ENGLISH VERSION

NOTES FROM THIS CITY,

which pants around me like a prehistoric beast. its skeleton juts from the riverside brush and the framework of buildings which crop up on the banks, wind flapping in their sheeted windows. its movement is fairly steady and silent, and yet careless, rooftops glinting, trees towering in the parks like obelisks.

each day, the view from the window is increasingly my own gaze, telling me more of what is happening within than of without. the window frames have become national borders, the doorknob a border guard. the more the silence grows, the more the firmament contracts, constricts, congeals, and stifles, until ultimately the only boundary is my own skin – tensile and imperfect.

walking through the park some evenings, I see a little girl blowing bubbles by the pond. in the twilight they look like thoughts drifting away from her, semi-transparent, semi-silver, liable to burst.
 
the traffic lights blink yellow, empty city buses circulate along lanes painted on the streets, seeming to follow some long-forgotten rituals, the meaning of which no one knows any longer. and yet it seems so important, that movement, repetition.

wind walks the streets. when people are absent, there is always wind. dust flies down my throat and I try to keep from coughing. wind flies through my sentences like a bird which cannot remember from whence it set out or where it should alight.
 
sometimes fear approaches. it is an animal that can pass through walls. it appears out of nowhere and stares at me dully. sometimes in the morning, sometimes the middle of the night. it stares as me, just as dully, and then leaves. I’d like to offer it some food, for I feel it is hungry and weary from its long journey, yet I know that if I move, all will disappear.

​sometimes fear approaches. it is an animal that can pass through walls. it appears out of nowhere and stares at me dully. sometimes in the morning, sometimes the middle of the night. it stares as me, just as dully, and then leaves. I’d like to offer it some food, for I feel it is hungry and weary from its long journey, yet I know that if I move, all will disappear.

​the shrieks of seagulls in the night. inland gulls are so odd and yet, the white undersides of their wings against the dark sky. the day is wrapped, packaged into a tight bundle. sound is an echo with which to catch fractured dreams.

the city is still, the air crumbles like soil, brimming with doubt. at that moment, one may ask: of what do our shadows speak? perhaps of the loneliness we once tried to hide beneath tree roots, perhaps of some new expanse that will carry us to morning’s raw moors like tired children who keep on asking: are we there yet, are we there yet now?

 English translation by Adam Cullen
ORIGINAL TEXT

​MÄRKMEID SELLEST LINNAST,

mis lõõtsutab minu ümber nagu eelajalooline loom. tema luustik turritab välja jõeäärsetest võsadest ja kallastel kerkivate majade karkassidest, tuul lapendamas kiletatud aknaavade ees. ta liigutab üsna vaikselt ja järjekindlalt, ometi hooletult, katused kiiskamas, puud parkides kõrgumas nagu obeliskid.

vaade aknast on iga päevaga aina enam minu enese pilk, jutustades mulle rohkem sellest, mis toimub seespool, kui sellest, mis on väljas. aknaraamidest on saanud riigipiirid, ukselingist piirivalvur. sedamööda, mida kasvab vaikus, tõmbub laotus kokku, aheneb, kangestub, sumbub, kuni viimaks on ainus piir minu enese nahk – sitke ja ebatäiuslik.

õhtuti läbi pargi minnes näen, kuidas väike tüdruk puhub tiigi ääres seebimulle, need paistavad videvikus nagu mõtted, mis hõljuvad temast eemale, pooleldi läbipaistvad, pooleldi hõbedased, kergesti purunevad.

valgusfoorid plingivad kollast, tühjad linnaliini bussid teevad ringe tänavatele joonistatud radadel, järgides justkui mingisuguseid ammu unustatud rituaale, mille tähendust keegi enam ei tea. ometi tundub see nii oluline, see liikumine, kordus. ​

tänavatel on tuul. kui inimesi pole, siis on alati tuul. tolm lendab kurku ja ma katsun mitte köhida. tuul lendab läbi minu lausete nagu lind, kes ei mäleta, kust ta teele asus ja kus ta maanduma peaks.

vahel tuleb hirm. see on üks loom, kes oskab minna läbi seinte. ta ilmub eikusagilt ja vahib tardunud pilgul mulle otsa. vahel hommikul, vahel keset ööd. vahib mind, samamoodi tardunut, ja läheb siis minema. tahaksin talle pakkuda midagi süüa, sest mulle tundub, et ta on pikast teelolekust väsinud ja näljane, ometi tean, et kui liigutan, on kõik kadunud.

kajakate kiledad hõiked keset ööd. sisemaa kajakad on nii kummalised, ja ometi nende valged tiivaalused vastu tumedat taevast. päev pakitakse sisse, pakitakse kokku tihkeks kompsuks. hääl on kaja, millega püüda katkisi unistusi.

linn on tasa, õhk mureneb nagu muld, tulvil kõhklusi. just siis võibki küsida: millest kõnelevad meie varjud? võib-olla üksindusest, mida püüdsime kunagi peita puujuurte alla, võib-olla mõnest uuest avarusest, mis kannab meid hommiku rõskele lagendikule nagu väsinud lapsi, kes muudkui pärivad: kas me oleme juba kohal, kas me nüüd oleme juba kohal?

Carolina Pihelgas

​Carolina Pihelgas is a writer, translator, and editor. She has published six volumes of poetry, most recently prose poems, “Valgus kivi sees” (“The Light Within the Stone”, 2019) which received the Cultural Endowment award for best poetry book of the year. Her poetry is dense, metaphorical, dealing often with themes of memory, nostalgia for lost worlds, and mythology.
She is editor-in-chief for literary journal Värske Rõhk, which is focused on young authors. She translates poetry and her translations include Constantine Cavafy, Sappho, Tor Ulven, Pablo Neruda and many others. Her own poetry has been translated into fifteen languages and she has been featured in anthologies in Estonia and abroad. She is Tartu City Writer Laureate in 2020.

Photo: © Ruudu Rahumaru

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