Arvis Viguls

- Latvia -

Arvis Viguls (1987, Jēkabpils, Latvia) is author of four critically acclaimed poetry collections and translator from English, Spanish, Russian and South Slavic languages, as well as editor at literary magazine Strāva (Current). He has received Latvian Annual Literature prize for the best debut (2009) and the best translation (2022) among other awards. In 2017, international literary project Literary Europe Live selected him as one of ten New Voices from Europe and in 2022 he was shortlisted for European Poet of Freedom Award 2024, an international literary prize organized by city of Gdańsk. His most recent published translations are short story collection Encyclopedia of the Deadby Danilo Kišs and selected poetry of Ted Hughes (both 2023). His own work has been translated and published in more than 20 languages including books of selected poems in Spanish, German and Croatian. His latest poetry collection Blusu cirks (Flea Circus, 2021) will be published in Polish translation in 2023.

Arvis Viguls (born 1987) is a Latvian poet and translator. For his debut collection "Istaba" (The Room) (2009) he received the Poetry Day Award and the Annual Latvian Literature Award, the collections "5:00" (2012), "Grāmata" (The Book) (2018) and "Blusu cirks" (Flea Circus) (2021) have been nominated for the Annual Latvian Literature Award. Viguls has also received several awards for his translations and translations.

Viguls’ poetry is often described as manicured and laconic, but his poetic voice rarely becomes so alienated that it loses dynamism or tension. Writing about "5:00" and "The Book", Artis Ostups highlights Viguls’ kinship with late modernism; we may invoke Ted Hughes, whose selected poetry is due to be released in 2023 in Viguls’ translation, or Tomas Tranströmer. The author Arvis Viguls feels comfortable both in laconic free verse and in strict verse, while his speaker feels comfortable nowhere, often writing as a swindler or observer, sometimes – as a tyrant or loser. Ever absent and out of reach, Viguls calls and writes from distant cities, with one foot in another century or dimension – "The Room" is enveloped in four letters and a "tribute to friends beyond the border with no way back", and the frameworks of "The Book" and "Flea Circus" suggest librarianship and technical literature.

However, his poetry is also very physical and spatial. A large part of this is due to his effort in the full depiction of physical life, which leads not only from the cradle to the grave, but also to the kitchen, bathroom, supermarket and telephone booth. The world of Viguls’ poetry is sustained by an entire infrastructure of gutters, electrical systems, furniture, razors, clothes lines and other objects that are complicit, if not alive, in his poetry. As Raimonds Ķirķispoints out in his review of "The Book" (titled “The Review”), Viguls identifies himself with the book from the very first poem, and presumably identifies with plenty of other things throughout his books as well. In "Flea Circus", this relationship between the human and material selves has already been reversed, and most of the collection is devoted to bringing various objects to life.

I consider "5:00" and "The Book" to be two of the strongest collections in Latvian poetry of the past decade; these collections are my personal ideal for what a well-thought-out text looks like, so I approached Arvis as the editor of my debut collection without hesitation. I was surprised that after we had arranged the approximate sequence of the manuscript together, Arvis rarely changed the text during the editorial process, rather offering different solutions to individual nodes that I could not solve. That's how I envisioned Arvis’ own creative process, first marking the overall field and then looking for the right option among many.

With the release of "The Book", the question of whether Viguls would not have written himself into a corner started coming up in criticism and writers’ internal discussions – the poems seemed increasingly surgical, and we had to wait a whole six years for the collection. The most recent collection, "Flea Circus," charts an interesting path of retreat – humour. The talking, living and suffering things have given Viguls a second wind, departing from his usual territory and tone and writing about such everyday trifles as ants, typewriters and guillotines.

Edvards Kuks

01.10.2023

More about the poet

Poetry

At the Hairdresser’s / Frizētavā

“Very short,” I reply.

“This much,” she shows me,
taking a tuft of it in her fleshy fingers.

