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Tårarnas fabrik
Hos Valzhyna Mort är avståndet mellan viskningen och vrålet inte stort. I varje sensuell rad vilar i själva verket detta vrål: det som först kan se ut som en kärleksdikt kan i själva verket vara det existentiella avgrundsvrål som formuleras både som en längtan och som ett äckel.Valzhyna Mort är uppvuxen i Vitryssland, i en helt ryskspråkig familj, men trots att språket är i det närmaste förbjudet, insisterar hon: tanken och texten är vitrysk, liksom kontexten. Detta vitryska språk har både en isolering inåt och en status av paria utåt, hon talar till sitt land och sitt språk, ställer grundläggande frågor. Boken är den andra boken i serie Europa.
- GenresPoetry
70 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2008
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 42 reviews
September 11, 2021
This is where Goodreads needs to allow for half stars. This is solidly 3.5 ⭐ and I love the poet's later work, so I rounded up. This early poetry is still good, but it only hints at the extraordinary writing in her later collection: Music for The Dead and Resurrected, which I highly recommend. There are a few standouts in this collection, though, so it's still worth your time. Do I seem conflicted? Yes, I'm a little conflicted.
November 17, 2008
Valzhyna is the most astonishing poet...you must read this book, and if you ever have a chance to hear her read, you must drop everything & go there. At once. She is a dynamo. Only 27 and living in D.C. for the past 2 years, Valzhyna is Belrusian, a former accordionist, opera singer, and ballet dancer (her words are not 'former,' but 'failed'). Her first book, 'I Am as Thin as Your Eyelashes' came in out in Sweden in 2005. 'Factory of Tears' is published in a bilingual edition and translated by the poet husband-wife Pulitzer-Award winning team, Franz and Elizabeth Wright.
Drop everything and read Valzhyna.
Drop everything and read Valzhyna.
September 10, 2010
Factory of Tears by Valzhyna Mort, poetry
Translated by Elizabeth Oehikers Wright and Franz Wright
Valzhyna Mort is a Belarusian poet whose voice is unapologetic and smart. She doesn't mess around trying to beautify what is not...and yet, she finds beauty in unexpected places. Her poetry doesn't back away from the controversial. This collection is the first book of Belarusian/English poetry published in the US, for which Copper Canyon Press can be very proud.
Belarus has a rich and sometimes violent history as part of the former USSR, and a place where the matter of national language is still debated. Most residents speak Russian, and one source states that only 11% of the population actually speaks Belarusian. Proponents of each side don't appear to have any agreement in sight*. And yet, there are those, such as Mort, working hard to maintain the historical language of Belarus. In any case, Russian and Belarusian are similar and with additional borrowed Ukrainian and Polish words, the language of the country is rich. Mort even addresses such complexity in one poem, where she considers "how do two languages share one mouth/like two women in one kitchen"?
In this language that reflects history and culture, Mort writes equally reflective poetry. "In memory of a book":
books die
out of dark bedrooms
where the only road
paved by a yellow lamp
led to their pages
they are stuffed in every corner of a house
thus turning it into a huge book cemetery
those whose names do not ring any bell
are taken to the attic
where they lay-twenty books in one box-
a mass grave
books become windows
in empty apartments
nobody's heart beats above them
no one shares with them a dinner
or drops them into a bathtub
nobody watches them
lose their pages
like hair
like memory
books age alone
In one entitled "For A.B.", she paints a parallel between children and identity as well as heritage:
it's so hard to believe
that once we were even younger
than now
that our skin was so thin
that veins blued through it
like lines in school notebooks
that the world was like a homeless dog
that played with us after class
and we were thinking of taking it home
but somebody else took it first
gave it a name
and trained it stranger
against us
and this is why we wake up late at night
and light up the candles of our tv sets
and in their warm flame we recognize
faces and cities...
Somehow I picture the typical wornout world map, with its faded blue background and the mysterious lines, as a background for this poem. How strange to live in a place where the lines have moved, often inexplicably!
There is a moodiness to the poems that lends itself to topics of dreams, life, and death. Humor is sprinkled throughout and she uses images of tears, hair, and children to personalize the mysteries of belonging and believing. Her youth is evident in crisp words that are magnified by the enjambment so that we feel the anxiety and confusion.
Translated by Elizabeth Oehikers Wright and Franz Wright
Valzhyna Mort is a Belarusian poet whose voice is unapologetic and smart. She doesn't mess around trying to beautify what is not...and yet, she finds beauty in unexpected places. Her poetry doesn't back away from the controversial. This collection is the first book of Belarusian/English poetry published in the US, for which Copper Canyon Press can be very proud.
