\n

They smoke, and gaze into nowhere.<\/p>\n

A feeling of being digested, slowly,<\/p>\n

inside intestines, inside other intestines,<\/p>\n

inside a Japanese, a Russian, box,<\/p>\n

inside the box of God:<\/p>\n

packed together in layers, decorated<\/p>\n

on the outside with satellites.<\/p>\n

And further, further, all is unclear to the eye.<\/p>\n

One hour, two.<\/p>\n

In no hurry, they ignite their engines<\/p>\n

and turn out of forgotten streets.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “Urviniai” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

After Work Blues<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

alone after work<\/p>\n

a beer and a thriller<\/p>\n

on a motley planet<\/p>\n

where I kneel down<\/p>\n

and create this picture<\/p>\n

for myself:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2014through the glass, July weather<\/p>\n

cools in twilight, children’s shouts<\/p>\n

hang in the air<\/p>\n

and a neighbor leads out<\/p>\n

her shambling rottweiler<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and you<\/p>\n

my legend, my myth,<\/p>\n

close your eyes<\/p>\n

and say:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2014open me sleeping<\/p>\n

with loving hands<\/p>\n

doorman<\/p>\n

box-mover<\/p>\n

do not distinguish, there in the dark,<\/p>\n

you from me<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

only leave in the morning<\/p>\n

through blinds drenched in sun,<\/p>\n

loving and strong<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2014 \u2014 \u2014 \u2014 \u2014 \u2014 \u2014<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

but\u2014<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you fumble your way<\/p>\n

to bed<\/p>\n

and the planet grows pale<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “Bliuzas ‘Po Darbo'” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Conditions<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Again, I come face to face with violence.<\/p>\n

You find yourself dialing the number\u2014<\/p>\n

pressed into black vulcanite, breathed into.<\/p>\n

Yes, I felt remorse, because I killed.<\/p>\n

Yes, I felt remorse, because I ate and wrote.<\/p>\n

I am too ashamed to help anyone.<\/p>\n

All it takes is a whistle to close me up.<\/p>\n

To cover me over.<\/p>\n

You will get no satisfaction from this.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

So I unravel myself from my body,<\/p>\n

plastering up a sticky cocoon.<\/p>\n

I grow strong for autumn, for blackness.<\/p>\n

I clutch at a tree trunk.<\/p>\n

But this is just a game.<\/p>\n

A game. Because nothing hurts.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nor any pathos for you\u2014<\/p>\n

just laughter, and the stained glass<\/p>\n

of wings on a sunny morning.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “B\u016bsenos” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Interior IV<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to Sarah<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Awakened in the hush of heaving<\/p>\n

cobwebs. Sunlight, plastered<\/p>\n

with wet leaves, caresses concrete.<\/p>\n

“Your place is like a trapper’s hut,”<\/p>\n

she says, “all wooden floors and shadow.”<\/p>\n

Coffee keeps me quiet. On her side\u2014<\/p>\n

sand cuts salt and clouds. On mine\u2014<\/p>\n

cats melt into trees. Later, the airplane<\/p>\n

divides us.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “Interjeras IV” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Your transparent fingers\u2014<\/p>\n

tiny minnows,<\/p>\n

wiggling nervously.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I press them into mine\u2014<\/p>\n

clumsy,<\/p>\n

thick,<\/p>\n

and strong<\/p>\n

like the bars of a cage.<\/p>\n

Fret and shake.<\/p>\n

You won’t get out.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I promise<\/p>\n

to feed you,<\/p>\n

protect you<\/p>\n

and care.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “Tavo pir\u0161tai persi\u0161vie\u010dia” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Laundromat<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

So many girls with highlighted hair<\/p>\n

folding their underwear<\/p>\n

to the drone of laundry machines<\/p>\n

neon<\/p>\n

and the TV news<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Stealthily, I watch<\/p>\n

them perform the ritual<\/p>\n

baskets full of underwear<\/p>\n

scented flesh<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

So serious<\/p>\n

so pretty<\/p>\n

and so focused these girls<\/p>\n

who don’t know me at all<\/p>\n

bending over their brimming baskets<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A foreign language<\/p>\n

foreign bodies<\/p>\n

and foreign me<\/p>\n

quickly stuffing<\/p>\n

his rags<\/p>\n

into the washing machine’s throat<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

