 LITHUANIAN
QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
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ISSN
0024-5089
Copyright © 2012 LITUANUS Foundation, Inc. |
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Volume 58, No.1 - Spring 2012 Editor of this issue: Laimonas Briedis |
Finding Paulius Norvila
RIMAS UŽGIRIS
RIMAS
UŽGIRIS is a poet, translator, and critic. He received an MFA in
creative writing from Rutgers-Newark University, and holds a Ph.D. in
philosophy from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He lives in
Brooklyn.
Paulius Norvila is an unlikely poet. He studied economics at Vytautas Magnus University. He works at a bank. He never aspired to be a writer. He was not part of the literary world at all. Even his friends did not take any special interest in poetry. So how, then, did I, browsing through a bookshelf in Vilnius one day, happen to find a slim volume of poems called Septyni Metų Laikai by Paulius Norvila?
“Magic,” says Paulius, “it’s magic.”
As he describes it, one summer, not so long ago, he found himself with spare time and nothing to do. For some reason, unknown to us all, he started writing. Soon, notebooks began to fill with musical, metaphorical lines. They came to him without his wanting them. It was poetry. A gift. Now some might say the muse was speaking to him, or God. Others may claim that his unconscious mind needed to express itself. Who really knows where poetic inspiration comes from? What matters is that it came, and he listened, and he wrote.
As an American poet, I cannot help but think of Walt Whitman’s sudden calling to his art, or of Wallace Stevens composing verses in his head as he walked home from work at an insurance company. But in terms of style, other Americans come to mind: the musical, densely metaphoric language of Hart Crane, the seemingly casual lyrics of everyday life by Frank O’Hara, and the surrealistic effects of John Ashberry’s illogical associations. Is Norvila, then, the New York School poet of Lithuania? If so, he wouldn’t have known it. Those writers are only vaguely familiar to him. Perhaps their muse, tired of New York’s congested atmosphere, was seeking out the greener pastures of Lithuania? Anything is possible. But influences don’t really matter for the poetry speaks for itself: it is both cosmopolitan and quotidian; musical, yet without stultified forms; metaphorical and associative, without losing touch with the realities of human experience. It is not for nothing that Tomas Venclova wrote of him: “Unarguable talent. Some of the lines simply made me gasp.” So, standing by the bookshelf that fine summer day, entranced by the swift-moving song of his verse, by the startling leaps from image to image, I bought the book.
I have tried to convey in English the tone and pace of the original without sacrificing meaning—without changing the metaphors that often build into startling associative structures and touch us in unexpected and intriguing ways. It is not easy to translate inspiration, but I have listened, learned, and tried to render these poems into English so that others might listen and understand.
Poems by Paulius Norvila
Translated by Rimas Užgiris
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sometimes it’s like this |
kartais taip būna tavo vardas man nieko nesako krinta tyliai tarytum dangus, lyg Tolstojus su plunksna prie lapo, lyg degtukai, nespėję uždust. krinta tyliai, bet nukrenta garsiai ir atsisuka žmonės iš gatvės, ir taksistas paskolina švarką, kad pridengtumei savo vienatvę. nors neskaitė tavęs, bet pažįsta, o man gėda, nunuodiju draugą ir klausau, kaip pabėga be tikslo paskutinė minutė į lauką. atsisveikinam nugarom švelniai, aš žinau, tu manęs nepamirši. gal kada ir atskleisiu tau planą, o kol kas – tik kava čia. be tirščių. |
| pp. turning i am the same as you, my enemy, i am the same as you, my friend, torn away from unborn revenge, grown up from the grey snow, come from the blackened street, to sit down, reading and reading, the same as you—having begun, the same as you—having ended. my dogs all look to the rain, to spring, my travelers, i’m so temporary—time’s mock-up, which darkening, doesn’t always work. o sleep, checkmate at the window, i am stone or the casing of a bullet, there are towns—pallid life, there are people—without grounds. things turn like that, sink, drown, when my thoughts find me, my accents cripple the rhymes, and we share what there is to share as ordained by the common sweeper, as offered by the common question mark, i am the same as you—begun, i am the same as you—unbroken. |
psl. atsivertimas aš toks pats kaip ir tu, mano prieše, aš toks pats kaip ir tu, mano drauge, iš negimusio keršto išplėštas, iš pabalusio sniego užaugęs, iš pajuodusios gatvės atėjęs, atsisėdęs ir skaitęs, ir skaitęs, aš toks pats kaip ir tu—prasidėjęs, aš toks pats kaip ir tu—pasibaigęs. mano šunys vis žiūri į lietų, į pavasarį—mano keleiviai, aš toks laikinas, laiko maketas, kuris temstant ne visad suveikia. o kai miegs, kai šachas į langą, aš akmuo ar net kulkos paviršius, būna miestas—gyvena nublankęs, būna žmonės—gyvena be tirščių. taip ir sukasi, skęsta, skandina, kai atranda mane mano mintys, mano kirčiai suluošina rimą, ir dalinamės tai, ką dalintis mums paskyrė eilinis šlavėjas, mums pasiūlė eilinis klaustukas, aš toks pats kaip ir tu—prasidėjęs, aš toks pats kaip ir tu—nenutrūkęs. |
| yours do you know it will rain tomorrow, and spring will trip us up again? meeting, we’ll discuss what will be, and we’ll completely forget what there is. we’ll stop, and nothing more, trains barely budging in the station, and the whistle ordering us to come will clog, telling us not to hurry. and we’ll huddle with a fire on the hill or below, wherever we find calm. a wisp of smoke and there is nothing, a wisp of smoke and everything is one. you won’t feel it, but springtime will rise with its hands up too high, and God will speak with your lips like then, like back then—you know? |
tavo ar žinai, kad rytoj lis lietus ir pavasariai mėtys pėdas, susitikę sakysim, kas bus, ir pamiršim visai, kas yra. ir sustosim, ir nieko už tai, tik stoty traukiniai pajudės, o švilpukas, paliepęs ateit, užsikimš ir palieps neskubėt, ir ugnim prisiglausim kalne ar pakalnėj, ar ten, kur ramu, vienas dūmas ir nieko nėra, vienas dūmas ir viskas kartu. ir nejausi, bet rankomis kils tie pavasariai, kur per aukštai, tavo lūpomis Dievas prabils kaip tada, kaip tada, ar žinai? |
| my name saturday says it will rain but we won’t burn candles because bonfires get lit by them if you are looking for medicine you know to get better we can’t get sick write down my name when your eyes are all wet it doesn’t mean that light is gone when night unlocks the door you are barefoot on the street again alone now why so much ballast and so much hopelessness saturday says it will rain only on your shoulder |
mano vardas šeštadienis sako kad lis bet nedeginsim žvakių nuo jų įliepsnoja laužai jei ieškai vaistų tai žinai pasveikti negalime sirgt užrašyk mano vardą kai blausiasi akys nereiškia jog dingsta šviesa kai duris atrakina naktis ir tu vėl gatvėj basa ir viena na kodėl tiek balasto ir tiek nevilties šeštadienis sako kad lis tik ant tavo peties |
Paulius Norvila, Septyni metų laikai: eilėraščiai.
Vilnius: Tyto alba, 2006.