Riga

Metropoetica in Riga

Early autumn in Riga, and another Metropoetica workshop. We walked in the wide streets, in the pale grey light. We watched the city, photographed it, filmed it, wrote about it, and watched it looking back at us through closed windows, reflections in passing trams and the inscrutable eyes of statues. Ingmara took us on long walks through her home town, but we were thrown against our position as outsiders in the city and its complex history, staring at its surfaces and seeing in them reflections of our own places and our own pasts.

Elzbieta Wojcik-Leese

Logs:
A Record of Undressed Riga’s Windows

i.

The offshore gust claims our small top window, vindue,
As it thrusts the balcony door against the bricks of 1936:
The golden age of Copenhagen masonry.

I text the exact measurements – the inner frame –
To our handyman already on his way to Poland.
Nine mirrors for a ballet school should soon be joined
By one glass sheet: 17.7 x 48.8.

ii.

One okno
one glass-eye
missing

iii.

eye-hole

iv.

those windows waiting for their
glass

pain
their proper panes
not some flimsy dish-thin style
but the double glazing that resists

the freezing hint at
gaping black

v.

enter the gap

enter a gap
enter a window
to keep a logbook of logi
the logs log

vi.

rubble up the hollow in hope

fill in the hole
the holes
whole storeys of holes

sedimentary absences

vii.

eye-sore

viii.

or the eye soaring to

a quiet inlet in
Riga’s boisterous skyline
moored by trolley-bus ropes

ix.

the windows of the sky then

openings in the firmament

or is it windows’ heaven
where the drops of firm blue
linger on timber cross-beams?

x.

how to collect the blue drops
of sky, the lagoon
of cellophane
not transparent enough
to let the blue drop

xi.

lock the logs

xii.

board the ikkuna up
so the icon of wind and eye
transcends its frame of reference

xiii.

carve the blue out of
rectangles and
squares
to seduce the gaze
back to the gluggi

xiv.

where the pane may
be redressed

where the corrugated blue
may refract the black
and capture the offshore
gusts in its sleeves of glass

xv.

in the sleeves of a blouse – wind

is that how I saw it?

xvi.

Gribi redzēt Rigu?

Sanna Karlström

Runoilijan patsaalla.

Täysin sydämetön, mitä muutakaan voi odottaa hiljaiselta mieheltä,
jolla on samaa ainetta silmät ja takki.

Miksi sinä vieläkin seisot siinä, sinun hitautesi surettaa ihmisiä,
katsot kaikkea liian kaukaa, ei sinua kukaan enää odota.

Kuinka täynnä itseäsi sinä olet, musta ja painava kuin valvottu yö
jona ikävöit rakkaasi luokse kunnes sinulla ei enää ollut sisintä.

Jos meillä olisi aikaa, sinä vetäisit povitaskustasi ne muutamat kömpelöt rivit
jotka kirjoitit pidellen pureksittua kynää jättimäisessä kädessäsi.

Meistäkin olisi voinut tulla jotain ellet sinä olisi niin huomionkipeä ja kiveä.
Silti joskus ohi kulkiessani pyyhkäisen lumen takinliepeeltäsi.

Ei ole satunnaista patsasta, kuten ei kai rakkauttakaan,
juuri sinä olet jälleen pysähtynyt kohdalleni,

ja katsot herkeämättä kameraan jotta se pysäyttäisi meidät molemmat,
kuvaan jossa sinä katsot kuinka minä katson kuinka sinä katsot minussa

ihmisiä jotka turhaan yrittävät kävellä nopeasti kuvasta kokonainen pää harteillaan,
hidas patsaskätesi jää tavoittelemaan viimeisiä rivejä, lintu jää olallesi, silmäni silmiksesi.

For a statue of a poet

Absolutely heartless, what else could you expect from a quiet man
with eyes and coat made of the same material.

Why are you still standing there, your slowness is making people sad,
you look at everything too distantly, there is no one waiting for you anymore.

How full of yourself you are, black and heavy as the night you stayed awake
longing for your lover until you had no core.

If we had time, you would pull from your pocket those few awkward lines
you wrote with a chewed pencil in your gigantic hand.

We could have had something too if you didn’t crave so much attention and weren’t made of stone.
Yet sometimes when I pass by I sweep the snow off your jacket.

There are no random statues, as there might not be love,
precisely you have stopped here where I am,

and you are constantly looking into the camera, which stops us both,
into a picture where you look how I look at how you look through me

at people desperately trying to walk out of the picture with whole heads on their shoulders,
your slow statue-hand stays reaching for the last lines, the bird stays on your shoulder, my eyes yours.

Sigurbjörg Thrastardottir

Riga In-Sight

það má láta auka við brjóstin sín
í Riga fyrir 2300 evrur,
hvítta tennur fyirr 200, stroka út
ör (250), hengja upp
hornhimnur, jafnvel – en sunnudaga er lokað,
þá má heldur ekki æfa
skotfimi en
litboltamiðstöðin er opin allar
vikur ársins, sjö daga hverrar viku, come rain
or snow, hvergi gert
við litblindu