His chest tightening<\/p>\n

alone<\/p>\n

and completely naked<\/p>\n

the Lithuanian poet<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “Skalbykla” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

for I.D.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

slick apple dreams<\/p>\n

clay pitcher face<\/p>\n

split by thirst<\/p>\n

by desire<\/p>\n

to see you<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

hands sow the table<\/p>\n

cuneiform script<\/p>\n

hands handle forms<\/p>\n

covered over<\/p>\n

washed out<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I know\u2014my gaze<\/p>\n

betrays me\u2014<\/p>\n

betrays you\u2014<\/p>\n

drifting away<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

except in summer when I fly<\/p>\n

to the window<\/p>\n

and squeeze through the old screen<\/p>\n

to you<\/p>\n

calm closed eyes<\/p>\n

and bite your shoulder<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translation of “glit\u016bs miego obuoliai” by Marius Burokas,<\/p>\n

B\u016bsenos<\/em>. Lietuvos ra\u0161ytoj\u0173 sajungos leidykla, 2005.<\/p>\n

______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Marius Burokas<\/strong> (b. 1977), poet and translator, has studied Lithuanian language and literature at Vilnius University. He has worked as a Lithuanian language teacher, has served as project editor for a public relations agency, has worked in advertising agency and has coordinated literary programs at the Eastern Lithuanian Cultural Centre. Now he is a freelance writer, translator and also writes for cultural internet magazine Bernardinai.lt.<\/em><\/p>\n

Marius made his debut with the poetry collection Ideograms (Ideogramos) in 1999. His second book of poetry, States of Being (B\u016bsenos), appeared in 2005. His third book \u2013 I\u2018ve Learned Not To Be (I\u0161mokau neb\u016bti) was published this February. His third book was awarded \u201cThe Young Yotvingian prize\u201d as a best young poet\u2019s book, published in two years.<\/em><\/p>\n

His poetry has been translated into Polish, Russian, Latvian, Finnish, Slovenian, English, German and Ukrainian. Some of his poetry is also published in \u201cNew European Poets\u201d anthology (\u201cGreywolf Press\u201d, 2008).<\/em><\/p>\n

Marius Burokas translated poetry of American, Canadian and Australian poets Charles Simic, Walter S. Marwin, Gwendolyn MacEwen, Robinson Jeffers, Robert Bly, James Dickey, William Carlos Williams, Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, Hilda Doolittle (H.D.), Alan Dugan, David Malouf and others. He is also a compiler and one of the translators of Allen Ginsberg poetry selection \u201cHowl, Kaddish and Other Poems\u201d (2011). He has translated prose of James G. Ballard, Woody Allen, Sherman Alexie, Hunter S. Thompson and others.<\/em><\/p>\n

In 2001 he participated in International Writing Program in Iowa. Marius is a Lithuanian Writers\u2019 Union member since 2007. He lives in Vilnius. E-mail: burius102@yahoo.com<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

+++<\/em><\/p>\n

Rimas Uzgiris’<\/strong> poetry has been published in Bridges, 322 Review, Lituanus, Prime Number Magazine, The Poetry Porch, and is forthcoming in Quiddity. His translations have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, and are forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Modern Poetry in Translation, Lituanus and Two Lines Online. He received an MFA in creative writing from Rutgers-Newark University, where he studied poetry with Rigoberto Gonzalez and Rachel Hadas. He holds a Ph.D. in philosophy from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His philosophical monograph, Desire, Meaning, and Virtue: The Socratic Account of Poetry, was published in 2009.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Cave-dwellers   All those people, still seated in their cars, in the afternoon before it ends, work already done. One hour, two, three. They wipe their sweaty hands on pants, or on the seat. They smoke, and gaze into nowhere. A feeling of being digested, slowly, inside intestines, inside other intestines, inside a Japanese, a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3435","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3435","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3435"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3435\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3435"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3435"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3435"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}