“Won’t you regret it later?” she becomes curious.

I’ve also had longer hair.
At the time the hairdresser
had to hold back her tears while cutting it.
No, today I won’t regret anything.
Today it’s payback time.

Back then my hair
was long like a swing of a blade,
now I wanted it short
like snipped green shrieks of grass,
short like a pulse.

In those days my hair smelled like the forest,
today I want it
to smell
like sawdust.

There’s only two of us in the hair salon,
which suddenly becomes bigger.

The room expands.

I sit silently
in the center of her cares.
I won’t say a word anymore.
I pay her
for this silence as well.

I think
whether my wife would become jealous,
if she saw,
how this unknown woman
is working around my hair
with her scissors and comb,
running her fingers through my hair,
softly moaning from her efforts,
so she could move her body around the chair.

While she works with her razor
I feel her breath on my neck
this professional with a faint moustache
and the figure of a market meat seller.
Despite all her efforts,
I am only meat to her.
a sheep being sheared,
a client.

Having reached the end,
she will blow away the fine, black sparks with a hairdryer
from my forehead, nose, ears.

But, as she rubs gel in my hair,
for a brief moment it seems to me,
that I am her boy –
an infante in a blue cape,
that she finally undoes and shakes,
shattering this momentary illusion.

“A totally different person!”
she says, proud of what she’s done.

Yes I am totally different –
similar to someone,
whose heavy crown is raised from his head
and now he must walk
the cold, rainy streets –
sans a scepter or umbrella,
free, equal and a nobody
like everyone else.
Translated by Jayde Will
«Ļoti īsus,» es atbildu.

«Tik?» viņa rāda,
saņēmusi šķipsnu tuklajos pirkstos.

«Vai nav žēl?» viņa kļūst ziņkārīga.

Man ir bijuši arī garāki mati.
Toreiz friziere
tik tikko savaldīja asaras, tos griezdama.
Nē, šodien es nenožēloju neko.
Šodien es kārtoju rēķinus.

Toreiz mani mati
bija gari kā asmens atvēziens,
tagad es gribu tos īsus
kā mauriņa zaļie, aprautie kliedzieni,
īsus kā pulss.

Tolaik mani mati smaržoja pēc meža,
šodien es gribu,
lai tie smaržo
pēc skaidām.

Mēs esam divatā frizētavas zālē,
kas pēkšņi kļuvusi lielāka.

Telpa izplešas.

Es sēžu klusēdams
viņas rūpju centrā.
Es vairs neteikšu ne vārda.
Es maksāju viņai
arī par šo klusumu.

Es domāju,
vai mana sieva nekļūtu greizsirdīga,
ja redzētu,
kā šī svešiniece
darbojas ap manu galvu
ar savām šķērēm un ķemmēm,
laizdama pirkstus man matos,
viegli stenēdama aiz piepūles,
lai pārvietotu savu augumu ap krēslu.

Strādādama ar mašīnīti,
viņa elpo man pakausī —
šī profesionāle ar ūsiņām
un gaļas paviljona pārdevējas figūru.
Lai kā viņa censtos,
esmu viņai tikai gaļa,
cērpamā aita,
klients.

Tikusi galā,
viņa ar fēnu nopūš sīkās, tumšās dzirksteles
no manas pieres, deguna, ausīm.

Bet, kad viņa iebužina želeju man matos,
īsu brīdi man tomēr liekas,
ka esmu viņas puika —
infants zilā apmetnī,
ko viņa beidzot atraisa un nopurina,
pārraudama šo mirklīgo iedomu.

«Pavisam cits cilvēks!»
viņa saka, lepna par paveikto.

Jā, es esmu pavisam cits —
līdzīgi kādam,
no kura galvas nocelts smags kronis
un nu viņam jādodas
saltās, pielijušās ielās —
bez sceptera vai lietussarga,
brīvam, vienlīdzīgam un niecīgam
kā visi citi.
WASHING FATHER / MAZGĀJOT TĒVU

He scrubs his father’s back.
His father doesn’t understand anything
and doesn’t reply when others
call his name.

