Kintija Rogers

Translated by Kintija Rogers

1. Organs that Cause Melancholy / Orgāni, kas izraisa melanholiju

   

   

   ENGLAV

   In The Anatomy

   of Melancholy

   Robert Burton

   concluded, that

   there is no organ,

   that doesn’t cause

   melancholy.

    

   I’m sorry,

   for being late

   for the job interview,

   I was at the bus stop,

   and still

   I missed

   bus No 11

   I had a side stitch –

   right where my spleen is, –

   and was overcome by heavy

   melancholy.

    

   I’m sorry

   I never replied

   to your e-mail,

   I was at the mall

   and saw an ice cream

   seller’s thumb,

   on it – a bandage

   with dinosaurs,

   and was overwhelmed

   by extended

   melancholy.

    

   Deliver me

   from my sins; I went

   into a church –

   I think it was Riga Cathedral –

   to see Iveta Apkalna,

   organ with choir,

   during the third verse

   the soloist started bawling –

   there is no atom,

   that doesn’t cause

   melancholy, –

    

   though the lyrics

   were supposed to be

   in German.

   Translated by Kintija Rogers

   Roberts Bērtons

   Melanholijas

   anatomijā

   secina, ka nav

   neviena orgāna,

   kas neizraisītu

   melanholiju.

    

   Atvainojiet,

   ka nokavēju

   darba interviju,

   es stāvēju pieturā,

   bet tik un tā

   palaidu garām

   11. autobusu,

   man iedūrās sānā –

   tur, kur liesa, –

   un es sajutu smagu

   melanholiju.

    

   Piedod man,

   ka neatbildēju

   uz e-pastu,

   es biju “Dominā”,

   un redzēju saldējuma

   pārdevēja īkšķi,

   virsū plāksteris

   ar dinozauriem,

   un mani pārņēma

   izstiepta

   melanholija.

    

   Atlaid manus

   grēkus; es biju

   kādā baznīcā –

   laikam Rīgas Domā –

   uz Ivetu Apkalnu,

   ērģeles ar kori,

   un trešajā pantiņā

   solists sāka baurot –

   nav neviena atoma,

   kas neraisītu

   melanholiju, –

    

   lai gan vārdiem

   bija jābūt

   vāciski.

2. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGLAV

   Poetess of the interwar period,

   as young as Latvia itself,

   as fine as a typewriter keylever.

    

   In the review of her first collection,

   critic Compote Gustiņš praises her:

   “A rich aftertaste lingers in the mouth!

    

   I detect unique flavour nuances!

   In fact, I’ve had a good pre-taste

   of this poetess for quite some time!”

    

   Poetess of the interwar period

   taps away on a Remington with painted nails,

   placing pages with still-wet ink on the shelf;

    

   protecting them from moths and bugs,

   she sprinkles each sentence with

   insecticide powder called “Destroyer”.

   Translated by Kintija Rogers

   Dzejniece starpkaru periodā,

   tik jauna, cik Latvija, tik šmauga –

   kā rakstāmmašīnas peciņa.

    

   Pirmā krājuma recenzijā

   kritiķis Kompotu Gustiņš slavē:

   “Cik sātīga pēcgarša paliek mutē!

    

   Es sajutu savdabīgas smeķa nianses!

   Man vispār par šo dzejnieci jau sen

   bija laba pirmsgarša!”

    

   Dzejniece starpkaru periodā

   klabina “Remington” ar lakotiem nagiem,

   liek lapas plauktā vēl mitru tinti;

    

   sargājot no kodēm un blaktīm,

   katram teikumam virsū uzbārsta

   kukaiņu pulveri “Destroyer”.

3. THE MALE ANATOMY / VĪRIEŠA ANATOMIJA

   

   

   ENGLAV

   Rocket Surgery

    

   One day, Mashik Plyushkin decided to go to the Moon, so he bolted a centrifuge from the washing machine into his stomach. He tossed back a jerrycan of fuel, and, given his considerable experience in stuffing average to large animals, he successfully swapped his head for the brown box of a TV. As he leaned out of the ninth-floor window, blue flames burst forth from Mashik Plyushkin's backside. At an elevation of one kilometre, his legs detached from the rest of him; as he passed through the atmosphere, so did his lower torso. By the time he fervently whooshed into the starry vacuum, the square box of brains was all that remained. Mashik Plyushkin crashed into a lunar crater and stayed there to get some rest. On the pale screen of his face, in the muteness of space, a news anchor spoke in a wooden tone, recounting the events of the previous day. The coverage emphasized how proud the country was of its scientists and doctors.

