Scene from Medieval War by Valzhyna Mort

Scene from Medieval War

BY VALZHYNA MORT

BIOGRAPHY

When God appears before me he is a burning

woman tied to a bush.

Her nakedness, a missed

spot on a busy canvas, where a male hand

has been practicing female gestures. For instance,

hanging herself like laundry over her own arm.

Nipple-colons introduce this scene of medieval war:

horses crowned with riders are leaving;

horses’ tails, like a clock’s hands, whip

flies of hours off their round thighs.

Time is an insect that leaves

its maggots to hatch on an open wound of a mammal.

There’s more face on these thighs than on all of the women’s bodies.

One, with an arrow aimed at her, hands on her bent

knees as if she wanted to ski into death like a scared

child, mocks the splendid horse tails with hair

so red, all of her blood must have gone into it.

So, it isn’t a bush on fire. It’s red hair she used

as a shield. In the distance, a town burning.

Impatiently, horses whip buzzing ashes. The end.

Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort

 

Ars Poetica

BY VALZHYNA MORT

BIOGRAPHY

Not books, but

a street opened my mouth like a doctor’s spatula.

One by one, streets introduced themselves

with the names of national

murderers.

In the State Archives, covers

hardened like scabs

over the ledgers.

Inside a tiny apartment

I built myself

                     into a separate room,

peopled it

                           with the Calibans

of plans for the future.

Future that runs on the schedule of public buses,

         from the zoo to the circus, what future;

what is your alibi for these ledgers, these streets, this apartment, this future?

In the purse which held—

          through seven wars—

                     the birth certificates

of the dead, my grandmother

hid—from me—

chocolates. The purse opened like a screaming mouth.

Its two shiny buckles watched me

through doors, through walls, through jazz.

Who has taught you to be a frightening face, purse?

I kiss your buckles, I swear myself your subject.

August. Apples. I have nobody.

August. For me, a ripe apple is a little brother.

For me, a four-legged table is a pet.

In the temple of Supermarket

I stand

like a candle

in the line to the priestesses who preserve

the knowledge of sausage prices, the virginity

of milk cartons. My future, small

change after buying necessities.

Future that runs on the schedule of public buses,

streets introduced themselves with the names

of national murderers. I build myself

into a separate room, where memory—

the illegal migrant in time—cleans up

after imagination.

In a room where memory strips the beds—

linens that hardened like scabs

on the mattresses—I kiss

little apples—my brothers—I kiss the buckles

that watch us through walls, through years, through jazz;

chocolates from a purse that held—through seven wars—

birth certificates of the dead!

Hold me, brother-apple.

Jean-Paul Belmondo by Valzhyna Mort

 

Jean-Paul Belmondo

by VALZHYNA MORT

BIOGRAPHY

it begins with your face of a stone

where lips repose like two seals

in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke

you move through the streets—

listing them

is as useless as naming waves.

                       (that city is so handsome for a reason—

                        it was made out of your rib)

it continues with my

          skidmarked by a dress

body. i stand on the border

on heels like my sixth toes

and show you

where to park.

that very night

lying together

                        in the dogs yard

       —flowers are biting my back!—

you whisper:

          the longer i look on the coins of your nipples

          the clearer i see the Queen’s profile.

for you, body and money are the same

as the chicken and the egg.

the metaphor of “a woman’s purse”

escapes you.

stealing, you like to mumble:

a purse is a purse is a purse is a purse.

also:

a real purse in your hand is worth

two metaphorical purses over your mouth.

they tell me

          you are a body

                        anchored to the shore by its rusting blood.

your wound darkens on your chest like a crow.

i tell them—as agreed—that you are my youth.

an apple that bit into me to forget its own knowledge.

death hands you every new day like a golden coin.

as the bribe grows

it gets harder to turn it down.

your heart of gold gets heavier to carry.

your hands know that a car has a waist

and a gun—a lobe.

you take me where the river once lifted its skirts

and God, abashed with that view,

ordered to cover that shame with a city.

its dance square

shrank by the darkness to the size

of a sleeping infant’s slightly open mouth.

i cannot tell between beggars’ stretched hands

and dogs’ dripping tongues.

you cannot tell between legs—

                    mine—tables’—chairs’—others’.

that dance square is a cage

where accordions grin at dismembered violin torsos.

beggars lick thin air off their lips.

women whirling in salsa slash you

across the chest with the blades

of their skirts soiled with peonies.