He is too deep
in his body’s wrinkles and folds,
too deep for him
to come out of.

Once he awoke in an unknown place.
He put on his glasses.
The lenses steamed up
from what he saw
and his nose began to bleed.

When he returned,
he refused to talk,
forgetting everything
that he had acquired over the years.

His windpipe froze over,
and the circulating blood is still
fighting in vain
to thaw it.

His heartbeats –
they are tracks in the snow
beyond the polar circle.
The wind covers them with snow.

Only the wrinkles
on his skin
are deep – deep
like surgical scars.

Time has left gashes all over his body
like an unskilled surgeon,
who couldn’t save anyone,
but just cut and cut, and cut.

He doesn’t talk.
His hair grows,
his nails grow,
but he doesn’t understand anything.

With a rough towel
he dries his father’s body –
a soft towel is of no use to anyone,
a soft towel doesn’t absorb moisture.

When he shaves his father’s beard,
his father sits in front of him, just
like old times, as he sat in front of
the mirror while shaving himself.

He puts on his father’s suitcoat.
It seemed too big.
His father shrinks
a few sizes a year.

The suitcoat’s pockets are empty
like his father’s memory,
its buttons are as dull
as his father’s gaze.

He combs his father’s hair
and ties his shoes.
He places his father
where the man of the house sits – at the end of the table.

His father doesn’t understand anything,
his dominion an arid field,
and he – his son – humbly nurses
that withering legacy of his.
Translated by Jayde Will
Viņš berž tēvam muguru.
Tēvs nesaprot neko
un neatbild, kad citi
nosauc viņa vārdu.

Viņš ir pārāk dziļi
sava ķermeņa grumbās un krokās,
pārāk dziļi, lai no tām
iznāktu ārā.

Reiz viņš pamodās svešā vietā.
Viņš uzlika brilles.
No tā, ko viņš redzēja,
to stikli aizsvīda
un viņa deguns sāka asiņot.

Kad viņš atgriezās,
viņš atteicās runāt,
aizmirsis visu,
ko bija apguvis gadiem.

Viņa balsene sasala,
un asinsrite joprojām
veltīgi cenšas
to atkausēt.

Viņa sirdspuksti —
tās ir pēdas sniegā
aiz polārā loka.
Vējš tās aizputina.

Vienīgi krunkas
uz viņa ādas
ir dziļas — dziļas
kā operāciju rētas.

Laiks viņu sagraizījis
kā nemākulīgs ķirurgs,
kurš nevar neko glābt,
tikai griezt un griezt, un griezt.

Viņš nerunā.
Viņa mati aug,
viņa nagi aug,
bet viņš nesaprot neko.

Ar raupju dvieli
dēls nosusina tēva ķermeni —
mīksts dvielis neder nekam,
mīksts dvielis neuzsūc mitrumu.

Kad viņš skuj tēvam bārdu,
tēvs sēž viņam pretī, tāpat
kā senāk, skūdamies pats,
sēdēja pretī spogulim.

Viņš apģērbj tēvu uzvalkā.
Tas izrādās par lielu.
Tēva augums saraujas
par vairākiem izmēriem gadā.

Uzvalka kabatas ir tukšas
kā tēva atmiņa,
tā pogas ir tikpat blāvas
kā tēva skatiens.

Viņš sasukā tēvam matus
un sasien kurpju šņores.
Viņš nosēdina tēvu
saimnieka vietā — galda galā.