    

   The Cerebellum

    

   Tyucharion Pitykhovsky was a doctor with 45 years of experience, specializing in neurology and brain surgery. At the age of sixty-nine, he happened to write a 1200-page textbook for medical professionals titled Neck and Head, a real brick of a read. Having received his copies from the publisher and loaded them into the back seat of his Moskvich,Tyucharion Pitykhovsky got in the car and slammed the accelerator, causing a head-on collision with an oncoming milk truck. The books were propelled forward and, with razor-like precision, severed Tyucharion Pitykhovsky's head. Upon investigating the scene, jokes were, of course, made, to the tune of “he was always losing his head over his work,” or “you are what you do.” A rookie even tried to chime in awkwardly: “Well, yeah, that’s what he, uh, he had it coming…” “Now, that’s over the top!” said his colleague, adding, “Not funny, man.”

    

   Call Me Babinaryev the Limp

    

   It so happened that Anafassiy Babinaryev, as he walked through the fish market, tripped over himself and broke all his ribs. The ribs, along with his spine, had to be removed. As a result, his waist would no longer stay upright — his legs still propped him up as they always had, but his torso, hanging between his hips and shoulders, flopped side to side as he walked, as if his organs were stuffed into a bouncy tube of flesh, sealed at the top to prevent them from spilling out. Anafassiy Babinaryev soon discovered his newly obtained ability to contort himself into unimaginable poses and pondered how to make a living from this talent. In the local circus troupe, he became known as Babinaryev the Limp – a miraculous acrobat who could not only fit into the smallest of safes but also coil up like the shell of a snail. A girl once saw him in the street and rushed over to ask for an autograph: “Mister Babinaryev the Limp!” she cried out. “But you,” retorted Anafassiy Babinaryev, “you – call me Fassya. Because, limp, that I already know that I am.” And so, he floundered home with a smile on his face, his guts tumbling like dead octopuses in a big pot of solyanka.

   Translated by Kintija Rogers

   Raķešu ķirurģija

    

   Mašiks Pļuškins kādu dienu izdomāja aizlidot uz mēnesi, tāpēc ieskrūvēja sev vēderā veļas mašīnas centrifūgu. Viņš izdzēra kannu ar benzīnu un, tā kā viņam bija pieredze ar vidēji lielu zīdītāju izbāšanu, galvas vietā sekmīgi piešuva televizora brūno kasti. Izliekušamies pa devītā stāva logu, no Mašika Pļuškina dibena gala sāka pūsties zilas liesmas. Kilometra augstumā no viņa atdalījās kājas; atstājot atmosfēru – rumpja lejasdaļa, bet, ugunīgi iebrāžoties zvaigžņotajā vakuumā, palika vien kantainais smadzeņu pods. Mašiks Pļuškins ietriecās kādā mēness krāterī un palika tur, lai mazliet atpūstos. Uz sejas blāvā ekrāna kosmosa mēmumā kokaini runāja ziņu diktors, stāstot par pagājušās dienas notikumiem. Tika uzsvērts, cik ļoti valsts lepojas ar saviem zinātniekiem un dakteriem.

    

   Smadzenītes

    

   Tjučarions Piķkovskijs bija ārsts ar 45 gadu pieredzi, specializējies neiroloģijā un paura operācijās. Tā nu gadījās, ka sešdesmit deviņos gados viņš uzrakstīja 1200 lappušu biezu mācību grāmatu mediķiem, “Kakls un galva” saucās, īsts ķieģelis. No izdevējiem saņēmis autoreksemplārus, Tjučarions Piķkovskijs tos sakrāmēja sava moskviča aizmugurējā sēdeklī, kārtīgi uzgāzēja, sasniedzot maksimālo spēkrata ātrumu, un izraisīja frontālu sadursmi ar pretim braucošu pienvedēju. Grāmatas no pakaļējā gala lidoja cauri salonam un ar milimetra precizitāti nocirta Tjučariona Piķkovskija galvu. Izmeklēšanā, protams, plēsa jokus, ka “profesijas dēļ vienmēr bija kā galvu zaudējis,” vai – ka “darbs dara darītāju.” Kāds iesācējs mēģināja iederēties: “Jā, nu, tā viņam, ēm, tā viņam arī vajadzēja…” “Tas nu gan šauj pār strīpu!” iebilda kolēģi, “nebija smieklīgi.”