Belarus has a rich and sometimes violent history as part of the former USSR, and a place where the matter of national language is still debated. Most residents speak Russian, and one source states that only 11% of the population actually speaks Belarusian. Proponents of each side don't appear to have any agreement in sight*. And yet, there are those, such as Mort, working hard to maintain the historical language of Belarus. In any case, Russian and Belarusian are similar and with additional borrowed Ukrainian and Polish words, the language of the country is rich. Mort even addresses such complexity in one poem, where she considers "how do two languages share one mouth/like two women in one kitchen"?
In this language that reflects history and culture, Mort writes equally reflective poetry. "In memory of a book":
books die
out of dark bedrooms
where the only road
paved by a yellow lamp
led to their pages
they are stuffed in every corner of a house
thus turning it into a huge book cemetery
those whose names do not ring any bell
are taken to the attic
where they lay-twenty books in one box-
a mass grave
books become windows
in empty apartments
nobody's heart beats above them
no one shares with them a dinner
or drops them into a bathtub
nobody watches them
lose their pages
like hair
like memory
books age alone
In one entitled "For A.B.", she paints a parallel between children and identity as well as heritage:
it's so hard to believe
that once we were even younger
than now
that our skin was so thin
that veins blued through it
like lines in school notebooks
that the world was like a homeless dog
that played with us after class
and we were thinking of taking it home
but somebody else took it first
gave it a name
and trained it stranger
against us
and this is why we wake up late at night
and light up the candles of our tv sets
and in their warm flame we recognize
faces and cities...
Somehow I picture the typical wornout world map, with its faded blue background and the mysterious lines, as a background for this poem. How strange to live in a place where the lines have moved, often inexplicably!
There is a moodiness to the poems that lends itself to topics of dreams, life, and death. Humor is sprinkled throughout and she uses images of tears, hair, and children to personalize the mysteries of belonging and believing. Her youth is evident in crisp words that are magnified by the enjambment so that we feel the anxiety and confusion.
January 30, 2022
Mort goes after some of the big themes -- the use of a small language that has been dominated by a much larger one, exile, family (and these latter are the most moving, particularly the family in history poems. Nothing is easy, and she works hard to engage all of these themes. I have heard her read some of these poems -- quite a few years ago now -- and I remember how dynamically she read them (in English).
I know nothing of Belarusian, nor more of its history than I can easily find on line, nor of the structure of its poetry, but I find the English versions here using fairly simple structures. Most of these poems have some kind of parallelism, even anaphora (simple repetition of one word or phrase), which is an easy appeal to a listening audience. Sometimes she finds one image, makes it a metaphor and lets it dominate the poem. Again, this is effective even if its not terribly demanding -- it's the kind of thing that's readily accessible in a performance.
I'm told that some of the later work has more texture, and I look forward to it. But I would also travel again to hear her read.
I know nothing of Belarusian, nor more of its history than I can easily find on line, nor of the structure of its poetry, but I find the English versions here using fairly simple structures. Most of these poems have some kind of parallelism, even anaphora (simple repetition of one word or phrase), which is an easy appeal to a listening audience. Sometimes she finds one image, makes it a metaphor and lets it dominate the poem. Again, this is effective even if its not terribly demanding -- it's the kind of thing that's readily accessible in a performance.
I'm told that some of the later work has more texture, and I look forward to it. But I would also travel again to hear her read.
June 20, 2019
Some of these sucked me in while others went over my head (under my feet?). It's a vibrant collection full of magical realism and some surrealism. One that I'd had checked out for a year before opening, and finished reading it in a little less than a day. Life is like that sometimes.
January 15, 2015
Двомовне видання чудової молодої білоруської поетки.
Вірші звідти білоруською можна знайти тут: http://druhifront.livejournal.com/118...
