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Ingmāra Balode

uz lidostu

tu it kā brauc uz lidostu man pakaļ
bet patiesībā sēdies taksī un brauc tikai atpakaļ
dūmi šoferim pīpējot sitas pret stiklu kā akvārijā
balss netrāpa telefonā trāpa tajā parkinga kartē
it kā uz lidostu
bet atpakaļ (amerika pārvēršas salā) savelkas dūrē
(gaisa atsvaidzinātājs cauri prērijai šūpojas fūrē)
pirksti ar ogli kāds zīmē to putnu no dzejoļa g. a. spirti nožūst
(arumi saritinās)
un izlīst tuša tev klēpī
neviens nekad nedzied par vīrieša klēpi
vēl vairāk  bail vēl vairāk noslēpums
bet tādas domas var izdomāt gaisā

 kilometri
vertikāli
starp mums

to the airport

it seems you’re on your way to the airport to pick me up
but you’re just getting in the taxi to go back,
the driver’s smoking, smoke pushes against aquarium glass,
a voice misses the phone entirely and enters the carpark ticket machine instead
to the airport – it seems –
but in fact you go back (america shrinks to an island) crumpling into a fist
(in the car, air freshener sways through a prairie)
fingers and charcoal, somebody drawing a bird from a poem,
apollinaire’s alcools drying out
(ploughed fields folded up)
ink flows on to your lap
why does no-one ever talk about a man’s lap
even more terrible even more – a secret
see what thoughts can appear in the air

kilometers
vertically
in between us


Īzāka un Esteres ielu stūris, Kažimeža, Krakova 

kur čīgā kafejnīcās kur singera šujmašīnas bez neviena dzīpara
berzējas gar ienācēju pirkstiem tīksmīgi
nokrikšķ durvju kliņķis
nokrakšķ plecs

nočīkst parkets
atzīšanās čukstus iet pār dakti:
zini
es apēdu šokolādi
ko biji noslēpusi atvilktnē
un ko tu noteikti taupīji brokastīm
tā bija tik rūgta
un garda*

 čīgā kafejnīcā un tu izbrīnījies saki paskaties kā snieg
aiz gandrīz uzzīmētas rūts
bet fonā šokolādes jēzu toms veits dūc

* šajā vietā pasmaida viljams karloss viljams.


The corner of Isaac and Esther Street , Kazimierz, Krakow 

they’re scraping strings in the cafés where singer sewing machines
without a single thread
are soothed by customers’ fingers
a handle creaks
a shoulder cracks 

parquet squeaks
a confession goes whispering across the candle’s wick
you know
I did eat the chocolate
you had hidden in the drawer
and which you were probably saving for breakfast
it was so bitter
and delicious*

they’re scraping strings in the cafés
amazed you say look how it’s snowing
beyond the drawn-on window pane
in the background a low buzz
of Tom Waits singing Chocolate Jesus

*At this point william carlos williams smiles


ģeometrija

es vēl biju ceļā, bet pavēlā plauksta jau lauza vārgākus oleandrus un citas radības dārzā aiz žoga, kur botāniski nepieskatītas nātres dzelzīm smaržoja pāri.

es vēl biju ceļā, bet to meiteni, kas nupat izkāpa no melna auto, ome jau gaidīja mājās vai māte – iznākusi nama priekšā, augšā viens gaišs logs, nekāda prieka, zilā halāta kabatā lakats, otrā – atslēgas, jaušams pēc tā, kā pievelk roku.

 es vēl biju ceļā, bet kāds taipus dārza vārtiem sauca draugu, kāds skaitīja Tallinā zvaigznes,
kāds Grācā pagriezās uz otriem sāniem, kamēr es prātoju, kā labāk tulkot viņa
dzejoli „czworobok” – drīzāk četrskaldnis, nevis četrstūris, tikai ne kubs.

ietinkšķas zvaniņš uz stūres.
es vēl ceļā, bet Zolitūde guļ, ā, nē, kaimiņš staigā ar suni.

 nepieraduši sasveicināties, tomēr uzsmaida kādam,
kas, skaitīdams augusta kartē punktus,
pieradinās pie ceļa.


Geometry

I was still on the road, but dusk’s fingers picked out brittle oleanders and other creatures down there in the botanical garden behind the fence, untended nettles sending up their scent.

I was still on the road, but a mother or grandmother shuffled on the doorstep for that young girl who’d just stepped out of the black car – a bright window above her, no pleasure, a scarf in one pocket of her overall, keys in the other, I could see by the way she moved her hand.

I was still on the road, but on the other side someone was yelling a friend’s name, someone was counting stars above Tallin, someone turned on his side in Graz while I was on the road wondering how to translate his poem ‘ czworobok’ – maybe a tetragon, maybe a square, but not a cube.

A bell tings on a handlebar.
I’m still on the road, but Zolitūde is sleeping, or, no, look, there’s a neighbour
walking a dog;
we don’t usually say hello, but still he does spare a smile
for me, joining the dots on the map of late August,
getting used to the road.


Rīga

Tas, par ko vislaik runājam, izpaužas kā bļodiņa pastas ar tomātiem,
ko meita, ietītu follijā, ved no tēva caur pilsētu mātei.
Norijuši savu klusēšanu,
sazinās tagad pār mūriem.