    

   Sauciet mani par Babinarjevu Ļengano

    

   Tā nu gadījās, ka Anafasijs Babinarjevs, ejot cauri zivju tirgum, nokrita uz līdzenas vietas un salauza visas ribas. Ribas nācās izoperēt kopā ar mugurkaulu, un iznākumā viņa viduklis vairs neturējās taisni – kājas vēl stutējās kā stutējušās, bet starp gurniem un pleciem bija tāds nokarājies torss, kas pie katra soļa mētājās uz visām pusēm, it kā viņa orgāni būtu iegāzti staipīgas ādas cilindrā, kas augšgalā aiztaisīts ar korķīti, lai nelīst ārā. Anafasijs Babinarjevs tagad spēja salocīties vēl nenoģistās pozās un domāja, kā pelnīt dienišķo maizi ar jauniegūto talantu. Vietējā cirkus trupā viņš kļuva zināms kā Babinarjevs Ļenganais – brīnumains akrobāts, kas ne tikai ielocījās visšaurākajos seifos, bet mācēja sarullēties kā gliemeža mājiņa. Kāda meitene redzēja viņu uz ielas un pieskrēja lūgt autogrāfu: “Ļenganā Babinarjeva kungs!” viņa kauca. “Lūdzu,” teica Anafasijs Babinarjevs: “sauc mani par Fasju, jo ļengans – tas jau es zinu, ka es esmu.” Un viņš aizļepatoja mājup smaidīdams. Viņa iekšas kulstījās kā beigti astoņkāji milzīgā soļankā.

4. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGLAV

   Vilibalds Radegasts the Butcher, known in the back-alleys

   as the Ķūģu Vilis, was a burly man who often

   loved to circle his hand-held gyroscope.

    

   Due to meaty forearms, he resembled

   Popeye the Sailor, but his thumb was cracked

   like dried clay in a sunbaked puddle.

    

   In the office, where the smell of ammonia lingered

   masking that of slaughterhouse blood, a client entered

   to pick up a kidney wrapped in a baking sheet.

    

   Before shaking hands, Vilis raised his thumbs

   and noticed that the left one

   looks like a split sorbet.

    

   Recovered, he said, “We require some

   social lubrication!” and then spoke about his wife

   being tortured by menopause,

    

   wild menopause. “Once I asked my wife

   if we might perhaps manage

   with only two television sets,

    

   but she just rolled her eyes and said

   “You square-shaped mopface!” Imagine that?

   Oh well, what’s it to me, ey? As long as

    

   I've got a job – the world can crumble.

   Alright, what do you have your eye on today?

   Aha, kidneys from the milky one!”

    

   In the evening his thumb started opening up

   like flowering tea. Vilibalds Radegasts in bath

   used a rough scrub,

    

   white skin flakes fell into the soapy water –

   like shaved parmesan. The blooming finger,

   chapped sprouted potatoe, was itching.

    

   Finally, he picked up a dagger and sliced off his thumb

   like a stem of a creeping thistle, but it – soared up in the air.

   Now Vilibalds Radegasts rolled up a newspaper

    

   and tried to swat his own thumb

   like a fat hornet bumping against the kitchen window.

   The meaty twig circled Vilis

    

   and flew up his ass. With his prostate stimulated

   Vilibalds lost control of the situation,

   and his mouth started to let out falsettos:

    

   He sang an aria of pain and pleasure.

   The thumb played Vilibalds' rectum like a keyboard.

   What an angelic voice it was.

    

   It wept for its crumbling world.

   Translated by Kintija Rogers

   Lopkāvis Vilibalds Radegasts, gaņģos

   saukāts par Ķūģu Vili, bija būdīgs un bieži

   apļoja plaukstas žiroskopu.

    

   Makano apakšdelmu dēļ līdzinājās

   jūrniekam Papaijam, bet viņa īkšķa āda plaisāja

   kā izžuvušas peļķes sausais māls.