Tēvs nesaprot neko,
viņa valdījumi ir izkaltis lauks,
un viņš — viņa dēls — pazemīgi kopj
šo savu nīko mantojumu.
COMMENTARY FOR VILLON’S EPITAPH WRITTEN FOR HIM AND HIS FRIENDS WHILE AWAITING THE GALLOWS / KOMENTĀRI VIJONA EPITĀFIJAI, UZRAKSTĪTAI VIŅAM UN VIŅA DRAUGIEM GAIDOT KARĀTAVAS

For those who are hanged
or crucified,
their last privilege is taken away –
to die on the ground,

as if the ground that had carried
their crimes
was not able to bear
their death.

They die like the drowned
who have swam into the depths
and cannot touch
the ground with their feet.

The rest gape at them
like gods
or noblemen –
silently and from below.

Those who are hanged –
their throne is the air
and the swarm of flies around their heads –
their crown.

No one can put
a flower or stone
in the place where their hearts
have stopped.

Only their shoes
hang in the emptiness
like strange fruits.
The wind rocks them.
Translated by Jayde Will
Tiem, kurus pakar
vai sit krustā,
atņem pēdējo privilēģiju —
nomirt uz zemes,

it kā zeme, kas nesusi
viņu noziegumu,
nespētu panest
viņu nāvi.

Viņi mirst kā slīcēji,
kas iepeldējuši dziļumā
un vairs nevar aizsniegt
ar kājām līdz zemei.

Pārējie viņos nolūkojas
kā uz dieviem
vai augstmaņiem —
klusi un no apakšas.

Tie, kurus pakar, —
viņu tronis ir gaiss
un mušu spiets ap galvu —
viņu kronis.

Neviens nevar nolikt
ziedu vai akmeni
tajā vietā, kur apstājusies
viņu sirds.

Vien viņu kurpes
karājas tukšumā
kā savādi augļi.
Vējš tos šūpo.
COMMENTARIES: JOHANNES BOBROWSKI / KOMENTĀRI: JOHANNESS BOBROVSKIS

The grass is stretched out in all its height.
A singular column of smoke rises straight up,
measuring the low-lying clouds.

In the orchard
the green branches
are tangled up with those that are withered –
life lines and death lines.

The foliage frees itself from the ballast.
The hollow steps of the apples ring out.

Darkness comes,
a forest creature follows its tracks,
looking for fallen fruit.

The flight of a bird –
dark and mute lightening –
slowly flashes across the sky.

He was here
and saw it.

Language opened eyes
like someone who awakens in the night
from his own screaming.

What merciless lowlands!
What an unbearable forgiveness!
Translated by Jayde Will
Zāle pieslējusies pilnā augumā.

Dūmu stabs ceļas taisni,
mērīdams debesis zemās.

Augļudārzā
zaļie zari
saķērušies ar nokaltušajiem —
dzīvības un nāves līnijas.

Lapotnes atbrīvojas no balasta.
Dun ābolu dobjie soļi.

Nāk tumsa,
kāds meža zvērs tai seko pa pēdām,
kārs pēc kritušajiem augļiem.

Putna lidojums —
tumšs un mēms zibens —
gausi uzplaiksnī gaisā.

Viņš bija te
un redzēja.

Valoda atvēra acis
līdzīgi kādam, kurš pamostas naktī
no tā, ka kliedzis.

Kāds nežēlīgs līdzenums!
Kāda nepanesama piedošana!
BODYBUILDERS IN THE WEIGHT ROOM / KULTŪRISTI SVARU ZĀLĒ

The sinews on their flesh form a complex pattern
like fine tattoos,
their muscles have grimaces –
even their butt cheeks are two faces,
two very sad faces,
that weep salty tears of sweat.

And the blood-vessels under their skin
are like a net,
they are caught in,
that they won’t get out of alive.

And somewhere deep in all of this
is the main muscle – the heart –
a fist-sized athlete,
a pocket-sized gym,
that has to keep this beast fit,
that has to keep it on its feet.

I imagine how after
they’ve shifted the tonnage of a row
of railroad cars from one shoulder to another,
they all wash themselves together in one shower,
because they have a hard time bending over
and they can’t reach behind to wash their backs
because washing such a body
is like washing an eighteen-wheeler.

