Poems from the poetry book New Shoots
Translated by Aušra Kubilius
The complete Metūgės [New Shoots], a book of linked poems by Birutė Pūkelevičiūtė published in Canada in 1952, has finally been translated into English. This book is notable for being powerful, innovative poetry from a woman’s perspective that appeared before the second wave of feminism.
To commemorate this poet’s recent birth centennial, the website “New Shoots 100” was created. It contains a compendium of information about Metūgės and Pūkelevičiūtė: an overview; 10 poem translations (of the total new 33 translations); a link to a facsimile of the original Metūgės in Lithuanian (only 500 copies and now out of print); a translation of and link to the poet’s introduction for the second edition; links to English-language literary criticism, previous translations, a poem dedicated to Pūkelevičiūtė; and a Note by Aušra Kubilius, the translator and co-creator of the website (https://newshoots.pub).
Vilnius Review is pleased to share a few of the translated poems.
From “Early Dreams,” Section 2
***
Don’t call me, father, from blue fog —
Go on alone.
The forest here is strange:
No echo answers, no shadows fall,
deafened birds don’t hear each other — — —
By the path, a crippled rock kneels like a beggar.
Drought sets in. Pine cones crumble. Needles shed.
Coarse sand, sharp and red.
And my father can’t find a sweet-water spring.
His veins — overstretched strings.
__________
Then I come:
His true sister and sole beloved.
I’ll never water morning seedlings. Smashed
golden pitchers pour down in ringing shards.
Nor will I weave dowry cloth. Unruly heddles
tangle, the willow bobbin breaks.
Steeds startle and shatter the blue sleigh.
My hope chests are bound by heavy iron —
No one will carry them across the threshold.
ELMBROOK / S. Č.
Barn wide open. Like a dark, still
unfamiliar embrace.
Don’t go inside:
Gold-haired midday sleeps on first hay
there. He’s angry.
Sun swords cross through the cracks.
Come to my childhood brook. Elms lift and curve
their lissome arms to shade the current.
Here great ferns grow the fabled flower.
Somewhere washing paddles bark — obedient
stepdaughters pound laundry from morning.
Water cold, towels rough, shirts coarse.
Better to never know midday.
But he wakes and descends the hillside.
I hadn’t loved anyone before.
Tiny blue bells will ring it out now
to the whole meadow — — —
___________
Night.
Shore sand cooling. Fishermen and skiffs
sleeping.
White osier baskets full of fish — full
of silvery booty.
A thin torch flickers. Smell of ropes, tar
and tangy honey cakes.
From „My Mothers,“ Section 5
***
They are all here:
Men. And women. Large, strong women.
Their cheeks rough, like autumn apples lashed
by rain.
At dusk they water animals of peaceful pastures.
Later they wade into a tepid lake and hoist
heavy nets from the bottom. Warmed water drips
from their elbows.
Bursting buds call loudly in the forest,
the future harvest swells within the earth — — —
And they fold their hands and pray to a distant God.
The moon rises. They are like silent spruces —
with endless shadows.
When they step over the high threshold,
their copper ornaments ring, striking
against each other.
Black kettles heat. Mossy beams sweat sap.
Grayed forest tales and night’s coolness
converge in a dark corner.
Now their hair — thick linden honey. Feet
broad, breath scented with sweet calamus.
_________
Holy, Holy Almighty — every
conception is without stain.
***
And the other women. Timid swallows — — —
From the first September frosts, they wrap themselves
in woeful shawls. White silk fringes reach the ground.
They climb down quietly to a pond and read verses.
The pond — a huge and plaintive tear.
Their hands are powerless. And narrow.
But once the stars swerve at sharp angles. Then they
cinch waist with sash and dance, wearing out their
pointed slippers. In one night.
At dawn white-haired dogs lie down on steps and
falling dark moths fill the fire. Like leaves.
Again they wrap themselves in huge shawls —
__________
After that, advent. Advent.
Distant churches drone. Candles in bronze holders
shed tears.
You must pierce fanged dragons with spears and
not lead — ever again into temptation.
God’s face is inscrutable. Like a mask.