    

   Birojā, kur dvakoja amonjaks,

   lai nomāktu kautuves asinis, ienāca klients –

   pēc cepampapīrā ietītās nieres.

    

   Vilis pirms rokasspiediena pacēla īkšķus,

   un ievēroja, ka tas kreisajā pusē

   izskatās pēc šķelta sorbeta.

    

   Atguvies viņš teica: “Mums vajag kādu

   sociālo lubrikantu!” un tad stāstīja par sievu,

   kā viņu plosot menopauze,

    

   mežonīga menopauze, “Vienreiz sieviņai prasīju,

   vai mēs tomēr varbūt varētu iztikt

   tikai ar diviem televizoriem,

    

   bet šī vien nobolījās un teica:

   “Tu kvadrātveida švabraks!” Iedomājies?

   Ai, bet, kas tad man, vai ne? Kamēr

    

   ir darbiņš,  tikmēr – kaut

   pasaule sabrūk. Labi, ko šodien pērkam?

   Ā, počkas no pienīgās!”

    

   Vakarā īkšķis sāka vērties vaļā

   kā ziedošā tēja. Vilibalds Radegasts vannā

   izmantoja cietu skrubi,

    

   balti ādas gabali bira ziepjūdenī –

   kā rīvēts parmezāns. Uzplaukušais pirksts,

   sprēgājošs asnu kartupelis, niezēja.

    

   Visbeidzot, viņš paņēma dūci un

   nošņāpa īkšķi kā usni, bet tas –  uzspārnoja gaisā.

   Tagad Vilibalds Radegasts sarullēja avīzi

    

   un mēģināja nosist savu īkšķi

   kā resnu sirseni, kas bungājas virtuves logā.

   Gaļīgais sprungulis aplidoja ap Vili

    

   un ielīda viņam pakaļā. Ar stimulētu prostatu

   Vilibalds zaudēja kontroli pār situāciju,

   no viņa mutes sāka šauties falsets:

    

   viņš dziedāja sāpju un baudas

   āriju. Īkšķis Vilibaldu spēlēja kā rektālu klavesīnu.

   Un tā bija eņģeliska balss.

    

   Tā raudāja pēc savas brūkošās pasaules.

5. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGLAV

   With bulgur-stained cheeks, the baby pulls out

   a fistful of grass and goes to stuff it into its dribbling mouth.

   “The baby doesn’t understand yet what is what,” a cold mother

   informs everyone, producing wet wipes from her bag

   as if from a black top hat. Smoke-enveloped father

   scans the lawn: “That dog poop in the middle of the yard

   is Chekhov's gun, sooner or later…” he leaves

   the sentence clipped. It is a slinky-vacation,

   And the Courland beach house “Stone”

   slowly spreads the shadow of refrigeratory coldness

   over the group out on a picnic. Friends – on a throw

   like on a paddle boat, moored to the plant beds

   by horseflies, the baby rolls overboard, but that’s ok,

   he’s learning what's it like. “At sundown, let’s head to the dance;

   the band ‘Wet Cement’ is making their debut!”

   a friend informs those around, with champagne fizzing

   in one hand and the internet in the other. Parents get their toddler,

   before it touches the excrement, carry him through

   the corridor – past decorative watercolour

   paintings of the bay – towards the little room where two flies

   are retelling the figures of seabirds to each other.

    

   “It’d be jokes if we got beaten up,” moving towards the dancefloor,

   says father. But the disco is attended only by large families

   and folk-pop couples, at the edge of the campfire’s lie

   sandals, flicking forked tongues out of their parched

   mouths – and the bare feet spawn waltz onto the dancefloor.

   The baby’s wearing earmuffs; nodding off

   in a sling, he hides this day away like a treasure chest

   in a dream soon to be forgotten. As if looking for “X”, everyone returns,

   the pile of poop still untouched, a small and smiley

   statuette of Buddha. In watercolours, the lights go off.

   Translated by Kintija Rogers

   Bulgura trieptiem vaigiem, mazulis izplēš

   zāliena kumšķi un bāž siekalainā mutē.