Скажімо, так:
беларуская мова 1
нават нашыя маці ня знаюць як мы зьявіліся ў сьвет
як мы самі рассунуўшы іхнія ногі вылезьлі вонкі
так вылазяць пасьля бамбардзіроўкі з руінаў
мы ня ведалі хто з нас хлопец а хто дзяўчына
і жэрлі зямлю і думалі што жарэм хлеб
а нашая будучыня –
гімнастачка на тонкай нітачцы далягляду –
што там яна толькі
ні вырабляла
бля
мы расьлі ў краіне дзе
спачатку крэйдай крэсьляць дзьверы
і ўночы прыяжджаюць дзьве-тры машыны
і звозяць нас але
ў тых машынах былі не мужчыны
з аўтаматамі
і не жанчына з касою
але так да нас прыяжджала каханьне
і забірала з сабою
толькі ў грамадзкіх туалетах мы адчувалі свабоду
дзе за дзьвесьце рублёў ніхто не пытаў што мы там робім
мы былі супраць сьпёкі летам супраць сьнегу зімой
а калі выявілася што мы былі нашай мовай
і нам вырвалі языкі мы пачалі размаўляць вачыма
а калі ў нас выкалалі вочы мы пачалі размаўляць рукамі
калі нам адсяклі рукі мы размаўлялі пальцамі на нагах
калі нам прастрэлілі ногі мы ківалі галавою на «так»
і хісталі галавою на «не»... а калі нашыя галовы зьелі
жыўцом
мы залезлі назад у чэравы нашых сьпячых маці
як у бамбасховішчы
каб нарадзіцца зноў
а там на даляглядзе гімнастачка нашай будучыні
скакала праз агнявы абруч
сонца
Вірші звідти білоруською можна знайти тут: http://druhifront.livejournal.com/118...
Скажімо, так:
беларуская мова 1
нават нашыя маці ня знаюць як мы зьявіліся ў сьвет
як мы самі рассунуўшы іхнія ногі вылезьлі вонкі
так вылазяць пасьля бамбардзіроўкі з руінаў
мы ня ведалі хто з нас хлопец а хто дзяўчына
і жэрлі зямлю і думалі што жарэм хлеб
а нашая будучыня –
гімнастачка на тонкай нітачцы далягляду –
што там яна толькі
ні вырабляла
бля
мы расьлі ў краіне дзе
спачатку крэйдай крэсьляць дзьверы
і ўночы прыяжджаюць дзьве-тры машыны
і звозяць нас але
ў тых машынах былі не мужчыны
з аўтаматамі
і не жанчына з касою
але так да нас прыяжджала каханьне
і забірала з сабою
толькі ў грамадзкіх туалетах мы адчувалі свабоду
дзе за дзьвесьце рублёў ніхто не пытаў што мы там робім
мы былі супраць сьпёкі летам супраць сьнегу зімой
а калі выявілася што мы былі нашай мовай
і нам вырвалі языкі мы пачалі размаўляць вачыма
а калі ў нас выкалалі вочы мы пачалі размаўляць рукамі
калі нам адсяклі рукі мы размаўлялі пальцамі на нагах
калі нам прастрэлілі ногі мы ківалі галавою на «так»
і хісталі галавою на «не»... а калі нашыя галовы зьелі
жыўцом
мы залезлі назад у чэравы нашых сьпячых маці
як у бамбасховішчы
каб нарадзіцца зноў
а там на даляглядзе гімнастачка нашай будучыні
скакала праз агнявы абруч
сонца
October 16, 2010
A bilingual Belarusian/Englisih book of poetry. The poems are passionate and powerful, reflecting Belarusia's complicated and tragic history, and culture.
In "Grandmother", Mort writes:
"my grandmother
doesn't know pain
she believes that
famine is nutrition
poverty is wealth
thirst is water"
In "Grandmother", Mort writes:
"my grandmother
doesn't know pain
she believes that
famine is nutrition
poverty is wealth
thirst is water"
October 15, 2020
It wears its sadness lightly, but its impact is anything but light. The collection is very strong formally and quite moving. Ms. Mort clearly reckons with a personal and national inheritance that is both complex and ever-changing. Let us hope that her success allows for more poetry to come from Belarus, a nation clearly struggling to find its voice.
January 28, 2022
white apples, first apples of summer,
with skin as delicate as a baby's,
crispy like white winter snow.
your smell won't let me sleep,
this is how dead men
haunt their murderers' dreams.
white apples,
this is how every july the earth
get heavier under your weight.
and here only garbage smells like garbage...
and here only tears taste like salt...
we were picking them
like shells in green ocean gardens,
having just turned away from mothers' breasts
we were learning
to get to the core of everything with our teeth.
so why are our teeth like cotton wool now...
white apples,
in black waters, the fishermen,
nursed by you, are drowning.
