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Poetry Readings: In the Fire

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Poetry Readings: Before the middle of July, Paris
Tomas Venclova Poet
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A, štai Paryžiaus eilėraštis, kaip tik kad mes esam Paryžiuje, tai paskaitysiu Paryžiaus eilėraštį. Čia apie mano pirmuosius ankstyvuosius emigracijos patyrimus, kaip mano bičiulis Viktoras Petkus buvo patekęs į kalėjimą, aš dėl to stengiausi triukšmauti, rašyti į spaudą, buvo demonstracijos organizuojamos Paryžiuje. Bet tas viskas neturėjo jo, neturėjo didelės įtakos, nes Petkus vis dėlto išsėdėjo vienuolika metų. Na, tiesa, liko gyvas ir netgi sveikas, bet vis dėlto tai buvo labai sunkus jam patyrimas. Na, ir čia apie tai, kaip žmogus bando, taip sakant, prasimušti į tą Vakarų viešąją nuomonę Paryžiuje ir jam nesiseka. Veiksmas vyksta kaip tik Bastilijos paėmimo dieną, kada visas Paryžius tuščias, visi išvažinėja į provinciją, ir su epigrafu, eilėraštis su epigrafu iš Pasternako. Epigrafas rusiškas. Как поздно отпираются кафе, И как свежа печать сырой газеты! Kaip seniai, atleiskit, kaip vėlai atsidaro kavinės ir koks šviežias dar drėgno laikraščio šriftas.

 

Prieš liepos vidurį Paryžius tuščias.

Nei vienas telefonas neatsako

Ar atsiliepia nesavu balsu,

Pranešdamas, jog numeris nuo pernai

Kiek pasikeitęs.

         Iškalbinga juosta

Nenori tau atskleisti naujo šifro.

Juk tu ir šiaip jau nemažai žinai.

Sakysim, tau visai ne paslaptis,

Kad už kertės – aptriušus Place des Vosges,

Sparnuotas genijus kieme, balkonas,

Nesaugūs rąstais paramstyti skliautai

Lyg Užupy. Apsnūdęs darbininkas

Kapoja kaltu grindinį. Kregždė

Įkaitintam ore nubrėžia veidą,

Kuris išlieka atminty tiek pat,

Kiek ir kiti veidai. Motoras kosti,

Paskui girdėti žvangesys ir keiksmas.

 

Akmuo krantinėj – šiltas it korys.

Šaligatviuos akacijų šluotelės.

Lyg proskynoje – debesys. Beprotis

Tour Montparnasse. Vidurdienis, kurio

Teisybe sakant, negalėjo būti.

 

"Kiek atmenu, tau buvo nuskirta

Kitokia tuštuma. Prie jos turėjai

Priaugti". Žingsniai tolsta aikštėje,

Ir varpas atsišaukia šiapus Senos.

 

"Ar beturėsim apie ką šnekėtis?

Štai tos kavinės, tie pūkai ore,

Kuriuos tu pažinai dar jų nematęs.

Jie dovanoti tau turbūt be tikslo.

Tu gyveni žemėlapio spragoj,

Anapus kalendoriaus."

 

         Notre-Dame

Pilka briauna arčiau, nekaip tikėjaus:

Aš ją matau po kojom, vandeny,

Kur ji palengva plaukia mano linkui,

Atsijusi nuo pastato.

"Žinau,

Tu stengiesi. Bet kas gi tau belieka?

Čionai kita akustika".

Suklydau,

Tatai ne Notre-Dame.

         "Beje, tu pats

Netrukus pasikeisi. Tyluma

Ragelyje, kaštonai, šviesios gatvės

Atliks tą darbą už tave. Žinau,

Bandysi viską. Bet paskui pavargsi.

Varnai, barakai šimtamylėj pelkėj,

Smėlynai, vielos, batų girgždesys

Vis vien pavirs į laikraščio petitą,

Bereikšmį blyksnį sąmonės tinkluos,

Nerealesnį netgi už tave,

Nors tau gerokai stinga realumo".

 

Bastilijos aikštė, didžiulė saulė.

Matyt, ėjau prieš srovę.

         "Aš pridursiu

Dar vieną smulkmeną: vilties nėra.

Yra dalykų, svarbesnių už viltį".

 

Čia irgi toks pašnekesys su savimi. Kaip matote, beveik dialogas, bet tai kažkas į tave tarsi kreipiasi, aiškina tau, taip sakant, tavo ateitį Vakaruose, bet tai esi tu pats.

