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Ilzė Butkutė -Lithuania-

Ilzė Butkutė -Lithuania- TAPFNY 2017

Ilzė Butkutė (b. 1984) is a poet born in the crumbling USSR, but who grew up in an independent Lithuania. She started writing rhymed poems when she was eight, and she rhymed even before she learned to write, in her early childhood. Her first book of poetry, Karavanų lopšinės (Caravan Lullabies, 2011) won the prize for most significant debut and it was listed among the twelve most creative books of the year. She wrote (and published in 2013) a practical guide for workers oppressed by their employers, Atleisk savo šefa (Fire Your Boss). In 2014, her second book of poetry was published, Karnavalų mėnuo (Carnival Moon). Her selected poetry book in English, Caravan Lullabies, was published by A Midsummer’s Night Press (USA, 2016). Her poems have been translated into eleven languages. Ilzė studied photojournalism, and worked seven years in advertising. Currently, she works in the field of creative development.

Embroidery in the Garden of Knives

I am a woman—an open window, who buries a naked bastard crosswind every night in the garden. I quietly cut a clutch of hair

soaked with the scent of hands that would not touch— my braids grow shorter with each trimming. In my stables,

great steeds rear as they feel the approach of armed sleep, driven by a man without a face— he is not forbidden—nor is he given

to me, or to others. Let him be. My friend, please button my corset, so that I won’t lean out the window to watch how my crosswind knives

sprout inch by inch in the garden— how blades rise from the soil and slice the full moon into wane. And dogs—even they don’t feel

how sleep begins its assault. My love, give me that box with needle and thread—I want to sew up my hands with dreams. Translated by Rimas Uzgiris

Siuvinėjimas peilių sode

Aš moteris – praviras langas, po benkartą skersvėjį nuogą kas naktį čia pakasu tyliai sode, ir nusikerpu sruogą

plaukų, prisigėrusių kvapo tų rankų, kurios ir neliestų, ir kasos trumpėja kas kartą. O mano arklidėse piestu

žirgai pasistoja, pajutę, kad miegas artėja ginkluotas ir vedinas vyru be veido – neuždraustas jis, ir neduotas

nei man, nei kitoms. Ir nereikia. Bičiule, užsek man korsetą, kad aš nesilenkčiau pro langą žiūrėti, kaip auga iš lėto

sode mano skersvėjų peiliai, kaip ašmenys kyla iš grunto ir pilnatį skelia į delčią. Net šunys – ir tie nepajunta,

kad miegas jau pradeda šturmą. Mieloji, paduok man dėžutę su siūlais ir adata – noriu rankas prie sapnų prisisiūti.



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