Afterwards they return home
to their small wives
these small dumbbells of love
bleached blondes or dyed brunettes,
that love strength,
with whom they share an epilator
and artificial tanning cream,
that gives a shine to their cups and medals
and iron their short posing trunks for competition,
because strength and beauty demand sacrifice
and they offer that up.

But at night these enormous, beautiful men
lay down beside them –
to lie in one bed with a giant like this
is like lying in one bed with a brick house,
and it takes all night,
before each floor and brick is caressed
and then they finally fall asleep,
resting their tired, blissful heads
on the hard pillows of their men’s muscles.
Translated by Jayde Will
Cīpslas uz viņu miesas veido sarežģītus rakstus
kā smalki tetovējumi,
viņu muskuļiem ir grimases —
pat viņu dibena vaigi ir divas sejas,
divas ļoti skumjas sejas,
kas raud sāļām sviedru asarām.

Un asinsvadi uz viņu ādas
ir kā tīkls,
kurā viņi noķerti,
no kura neizkļūs ārā dzīvi.

Un kaut kur dziļi tajā visā —
galvenais muskulis — sirds —
dūres lieluma atlēts,
kabatas izmēra trenažieru zāle,
kam jānotur šis blāķis formā,
jānotur tas uz kājām.

Es iedomājos, kā pēc tam,
kad viņi pārcilājuši no pleca uz plecu
vesela dzelzceļa sastāva tonnāžu,
viņi visi kopā mazgājas vienā dušā,
jo viņiem ir grūti pieliekties
un viņi nevar aizsniegties, lai noberztu sev muguru,
jo mazgāt šādu augumu
ir kā mazgāt kravas furgonu.

Pēc tam viņi atgriežas mājās
pie savām mazajām sievietēm,
savām mazajām mīlestības svarubumbām,
balinātām blondīnēm vai krāsotām tumšmatēm,
kurām patīk spēks,
ar kurām viņi dala vienu depilatoru
un mākslīgā iedeguma krēmu,
kuras spodrina viņu kausus un medaļas
un gludina viņu mazās sacensību biksītes,
jo spēks un skaistums prasa upurus
un viņas tos sniegs.

Bet vakarā šie lielie, skaistie vīrieši
guļas viņām blakus —
gulēt vienā gultā ar šādu milzi
ir kā gulēt vienā gultā ar mūra māju,
un paiet visa nakts,
līdz katrs tās stāvs un ķieģelis ir noglāstīts
un viņas beidzot aizmieg,
uzlikušas savas nogurušās, svētlaimīgās galvas
uz viņu muskuļu cietajiem spilveniem.
BROTHER / BRĀLIS

You were four when they told you:
“This is your brother.”
They didn’t explain anything more,
they simply said:
“This is your brother.”

You were curious
and gradually suspicion was born in you.

I followed your footsteps,
everywhere I went you were already in front of me.
The door handle was always still warm,
when I grasped it in my palm.

And who always sat
in the front seat of the car next to dad -
at the right hand of father?

You hid me.
Everyone must have thought that you’re the only one.
How could anyone believe in your powers,
if there’s this double
behind your back?

You were afraid that I’d take away your scent
and no one would recognize you anymore.

I stood behind your back
in your old sweater,
shoes, the laces of which
always came untied.
I stood behind your back
putting stones in my pockets
so the world would finally feel
my weight.

I observed and I studied
I was not yet ready
And I alone developed my abilities
polishing each vertebra,
each joint
that I acquired, standing in the shadows
and waiting,
until you
would not need them anymore.

The sawdust spilled on the ground.
I worked like a patient artisan,
while putting myself together.
Sometimes you wanted to drive those stubborn sprouts
right back into me,
the ones, mimicking you,
that mocked you.
You thought they were weapons,
that threatened you.

