Transitions №2

Author: Gala Uzryutova

Translated by Stuart Ross & the author

 
(Proper Tales Press, Cobourg, 2020)

 
***

The house they brought us to
turned out to be too small,
so we had to live outside.
Soon some people were born in that house –
they knocked from inside, we opened the door from outside
and they stepped into our place.
– What a big house, they said. How many square metres is it?
– We don’t know: we just walk and walk, and it never ends.
– So there’s room to put a lot of small houses here,
for all of us to live in.
And they placed their little houses here,
from which more people emerged, knocking.
We couldn’t keep up with them –
by the time we opened one door,
they had already banged on the second
and rang the doorbell on the third.
So many people filled our house that there wasn’t room for us,
and when they pounded on the three hundred and seventh door,
we let the guests in and slipped into their small house.
We never left,
we never opened the door:
no one ever knocked
on the door
of our little house

 
***

Why does the water of Lake Eckensee
protected by bird droppings on every side,
smell so fresh?
Swans, ducks, and pigeons –
the only royalty here –
shit on the grass, the paths, the concrete,
hiss at passers-by and bask in the sun,
which even the November rain can’t snuff out.
I step onto the grass to get closer
but slip on a puddle of shit.
I take the path instead, but get snarled in shit again.
I climb up to the side of a bank covered in pigeon crap,
wander back and forth through it,
until I emerge on Königstrasse,
where men in Anonymous masks brandish large flatscreens
showing chickens being hurled into meat grinders
so we can eat them.
– They hide all this from us, one of the masks tells me.
We don’t know anything about it, I think.
And I say I’ve been meaning to turn vegetarian for a long time.
He hands me a pamphlet.
Freezing, I go for some lunch,
order a chicken sandwich but just can’t finish it,
so I head back to the lake, where the sun
has possessed the rest of the land.
I look a white swan in the eyes and begin to hiss,
and he turns around and leaves.
I’m heading back to the shit
and I can’t understand why I like it.
Plus why are my shoes still so clean?
We don’t know anything about it

 
***

I didn’t ask for

               I only asked for the snow to fall
the snow to plunge into
the snow, which surely will be
the big flakes
sing while it snows – sing
while it’s white

 
***

don’t touch don’t touch him, well-fed field.
the grass reaches up to his elbow,
can see his top – can’t hear his legs.

but the sea, but the salt, but the millstones
grind the swallows into
black and white.
don’t touch the swallows.

what should he do
with your face in the window,
if you look into the room, not out.
if you were born on this side – don’t stand on that side.

the snow,¬ like a frozen light
its crumbs don’t land on everyone.

he is nameless – but the sea, but it’s close, but the salt,
but he only has to marry the grass.

 
***

all the snow I missed
for the five years
I didn’t visit my father’s village
fell today
and does not fit in the shovel
you gave me in grade three.
I crammed the snow
into the pockets of your coat,
shoved it through the windows of your old car,
and still the snow grows in the root cellar,
and we can’t even see the windows of the bathhouse,
and your boots, too, are full of snow.
it heaped over the fence and soon
will cover the bottom of the Volga.
a little more – and the snow will fill my throat

father, give me a bigger shovel

 
***

The bones the dogs gnaw remind us of winter,
their white blankets the asphalt.
People walk along the shore in pairs.
Your name has blistered and bled,
the whole day begins with emptiness
and will never be whole again.
The curved peel of the eaten apple
slowly fills with snow.
Already nailed to the tavern door:
“Closed for the Winter”

 
***

how can you find your way out of your own house
to at least pick up the mail?
the postman has already leaned his yellow bike on your porch
screaming
– pošta! pošta!
how to find your way out of your house?
follow the sound of his voice
– pošta! pošta!
right left or straight ahead
– pošta! pošta!
which direction is louder?
– pošta! pošta!
everywhere you go you discover someone’s house
the town of Domžale is everywhere
– pošta! pošta!
when you visit here
right away you find other people’s houses
when you live here, you still need to search for your own
— did you bring me a letter today, Dragan?

 
***

Vast emptiness is what you touch
when your train rolls into the city’s outskirts –
you see the coaches, but not the sunny square
how long the donkeys’ hoofprints are.

If you walk in a circle,
you can stomp along the shore around the water
and cross it to another water.
All the names are occupied, and one is vacant,
all the names are unpacked and empty.
You chose the one that people call out most often,
everyone liked it,
but no one wanted to call themselves that.

All the names are occupied, and one is vacant

No one with your name has ever entered the city,
but every day the trains are met
by those who chose their own names

 
***

I was born here and never wandered far from this cave
leaving it for long is unthinkable
we all grew up on this land
grew up in this very cave
our ancestors and our children
I’m completely happy
I’m here with my brothers and sisters
what would we even do in town?
I don’t want to leave here to live there
even though the people in town
are as good as the ones in the cave

 
***

we knew the sun only rises in the east
that’s what they taught us, and we believed them
we went east
and there were other people there
they said, the sun rises in the west
you don’t know anything, we said
and went back home
to watch the sun rise in the east

 
***

the shore’s not as cold as the river
it’s cold as an empty house at the beginning of winter
to a river a river is not a mother or sister
to a river a river – is just that – a river
if everything white lies north
if it’s east here
if you go to the right, there’s not much white
everything to the left is silent white
the north is straight ahead
the north – it’s straight ahead

 
***

Big will never be bigger than very big.
She fits into an old red Volvo,
which fits into Skofja Loka,
a city that fits into Slovenia.
That’s how we live,
that’s the way people are,
that’s how everything is – it’s all arrayed
like nesting dolls,
each taken out – like that.
“Skofja Loka, Skofja Loka,” the children cry,
as if it were an old counting rhyme,
the echoing chime of bells.
You go and seek
and I’ll stay here.
Small will never be smaller than the smallest

 
***

I did not compare myself to the bird
at which they hurled a stone
I just walked along the sea, looked at that bird
it was cold out but she walked on the water
and the waves subsided so as not to scare her away
I gave her my jacket
and returned to the hotel
I did not compare myself to a bird
at which they hurled a stone

 
***

You slice the egg in half,
eat it as if it were someone’s child.
Without giving birth to your own child,
you already munch on someone else’s.
So much protein, totally boneless,
how many not-yours yellow kids did you eat?
If you counted how many since your childhood
and gave each of them a name,
you’d run out of names