Neringa Abrutyé- The Beginning

 Neringa Abrutytė

The Beginning

the beginning can be like this: your shoes new
for two hundred litas, your coat without a lining,
your face peeling, your head full of dandruff, and
your love old, boring, you stop alongside such a beginning,
move a little: from home to the library, from there to the café:
I yearn for someone to shake me up, forcefully make me move,
the beginning can also be there – you’d want it there, where there are
unknown places, unfamiliar people and even language –
the beginning can be speech: you learn to speak, words –
for now only a melody, the beginning can even be different:
you go somewhere, not knowing where, who you’ll meet, what you’ll do –
a tower appears, flies – a crow on the roof, you hold on
with your last strength – you want to jump and struggle to save yourself –
the beginning is bad: it could be better – sometimes
the beginning: nonsense and daydreams,
the beginning, which you cannot have

***

you are not foreign to me but you are still a foreign body
you say you know my soul well
but I don’t want you, and your body terrifies me!
look – a store:
               COFFEE
                              FLOWERS
                                               GIFTS
                                                          SEEDS
…… you didn’t buy me a hat ……
…… and I won’t need earrings … your ring has no name,
but a celebrated Surname, and only so
that both – poets are poets …………
you don’t need to do anything more with me!
what is poetry? are you neglected watered free,
when you dial not your lover but to go for a walk with your brother
or recognizing in the paper some familiar dear face:
which place will love change me which mistakes?

How to Find Inspiration, a Secret

find old notebooks where you’ve written many beautiful banalities – but where are they? – they were left behind And they are probably being read by a forgotten mother I didn’t want to forget them But I was forced to go to another country In my country I became only a celebrity But to become celebrated doesn’t mean to become powerful My parents are rich But they did not give me any ability to become that myself That’s why I forgot my parents In reality they call me sometimes And ask When I plan to visit them But I remain silent or laugh cruelly

Perhaps in a year In reality I was in Vilnius later I don’t say in Lithuania I didn’t stop by to see them I was in Vilnius 4 days And saw those I wanted to see Yes My mother calls and says You’ve forgotten us completely I remain silent they slowly begin to understand Why I am so ambivalent to them My mother offers me a tidy sum She seems silly to me now If only they had offered it to me long ago When I still lived in Vilnius It would be a great treasure for me And now I wouldn’t refuse it So I could distribute it to my friends But my mother says she wants to visit me and bring that money Only because I will have to see her in secret I refuse them And in addition I have come not to trust their words If only they wanted to give it to me They would ask for my bank account Of course I’ll visit them during their funerals Maybe even before they die I’m not that obtuse and cruel

This poem is dedicated to those who have good parents This poem is for those Who are used to soiling their own nest From which they had fallen – or more likely thrown into their own forest From which they had to find a way out on their own with pockets filled with thorns and eternally decayed leaves Unlike a childhood secret beneath the sand under a shard of green glass a dried leaf or a flower blossom Remains Finally this poem is for me myself i.e., for no one.

The Game of Spiritualized Fingers

every spirit has its most favorite dish
every spirit speaks its own language but adapts to any changes only its sounds
every spirit likes to joke it knows mankind’s favorite swearwords
our fingers suspended above Dostoevsky’s favorite dish we know how strong
                   Dostoevsky is
the dish is hot our fingers vibrate our hands hang above spiritualized
Dostoevsky’s dish
and tensed
fingers begin to move back and forth on the white alphabet table – – – – – – –
from 
                   letter to letter readily answering
our
insane questions:
– What is my vocation?
– I D I O T
– What is his vocation?
– C R I M E

Translated by Jonas Zdanys

---

 

Neringa Abrutytė was born in 1972 and studied Lithuanian language and literature at Vilnius University. She made her debut in 1995 with Rojaus ruduo (Autumn of Paradise), a collection of poetry. She later published two books of poems: Iš pažintis (Confession, 1997) and Neringos M. (Neringa M., 2003). In creating her “non-poetry”, by syntactically abridging sentences, transforming affirmatives into questions, and shortening words, she consciously goes against the literary tradition. The predominant genre in her work is, in her words, “unlyrical” love poetry.
Her work has been translated into Belarusian, Danish, Dutch, English, Finnish, Greek and Italian. Selections of her poetry were published abroad in 2003, in Slovenia (Izpoved) and in Denmark (Fingre).
Source: The Vilnius Review