Here's a Paris poem. We are, as it happens, in Paris, so I'll read a Paris poem. This is about my first early experiences as an émigré, about how my friend Viktoras Petkus ended up in prison. I tried to draw attention to that, to write to the press, demonstrations were organised in Paris. But none of that had any... had any great influence since Petkus spent 11 years in prison in spite of everything. Well, it's true that he stayed alive and even healthy, but all the same that was a very harsh experience for him. Well, this is about how a person attempts to reach public opinion in the West and doesn't succeed. The action takes place, as it happens, on Bastille Day when all of Paris is empty, everyone's gone to the country, and there's an epigraph, the poem has an epigraph from [Boris] Pasternak. The epigraph is in Russian: Как поздно отпираются кафе, И как свежа печать сырой газеты! 'How long ago'... forgive me... 'How late the cafés open and how fresh is the print of the damp newspaper!' 

 

Before the middle of July, Paris

Is empty. Not a single phone replies,

Or else it answers in a borrowed voice,

Announcing that the number has changed somewhat

Since last year. The eloquent recording

Does not wish to reveal the latest cipher.

Why, you can't be so unaware by now,

We'll say, these things are no longer a secret:

Around the bend, the ruined Place des Vosges,

A winged courtyard genius, a balcony,

Unstable arches, propped up with logs, just as

In Užupis. A sleepy labourer

Chisels the roadway. In the sultry air,

A swallow draws the outline of a face

Preserved in memory just about as much

As any face. A motor has a coughing fit,

And then you hear a clank followed by curses.

 

The embankment stones are warm as honeycomb.

Acacia clusters in pavement cracks.

A cloud, as in an opening in a forest.

Insane Tour Montparnasse. Midday, which,

To tell the truth, could not have come to pass.

 

'As I recall, a different emptiness

Was allotted you. You were expected to grow

Up into it.' Steps retreat on the square,

And a bell resounds on this side of the Seine.

 

'Will we have anything else to talk about?

Here are those same cafés, the soaring feathers,

Which you already knew before you saw them.

Most likely, they've been granted without a purpose.

You live inside the rupture of the map,

Outside the calendar.'

                                                Notre Dame's

Grey edge is not as far as I expected;

I see it beneath my feet, in the water, where,

Without rushing, it floats toward my side,

Having renounced the building.

                                                'I know

You're trying hard. But what is left for you?

The acoustics here are different.

                                                'I was wrong,

This is not Notre Dame.

                                'By the way,

Soon, even you will be transformed. The silence

In the receiver, chestnuts, glowing streets

Will perform this task for you. I know,

You will try everything. But then you'll tire.

The barracks in a hundred-mile morass,

The Black Marias, the squeaking boots, barbed wire

Will soon become a newspaper brevier,

A senseless flash in the circuits of consciousness,

Less real than even you, although

You're clearly lacking in reality.'

The Bastille, the colossal sun. It seems

I went against the current.

                                                'I will add

Just one more detail: hope does not exist.

There's something more important than hope.'

 

This is also a conversation with oneself. As you can see, it's almost a dialogue, but it's as if someone is addressing you, explaining, as it were, you're future life in the West, but that's you yourself.

 

The English language translation of this poem has been published by permission © Bloodaxe Books (www.bloodaxebooks.com).

Born in 1937, Tomas Venclova is a Lithuanian scholar, poet, author and translator of literature. He was educated at Vilnius University and later at Tartu University. As an active participant in the dissident movement he was deprived of Soviet citizenship in 1977 and had to emigrate. Between 1977 and 1980 he lectured at University of California, Berkeley, where he became friends with the Polish poet Czesław Miłosz, who was a professor of Slavic Languages and Literature at the school, as well as the Russian poet Joseph Brodsky. He is currently a full professor at Yale University.

Listeners: Andrzej Wolski

Film director and documentary maker, Andrzej Wolski has made around 40 films since 1982 for French television, the BBC, TVP and other TV networks. He specializes in portraits and in historical films. Films that he has directed or written the screenplay for include Kultura, which he co-directed with Agnieszka Holland, and KOR which presents the history of the Worker’s Defence Committee as told by its members. Andrzej Wolski has received many awards for his work, including the UNESCO Grand Prix at the Festival du Film d’Art.

Tags: Paris, Bastille Day, Viktoras Petkus, Boris Pasternak

Duration: 4 minutes, 26 seconds

Date story recorded: May/June 2011

Date story went live: 20 March 2012