Tas, par ko mēs reiz mēdzām runāt,
iznirst riteņu starpā kā zālaina tumsa.
Vienreiz es braucu cauri pilsētai naktī,
ieraudzīju tevi stāvam vārtu rūmē un, kā atklājās,
lasām grāmatu. Somā siers un tomāti, un mēs
devāmies ieņemt svešu dzīvokli, kurā, kā atklājās,
jau kādu laiku dzīvoja mana māte,
atstājusi pie ledusskapja zīmīti,
aizbraukusi uz laukiem ravēt.


Riga

What we talk about all the time appears as a bowl of tomato pasta
wrapped up in foil; a daughter carries it through the city
from her father to her mother.
Both have swallowed their silence and now
send dishes and signs across the town.

 What we used to talk about once
falls like shadows on grass between the wheels.
Once I rode through the town at night,
and saw you standing in the doorway by your bike and, it seemed,
reading a book. Olives and cheese in the bag, we set off
to occupy a flat in which, as it appeared,
my mother lived. Now
she’d posted a note on the fridge:
I’m off to the fields to do some weeding.


Virtual walk

A virtual walk
becomes even more virtual as I turn
backwards and see
snow
changing my screen into a nameless street on
someone’s unsigned postcard,
a few grey men falling
under a concrete flag.
Monument of Victory –
of what victory
exactly?
Old men gather by it on the ninth of May
to invent their victory.
Tulips travel through the gardens of this wonderful
suburbia. A very virtual walk.
Young men, meanwhile, talk about another
victory
rising over the sleepy park
on the gray scale hours marked
slightly pink
by dawn.
Yachts snore on the waterside nearby,
taking part in the victory
as children take their part
and the elderly take the sun
under the linden trees. Time is free
for some of them.
Victory, then.
I’m walking in the snow,
rushing towards the word
it's most important to conquer
in this battle with
the calendar. March.


Nepazīstamā paradīzē

kā tevi meklēju nepazīstamā paradīzē
pat tur ir kā sapņos tu vienmēr sēdi ar muguru
katrreiz nevar pat atrast apavus
nevar sazīmēt kreklu lūdzu nevalkā neko rūtainu nekad nevelc svešas drēbes

tur rīgā es ar hemingveja lielo ķieģeli klēpī ilgi sēdēju rožu ielokā pie brīvības
pieminekļa
kāds zēns blakus dzēra sintētisku kakao kāda meitene steidzās acīmredzami apreibusi
kāds bundzinieks spēlējot ksilofonu miedza acis kā vērojot gaisa numurus cirkū

bet pa ieliektajām ietvēm pie brīvības pieminekļa
neviens pats negāja tavā gaitā

tad arī nobijos –
ja mēs dzīvotu pavisam citur
zem visiem tiem citrusiem mīdiju noklātiem galdiem jūras akmentiņiem un lidojošajām zivīm – matisa zili svelotajā debesī un akvareļu perioda jahtu dzeltenajās kajītēs

kā es tevi tur atrastu kā varētu zināt

vai tiešām mums tikai viens te parks viens piemineklis
brīvības
1 dzīve


Unknown paradise

I’m looking for you in an unknown paradise
even there you sit turned away
I can’t even find any shoes
even your shirt is unrecognizable please don’t ever wear anything tartan please don’t wear someone else’s clothes

in riga I sat for hours in circles of roses
hemingway's brick of a book on my knees
by the freedom monument
a boy nearby drank chemical cocoa a girl rushed past visibly wired
a drummer played xylophone squinting at a circus in the air

 but no-one walking the curved terrace had your gait

and that was the moment I got frightened –
what if we lived somewhere else
under all those citrus trees by tables with langoustines and pebbles beneath the flying fish in Matisse’s burning blue and on his yellow watercolour boats
how could I find you there how could I ever know
if we really do have just one park here one monument
of freedom
1 life

Translated by Ingmara Balode and Zoë Skoulding


Iela

pavasarī tas stūris izskatījās gaišāks
tu gāji tam garām redzams līdz pēdējam brīdim
ar jaunu seju ko nospriego pēkšņs maigums
tagad
iela uzgriezusi mums muguru
apsegusies ar cietām lapām

tu ieej pagriezienā
plāns kā akācijas svilpīte kas sāp pie lūpām
un pazūdi
jūlija tumsā kam pēkšņi ir novembra rokas


Street

in the spring that corner looked brighter
you passed it visible to the last moment
with a new face tense with a rush of tenderness
now
the street has turned its back
it has covered itself with hard leaves

you make a turn
flat like an acacia whistle hurting one’s mouth
and disappear
into the July darkness that suddenly has the arms of November

Translated from the Latvian by Ieva Lešinska

Metropoetica News

Out now: the Metropoetica book

Metropoetica is now a book! You can now find poems, images and essays from each of the poets as well as work made collaboratively in the streets of several European cities. Published by Seren, it can be ordered here for £9.99 from the Seren website.


Metropoetica in Wrocław

Watch Inside Outside - a film from the Metropoetica poets, shot at a performance in the streets of Wrocław in April 2011

Metropoetica in Riga

"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..."   Responses to Riga from the poets - now available online

News archive