JANINA DEGUTYTE [9209]

Janina Degutyte (1928-1990) nace en Kaunas (Lituania), es una de las autoras más importantes de la poesía lituana del siglo XX. Se convirtió en la conciencia moral literaria de Lituania durante la ocupación soviética. 

ESTUDIO EN CRISTAL

Los campos lluviosos están vidriados de hielo.

La tierra se ha convertido en cristal. ¿Qué pasa si se rompe

bajo el frío y vidrioso cielo?

Esta mañana de invierno es tan filosa y clara

como el cristal quebrado

punzando el interior de la mano que aferra.

Mira,

debajo de tu piel

la sangre y el deseo fluyen,

una nube de rojo.

Fuente: Emery GEORGE. Contemporary East European

Poetry. An Anthology. Oxford Univ. Press, 1993.

HOMERS 

Ja no tornarà, el teu Odisseu, aquest cop no. 

Cap Penèlope no l'esperarà amb el fus 

en el brum constant de les filoses. 

Les Cassandres callen, les mudes Cassandres callen. 

I sense l'escut Aquil·les és dèbil com un infant 

i cau com l'herba. 

Els déus jugaran i castigaran i es venjaran i moriran. 

Però Itaca i Troia tornaran a erigir-se, de la nit, 

del fum, de les flames. 

I els Homers, cecs però tot-veients, 

caminaran a través de milers d'anys, 

del Sud fins el Nord, i anomenaran 

cada país pel seu nom.

Traducción al catalán: Xavier Farré 

Translated by GRAŽINA M. SLAVĖNAS

Lithuania

I walked into the snowy midnight

to bow to the earth and to the sky.

And in that silvery point in space

where winds and ages meet,

the snowflakes fall and the seconds fall

on my hair, on my palms,

and they burn like salt

and fetter my feet

with white enduring ropes.

But I will not leave.

In this silvery point in space

where behind my shoulder

breathe houses and trees,

where snowflakes and seconds sink

into my palms

and into my heart, —

there, in red letters,

silently, I shall write

in the snow

one name, that one name:

Lietuva

I walked into the snowy midnight

to bow to the earth and to the sky.

1966

History

History. History is not papyrus rolls,

dried yellow parchments,

not marble on pedestals.

History is etched in the human heart,

in hope, in memory,

in revolutions, revolts,

the stakes of heretics,

the truth of lunatics,

betrayals,

triumphs, scaffolds, crowns,

concentration camps,

the henchman's mark.

All this can be found

in the small and infinite human heart,—

scrawled, hidden, locked,—

in the heart which

beats under your palm,

the heart

which at this very moment

passes by unrecognized.

History. History

is like music,

like the live bell

in the chapel of Vilnius.

THE YELLOW STARS

1.

The yellow leaves are faling,

the yellow maple stars...

Red ivy on the walls

like screaming patches of blood.

Hark, wails the wall,

Hark, sobs the road...

The rustling leaves whisper about

the horrors of the past.

The narrow streets of the ghetto

are filled with fear.

Penultimate footsteps

And the ultimate silence.

Many crossing streets

But only one —

Only one destination.

Many crossing words

And only one thought.

The narow streets of the ghetto

are filled with sighs of the wind.

Penultimate glances

And the ultimate darkness.

The sky is starless and black. —

The yellow stars are on earth

With their scream of despair,

With their glow of hate.

The narrow streets of the ghetto

are filled with mute sobs.

Black hollowed eyes.

A child's aborted smile.

The cobblestones burn.

The cobblestones cry.

The hard granite melts

Under the weight of deathbound feet.

2.

The graying dusk is paling between the streets.

The yellow maple stars tumble down...

Be still and let me tell you the truth,

The sacred truth which cannot be bought or suppressed.

The footsteps scorching the cobbled road have grown cold.

The yellow stars on the chest no longer cover the graves.

Through the greenish glassy haze of the rain

Tall cranes can be seen rising above the streets.

They carry high the bright flame of the hearth.

Blossoming asters blaze in the windy squares.

Never again shall you follow into a grave,

You stars of sorrow, of hate, of shame.—

Not the maple stars — the other, the dead yellow stars...

1961

LITHUANIAN MOTHER

You came to the burned village and

  kneeling poured a handful

  of burning ashes into

  a linen scarf which you hid

  by your heart.

A black falcon clawed at your heart.

  Then you went home.

Your feet touched the rocks, the river, the grass.

A wild apple tree invited you into its shade.

White ears of rye caressed your hands.

And under your heart fluttered

a stranger to this earth still to be born,—

  as you reached your home, on a high hill.

On a high hill,

  you bowed to the East and to the West,

  to the South and to the North,

  you untied your linen scarf,—

  a red lark soared into the sky.

While you went on with

  the pulling of flax,

  the baking of bread,

    with putting your son to sleep.

1966

UNMAILED LETTERS

TO FATHER

I keep writing you letters

and I keep talking to you.

We hardly ever talked...

We just hid from each other our pain

and avoided each other's tears.

How you loved your poplars and birches

a plowed field, the proud rising rye...

Will you let me slip into my letters

the tremor of leaves,

the warm smell of bread,

or, in the palm of your hand,

the small yellow sun?

You'd be happy with only that.

......................................................

When the wind knocks at my blue window pane,

When silence grows like a lump in my throat,

I will write you letters.

You can read them

from your distance

with the eyes of the stars

or the glass fingers of

silvery rain.

THE HOMERS

He will not return, your Odysseus, this time he will not return.

No Penelopes with their spindles are waiting for him

   by the steady hum of the spinning wheels.

The Cassandras are silent, the voiceless Cassandras are silent.

And Achylles without his armor is frail like a child

   and falls like grass.

The gods will play and punish and avenge and die.

But Ithaca and Troy will rise again — from the night,

   from smoke, from flames.

And the Homers — blind and all-seeing —

   shall walk through a thousand years,

from South to North, and call

   each country by its name.

1971

INTERMEZZO

I am opened bare to the farthest nerve...

To the farthest hidden thought.

Not a wound — —

More like Ups stretching for the sun

Between love and death.

I am opened bare to the farthest nerve...

At the source, at the very source are live streams.

Through my body trickles air like birch sap.

And the buzz of bees, the midsummer sun

Ripple inside me and ripple above.

At the source — living streams...

I won't ask where they flow.

Only blend into the floating shadow of a tree,

wrap myself in a bird's tremulous melody.

At the very source is a glow.

I don't ask whither flows the stream.

At the deepest source is a glow.

Through me ripple grasses and the sky,

Birch trees and the midsummer sun.

What am I in this eternal flow?

I am bare to the farthest finest nerve.

To the deepest hidden thought

Two swans on a dying lake

mournful and sad

Autumn falls on the fields

The sun is dead

Take flight white swans

Storm and lightning will strike tonight

Two swans on a dying lake,—

Immortal, white.

1989.09.06