Biographies / Valzhyna Mort

Valzhyna Mort

Born in Minsk, Belarus (part of the former Soviet Union), in 1981, Valzhyna Mort has been praised as “[a] risen star of the international poetry world” by the Irish Times. When she moved to the United States in 2005, she had already published her first book, I’m as Thin as Your Eyelashes, and was known across the world as an electrifying reader of her poems. Her debut collection in America, Factory of Tears (2008), received acclaim: the New Yorker writes, “Mort strives to be an envoy for her native country, writing with almost alarming vociferousness about the struggle to establish a clear identity for Belarus and its language.” She composes her poems in Belarusian as attempts are being made to revitalize the traditional language, which lends her work both conventional and groundbreaking tones. Mort reads in both Belarusian and English, and so the poem “New York” provides an ideal context for her poetry, as readers are presented with a young foreign poet’s impressions of the infamous city.

Mort is also the author of the poetry collection Collected Body (2011) and co-editor, with Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Ferris, of Gossip and Metaphysics: Russian Modernist Poems and Prose (2014). Mort's poetry collection, Music for the Dead and Resurrected (2020), was named one of the best poetry books of 2020 by the New York Times and was the winner of the International Griffin Poetry Prize.

Mort received the Crystal of Vilenica award in Slovenia in 2005 and the Burda Poetry Prize in Germany in 2008. She teaches at Cornell University and lives in Ithaca, New York.

POETRY FOUNDATION

‘This is a partisan movement of a partisan nation': a Belarusian poet reflects on her homeland's turmoil

Belarusian poet Valzhyna Mort. Photo (c): Tanya Kapitonova, used with permission.

‘This is a partisan movement of a partisan nation': a Belarusian poet reflects on her homeland's turmoil

Written byFilip Noubel

BIOGRAPHY

‘Este es un movimiento partidario de una nación partidaria' / Reflexiones de la poeta bielorrusa Valzhyna Mort sobre la agitación de su país (De otros mundos)

« C'est un mouvement partisan d'une nation partisane » / Une poétesse bélarussienne réfléchit sur les troubles dans son pays (Rimbaud)

“Un movimento partigiano di una nazione partigiana” / La poetessa bielorussa Valzhyna Morte riflette sulle proteste nella sua patria (Dante)

Posted 14 August 2020 12:45 GMT 

As events unfold in Belarus following presidential elections whose results are contested by the opposition and a large part of the population, Belarusian artists are speaking out to denounce state violence and express solidarity with protesters. Valzhyna Mort, a celebrated Belarusian poet who lives in the US and writes in Belarusian and English, spoke to Global Voices about her response, her impressions, and what she is doing to raise awareness.

Valzhyna Mort is the author of two poetry collections, “Factory of Tears” and “Collected Body”. She is a recipient of the Lannan foundation fellowship, the Amy Clampitt fellowship, and the Bess Hokins prize from “Poetry magazine”. She also teaches at Cornell University. Her second Belarusian-language book, “Эпідэмія Ружаў” [The Rose Epidemic], came out in 2017. Her next book, “Music for the Dead and Resurrected”, will be published this year.

The interview has been edited for brevity and style.

Embroidery by Belarusian artist Rufina Bazlova depicting Belarusians supporting the opposition candidate Sviatlana Tsihanouskaya. Image used with permission.

Filip Noubel (FN): After 26 years of mostly unchallenged power, Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenka now faces the biggest challenge to his rule, including demonstrations and strikes. Why now?

Valzhyna Mort (VM): This was supposed to be a peaceful change in power in my country. This moment has taken so long because people didn’t want violence. We, Belarusians, who have endured many wars, would say to ourselves: “Let’s endure for a bit longer. No revolution is worth a human life.”

This year, when presidential candidates were imprisoned and declared criminals overnight, people have been moved by the clarity of just how weak and pathetic our government really is. Belarusians do not have to do anything in order to ensure their government fears them, it’s enough to just exist. Violence is being committed against defenceless people by riot police and Interior Ministry troops. It began with people being beaten and arrested for making a victory sign on their way to work. Right now, riot police are dragging people out of grocery stores and their cars at random, beating and arresting them.

When the election fraud started with the formation of polling committees and the non-accreditation of independent observers, it seemed obvious that it needed to be opposed by following the most basic legal steps. Even if the state-controlled court didn’t agree, just the fact of a hearing on the issue made the corruption visible. A strong sense of grassroots solidarity that had already formed during the COVID-19 pandemic when the government failed to offer systematic support, developed into well-informed civil engagement. When fraud started at the polling stations, I, despite being on the other side of the ocean, felt that I could see through walls and to read the sheepish minds of officials.