Riga In-Sight

you can have your breasts augmented
in Riga for 2300 euros,
teeth whitened for 250, scars
erased (250) and retinas
re-erected – but Sundays are closed,
and neither can you practise
shooting then, but
the paint ball centre is open all
weeks of the year, seven days each week, come rain
or snow, no place
corrects colour-blindness

jafnvægi
fer í taugarnar á mér

þeir láta
sem þeir viti
allt, skima íbyggnir,
íhuga sterklega og mæna
á einhvers konar
fyrirheit – fyrirgefið þótt
ég tortryggi þá, steypuna í
þeim, tinið – þeir eru jafnvel með útstæð herðablöð
og austanstæð
nef eins og alvöru menn, en
upp komast
svik; þeir hrökkva ekki við

equilibrium
gets on my nerves

they act
as if they know
everything, glare meaningfully,
consider thoroughly and
focus on foggy
promises – forgive me if
I suspect them, their concrete,
their tin – they even have protruding shoulder
blades and eastbound
noses like real people, but deceived
we are not; they’re never startled

anda út

the women of Riga
never stop
do they
head on
with their twisted ankles
limping
striding
they don’t recognise slow
do they
with street leaves blowing
bouquets in hand
skirts
don’t give way
sway

exhale

konurnar í Riga
nema aldrei
staðar
æða af augum
með snúna ökkla
stingandi við
stikandi
óhikað og slá aldrei
af
götulaufin rótast
vöndur í hönd
pils
láta aldrei deigan síga
nei

góða nótt, kæra dagbók

yfir milljón dala hótelinu
við Pasta iela er
skýjafar flöktandi, líkt
og einhver hafi brugðið
taug í framhliðina
og vilji toga, tálmarnir
við húsið stöðva daglegt
líf í borginni
þann 13. janúar 2004 var ég með
fjörfisk í hægra auga skv. dagbók
þann 11. nóvember 2003 sópaði
maður lauf í kirkjugarðinum í Genf
skv. sömu dagbók
um það vitna götuheitin, næst þarf
að nefna götu eftir milljón dala hótelinu
við Pasta iela 6 sem 14. september
2010 steypist í ána Daugava og
spillir stórkostlegu burðarvirki
silfruðu stálbrúarinnar
til að sýna hvernig hið
hrörlega sigrar nútímann með
flagnandi smetti og
fallþunga dimmu og frægðardrauma, góða
nótt, kæra dagbók

good night, dear diary

above the million dollar hotel
on Pasta iela the
constellation of clouds wavers, as if
someone has hooked a
cable to the front side
and wants to pull, the bollards
by the house hinder
daily life in the city
on January 13th 2004 I had a
flutter in my right eye cf. my
diary, on November 11th 2004 a man was
sweeping leaves in the Geneva churchyard
according to the same diary
the street names celebrate this, next
we must name a street after the
million dollar hotel at Pasta iela 6 that
on September 14th 2010 plunges into
the Daugava river and spoils
the splendid structure
of the silver steel bridge
demonstrating how the
dilapidated conquers modernity with
a peeling face and
a carcass weight of darkness and dreams of fame, good
night, dear diary

Julia Fiedorczuk

Warszawa-Ryga

twarde nadbałtyckie słowo z obowiązkowej lekcji języka
kiedy jestem dzieckiem i cieszą mnie nazwy mam warkocze
socjalizm Europę na mapie zaraz obok Azji jestem
przyszłością narodu lubię nazwy w których jest dal

kiedy jestem apolitycznym dzieckiem cały świat
śpiewa pod opuszkami palców na lekcji geografii
nazwy przestronne jak sny które wypełniam wiatrem
pociągiem żółtymi listkami brzozy i dal

nagle brana w poprzek innych chmur
nowych chmur mgły owiniętej wokół śmigła
jak wata cukrowa teraz teraz teraz dzień wstał
i jest do dyspozycji i dal jest do dyspozycji albo to ja

jestem do dyspozycji dnia i słów i wspomnień ja
się dzisiaj zaczynam całkiem od początku
świat wyrasta ze mnie jak rozłożysta nać
serce wszelkiego światła daję słowom ciało

i nalot widzialności kiedy jestem parą
kobiecych oczu bo teraz jest teraz lądujemy nie ma
mnie na mapie Bałtyk wielki nieobecny
„jedno z najbardziej zanieczyszczonych mórz świata”

nie ma mnie na mapie nie ma cię na mapie
ja się odbijam od tych oczu okien które na mnie patrzą
jak obce kraje jeszcze inne kraje przyłapuję się
na byciu sobą oprawioną w ramkę okna samolotu.

14-15 Wrzesień 2010

Warsaw-Riga

A hard Baltic word from a mandatory lesson of language
when I am a child and names make me happy I have braids
socialism Europe on the map right next to Asia I am
the future of the nation I like names which contain distance

when I am an apolitical child the whole world
sings under my fingertips on a geography lesson
names large as dreams which I fill with the wind
trains small yellow birch-leaves and distance

suddenly taken across different clouds
new clouds and mist wrapped around the propeller
like cotton candy now and now and now the risen day
at my disposal and distance at my disposal or I

at the disposal of day words memories I
am being begun today quite from scratches
the world grows out of me like a spray of leaves
the heart of all world I give flesh to words

an the air-raid of visibility when I am a pair
of female eyes because now is now and we are landing I
am not on the map the great absence of the Baltic Sea
“one of the most polluted seas in the world”

I am not on the map you are not on the map
I am reflected in these eyes of windows which look back at me
like foreign lands some other lands I catch myself at being
myself framed in the airplane's window.

Riga, 14-15 September 2010

Zoë Skoulding

Curtains

from behind closed windows
repeated in sleeping eyelids

from where I’m standing
late sun fractures glass

never so plainly meant
the waiting and watching

a flicker of lashes
in rapid eye movement

the city repeated I
repeat eyes and footsteps

rise to the surface
a history of daylight

or nervous system swarm
where trams hum softly

passing through glass splintered
foreign bodies under skin

what curtains make possible
is living with ourselves

in crossed wires overhead
hands closed round teacups

repeat love and other
addictions shut from sight

all of you moving
through me repeat window

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