   “Bebis vēl nesaprot, kas ir kas,” apkārtējos

   informē vēsa māte, no somiņas kā melna cilindra

   uzburdama mitrās salvetes. Dūmojošs tēvs

   skenē mauriņu: “Tā suņa kaka pagalma vidū

   ir Čehova šautene, agri vai vēlu…” viņš atstāj

   teikumu nokniebtu. Ir slinkī atvaļinājums,

   un Kurzemes piekrastes viesu nams “Akmens”

   lēnām smērē ledusskapīga saltuma ēnu

   pāri kompānijas piknikam. Draugi – uz pleda

   kā uz katamarāna, ko dobēm pietauvo

   dunduri, bebis izveļas aiz borta, bet tas nekas,

   viņš apgūst, kā kas ir. “Rietā ejam uz zaļumballi,

   debitēs ansamblis “Slapjais cements”!”

   apkārtējos informē draugs, kam vienā rokā ņirb

   šampis, otrā – internets. Vecāki paceļ ķiparu,

   pirms tas pieskaras izkārnījumiem, nes cauri

   koridoram – garām dekoratīviem līča ainavu

   akvareļiem – uz istabiņu, kur divas mušas

   viena otrai atstāsta jūrasputnu figūras.

    

   “A prikols, ja mūs piekauj,” tuvojoties dančuplacim,

   saka tēvs. Bet disko ir vien daudzbērnu ģimenes

   un šlāgeru pārīši, ugunskura krastā mētājas

   sandales, no kaltušām mutēm zibinot šķeltu

   lencīti – un basas pēdas deju grīdā iznārsto valsi.

   Bebim skaņu izolējošās austiņas; iesnaudies

   slingā, viņš noslēpj šo dienu kā dārgumu lādi

   drīz aizmirstā sapnī. Meklējot “X”, visi atgriežas,

   kakas čupiņa arvien neskarta, maza, smaidīga

   Budas statuete. Akvareļos izslēdz gaismu.

6. Janus’ Twin / Jānusa dvīnis

   

   

   ENGLAV

   The stairs lead – in this case – down,

   below street level, into

   a windowless side room.

    

   Behind the thick glass,

   in green translucent vessels,

   float human foetuses with anomalies.

    

   No photography allowed,

   as though these were cold cases,

   partially buried but still unresolved.

    

   A new-born with two faces,

   two syllables of “How come?”,

   left unanswered.

    

   Would any answer suffice?

   Still, we’d say: “We would’ve loved to see

   you discover how good

    

   peppermint ice cream tastes;

   you feel the beauty of joining others

   in a standing ovation;

    

   you go to the Louvre, look at her,

   locked in glass, in person, realising: hey,

   she’s smaller than you imagined.”

    

   But you had twice the amount of life

   when so often one is too many to bear.

   Light twice as bright,

    

   double the weight – of clouds over Riga,

   and the concerned whispers of doctors–

   twice as loud.

    

   In such a brief life we clearly see

   both the past and the future, –

   for the beginning is attached to the end.

   Translated by Kintija Rogers

   Kāpnes ved – šajā gadījumā – lejup,

   zem ielas līmeņa, pagraba

   sānu istabā bez logiem.

    

   Aiz bieza stikla

   zaļi caurspīdīgos traukos

   peld cilvēku augļi ar anomālijām.

    

   Fotografēt aizliegts,

   it kā tās būtu neatrisinātas krimināllietas,

   pa pusei apraktas, bet arvien atvērtas.

    

   Jaundzimušais ar divām sejām,

   divām zilbēm jautājumā “Kāpēc?”,

   kas paliek neatbildēts.

    

   Un vai atbilde mierinātu?

   Tāpat teiktu: “Mēs būtu gribējuši pieredzēt,

   kā tu atklāj, cik garšīgs

    

   ir piparmētru saldējums,

   kā tu uzzini, cik skaisti

   ir piedalīties stāvovācijās,

    

   kā tu aizbrauc uz Luvru, apskati viņu,

   iestikloto, dzīvajā, atskāršot: ha

   mazāka, nekā iztēlojies.”

    

   Bet tev tika divreiz vairāk dzīvības,

   un citi jau vienu nespēj izturēt.

   Divreiz spilgtāka gaisma,

    

   divreiz smagāki – mākoņi virs Rīgas,

   un ārstu satrauktie čuksti –

   divtik skaļāki.

    

   Tik īsā mūžā var viegli saredzēt

   gan pagātni, gan nākotni, –

   jo sākums un gals ir saauguši kopā.