“You can’t do that,” they told you
“That’s your brother.”
But you didn’t believe them.
Being a brother was a task
that I still had to fulfill.

And I waited.
I observed and I studied.
On the tips of my toes,
I strove to look over your shoulder.

The years worked to my advantage,
and then, one day, I came into the light.

I had acquired the family scent
and I carried the family traits on my face.

The sun was shining, but that didn’t bother me.
I finally had a shadow, still I had to break it in.
I was not yet perfect, still I was myself.

“This is my brother,” you said
“This is my brother.”
Translated by Jayde Will
Tev bija četri, kad tev pateica:
«Tas ir tavs brālis.»
Neko vairāk viņi nepaskaidroja,
vienkārši teica:
«Tas ir tavs brālis.»

Tu biji ziņkārīgs
un pamazām tevī dzima aizdomas.

Es sekoju tev pa pēdām,
visur, kur gāju, tu jau biji priekšā.
Durvju rokturis vēl bija silts,
kad to satvēru plaukstā.

Un kurš vienmēr sēdēja
mašīnas priekšējā sēdeklī blakus tēvam —
pie tēva labās rokas?

Tu mani slēpi.
Visiem bija jādomā, ka esi viens.
Kurš gan ticētu taviem spēkiem,
ja aiz tavas muguras
ir šis dubultnieks?

Tu baidījies, ka atņemšu tavu smaku
un neviens vairs nespēs tevi atpazīt.

Es stāvēju tev aiz muguras
tavā vecajā svīterī,
kurpēs, kuru šņores
vienmēr atsējās vaļā.
Es stāvēju tev aiz muguras,
salicis akmeņus kabatās,
lai pasaule beidzot sajustu
manu svaru.

Es skatījos un mācījos.
Es vēl nebiju gatavs
un man nācās saviem spēkiem
ikreiz nopulēt katru skriemeli,
katru locītavu,
ko biju ieguvis, stāvēdams ēnā
un gaidīdams,
līdz tev
tā vairs nebūs vajadzīga.

Skaidas bira uz zemes.
Es darbojos kā pacietīgs amatnieks,
likdams sevi kopā.

Reizēm tu gribēji iedzīt manī atpakaļ
šos spītīgos dzinumus,
kas, it kā mēdīdamies,
tevi atkārtoja.
Tu domāji, ka tie ir ieroči,
kas tevi apdraud.

«Tā nedrīkst darīt,» tev teica,
«tas ir tavs brālis.»
Bet tu neticēji.
Būt brālim bija uzdevums,
kas man vēl jāizpilda.

Un es gaidīju.
Es skatījos un mācījos.
Izstiepies pirkstgalos,
es centos palūkoties tev pār plecu.

Gadi strādāja manā labā,
un tad, kādu dienu, es iznācu gaismā.

Es biju ieguvis ģimenes smaku
un nesu ģimenes vaibstu sejā.

Saule bija spoža, bet tā man netraucēja.
Man beidzot bija ēna, tomēr tā vēl bija jāienēsā.
Es vēl nebiju pilnīgs, tomēr biju es pats.

«Tas ir mans brālis,» tu teici,
«tas ir mans brālis.»

Arvis Viguls

- Latvia -

Poetry

At the Hairdresser’s / Frizētavā

WASHING FATHER / MAZGĀJOT TĒVU

COMMENTARY FOR VILLON’S EPITAPH WRITTEN FOR HIM AND HIS FRIENDS WHILE AWAITING THE GALLOWS / KOMENTĀRI VIJONA EPITĀFIJAI, UZRAKSTĪTAI VIŅAM UN VIŅA DRAUGIEM GAIDOT KARĀTAVAS

COMMENTARIES: JOHANNES BOBROWSKI / KOMENTĀRI: JOHANNESS BOBROVSKIS

BODYBUILDERS IN THE WEIGHT ROOM / KULTŪRISTI SVARU ZĀLĒ

BROTHER / BRĀLIS