At the same time, the government didn’t know what to expect from its people. Perhaps it expected violence? Is that why the riot police and troops keep behaving as though somebody is attacking them? Just now, I saw a picture of a 15-year-old boy motionless on the ground with three policemen beating him. Perhaps the greatest weakness made visible in these past months has been how little the state knows its own people.

FN: Belarusians have often been described as politically indifferent. We have seen them taking to the streets for four nights, braving police violence, arrests, and threats. What is different this time?

VM: What’s happening in Belarus is unique. We don’t want to sacrifice a single life: in Belarus, there’s nothing but the blood of our people under our feet. This blood is nameless, boneless, voiceless. To be born in Belarus means to inherit fear and fearlessness, shame and shamelessness, voice and voicelessness. But one thing is certain: to be born in Belarus means to inherit a great invisibility and self-reliance. Planting vegetable gardens, making preserves for the winter, sowing, fixing things, reading, showing up to educational and cultural events: these are all political activities of self-reliant people who feed themselves, clothe themselves, and educate themselves. This is why what we are witnessing in the past three days and nights is unlike protests we've seen elsewhere. This is a partisan movement of a partisan nation that has been surviving on self-reliance for centuries.

The internet in Belarus is shut down, and yet, I have just watched a brief interview with a janitor at a subway station who shows a mobile phone recording of the blood she had to clean up. With the help of Belarusian Telegram channels I’ve watched more Belarusian TV than during my years in Belarus. All these are videos of police violence recorded by private individuals onto their personal mobile phones and then shared with the world. This, along with the self-organised, non-centralised street partisan protest, is a version of polyphony, the favourite literary device of our writers Ales Adamovich and Svetlana Alexievich. This is our tradition.

Embroidery by Belarusian artist Rufina Bazlova representing police forces putting down their protective gear and weapons. Illustration used with permission.

FN: Many Belarusians such as yourself have made the choice to live outside their country for political and economic reasons. Is the diaspora playing a role today? Can it and should it play one?

VM: This is a moment of a worldwide Belarusian solidarity. We are all people with little knowledge of our roots, with family trees hanging on a single chance survivor, all we have is each other. We are too alone and invisible in the world not to be united. And yes, the diaspora is doing everything to draw international attention to the Belarusian struggle for dignity. There are protests with concrete demands, petitions, and fundraising. There is keeping in touch, as simple as getting through the phone disruptions in order to check on family and friends and let them know that they are not alone.

In Belarus, people are trapped without any means of communicating with the outer world, without a clear understanding of what is seen, what is understood about their situation. Foreign journalists have been deported. Many journalists have been shot at and beaten by police. Some reporters, especially in Russia, have so little knowledge of Belarusian situation that they might be doing more damage than help with their baseless parallels with Ukraine and/or unapologetically colonial frames.

So, it is the duty of all of us outside the country to make Belarus both visible and supported. Again, this is not something that had to be declared. Rather, it was immediately felt, it went without saying. It is my belief that most people in the diaspora didn’t leave for good. We have ties to home, we return regularly, we educate our children about where they come from, we provide a support system for our people back in Belarus and for Belarusians everywhere.

FN: You are a poet who writes in both Belarusian and English. How is Belarus present in your writing? Do current events in Belarus influence what you are writing or might write?

VM: My new book of poetry “Music for the Dead and Resurrected” is a deeply Belarusian work. I will publish it in Belarusian in Belarus when it becomes possible.

In these past few days I’ve been living entirely online, in a virtual Belarus. My body’s clock has shifted, I cannot tell what work I actually had to do during these few days. I might have a light version of PTSD – seeing people discuss American politics or going about their day as if nothing were happening in Belarus seems absurd and, more so, it enrages me. In my many years of living abroad, I’ve felt out of place many times, but this is a new level of that feeling. I do not want a single person who isn’t watching Belarus right now anywhere near me. Of course, this is all raw emotion. Americans didn’t go on strike when children died in cages on their own southern border. But I can say this: I’m tired of ignorant curiosity. I want to see international empathy.

Today, I’ve written a statement in solidarity with Belarusians and sent it out to a couple of editors. I wanted to publish it immediately so that everybody drops everything and sees what’s going on in my home. When I hit the “send” button and the text slipped out of my hands, a great fear overcame me. I wondered whether I had actually dreamed what I described in my statement. I imagined somebody reading it – somebody having lunch and saying “oh wow, she is too much, so angry, so emotional,” and I got scared that everything was just a trick of my own insane mind.

Then my phone buzzed. My dear friend was writing to me via Telegram from Minsk: “We hear gunshots and explosions. Does anybody outside see us?”

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