* * *
when someone spends a lot of time running
and bashing his head
against a cement wall
the cement grows warm
and he curls up with it
against his cheek
like a starfish or medusa
and senses
how the body uses memory
to bind it to the earth
and he waits there for the moment
when his eyes turn
into wobbling tops
and the whole colourful universe
appears like the deep
hole in the sink
* * *
books die
out of dark bedrooms
where the only road
paved by a yellow lamp
led to their pages
they are stuffed in every corner of a house
thus turning it into a huge book cemetery
those whose names do not ring any bell
are taken to the attic
where they lay - twenty books in one box -
a mass grave
books become windows
in empty apartments
nobody's heart beats above them
no one shares with them a dinner
or drops them into a bathtub
nobody watches them
lose their pages
like hair
like memory
books age alone
and the most sensitive book
stays forever
in a cold bed
covering its head with a pillow
suppressing the scream of its black letters
old books
neglected graves
* * *
at night from far away
the city looks like
a huge overturned christmas tree
decorated for a holiday
then thrown away
now
it's lying
with its branches scattered
and its lamps
still glittering
in the dark
* * *
you are
a train choked with people,
who speak, argue, yell their heads off,
who nail your back
with their elbows.
you are -
a train, a vehicle,
gasping for breath.
ho come everybody found a place.
and i'm the only passenger with a ticket,
but i won't manage to squeeze to the exit in time,
i'll have to keep travelling till the terminal.
you are -
a train, choked by people
to death.
with skin as delicate as a baby's,
crispy like white winter snow.
your smell won't let me sleep,
this is how dead men
haunt their murderers' dreams.
white apples,
this is how every july the earth
get heavier under your weight.
and here only garbage smells like garbage...
and here only tears taste like salt...
we were picking them
like shells in green ocean gardens,
having just turned away from mothers' breasts
we were learning
to get to the core of everything with our teeth.
so why are our teeth like cotton wool now...
white apples,
in black waters, the fishermen,
nursed by you, are drowning.
- A Poem about White Apples, pg. 11
* * *
when someone spends a lot of time running
and bashing his head
against a cement wall
the cement grows warm
and he curls up with it
against his cheek
like a starfish or medusa
and senses
how the body uses memory
to bind it to the earth
and he waits there for the moment
when his eyes turn
into wobbling tops
and the whole colourful universe
appears like the deep
hole in the sink
- Hospital, pg. 25
* * *
books die
out of dark bedrooms
where the only road
paved by a yellow lamp
led to their pages
they are stuffed in every corner of a house
thus turning it into a huge book cemetery
those whose names do not ring any bell
are taken to the attic
where they lay - twenty books in one box -
a mass grave
books become windows
in empty apartments
nobody's heart beats above them
no one shares with them a dinner
or drops them into a bathtub
nobody watches them
lose their pages
like hair
like memory
books age alone
and the most sensitive book
stays forever
in a cold bed
covering its head with a pillow
suppressing the scream of its black letters
old books
neglected graves
- in memory of a book, pg. 37-39
* * *
at night from far away
the city looks like
a huge overturned christmas tree
decorated for a holiday
then thrown away
now
it's lying
with its branches scattered
and its lamps
still glittering
in the dark
- On a Steamer, pg. 65
* * *
you are
a train choked with people,
who speak, argue, yell their heads off,
who nail your back
with their elbows.
you are -
a train, a vehicle,
gasping for breath.
ho come everybody found a place.
and i'm the only passenger with a ticket,
but i won't manage to squeeze to the exit in time,
i'll have to keep travelling till the terminal.
you are -
a train, choked by people
to death.
- for I, pg. 101
August 30, 2025
I'm making more of an effort to read authors from counties I haven't read from before. I've had mixed results. Sometimes I worry that I'm just turning reading into a checklist, but then there are books like this: a great book I probably wouldn't have discovered had I not been specifically looking for Belarusian authors. A few favorite bits:
god tossed a heart like a coin
inside me
as if i were a pond
he made a wish
and lingered in the air
and everything belongs to me but hope
(From Music of Locusts,)
I see your life as God's bible, as a manual that will teach God about humans and make him believe in them. I see God kneeling beside your life.
(From For Grandmother)
(I just realized my two favorite bits are about God, but most of the poems are not at all. This is not a religious or spiritual book.)
god tossed a heart like a coin
inside me
as if i were a pond
he made a wish
and lingered in the air
and everything belongs to me but hope
(From Music of Locusts,)
I see your life as God's bible, as a manual that will teach God about humans and make him believe in them. I see God kneeling beside your life.
(From For Grandmother)
(I just realized my two favorite bits are about God, but most of the poems are not at all. This is not a religious or spiritual book.)
January 16, 2022
A fascinating collection of poems from a Belarusian poet.
I have never been exposed to anything from this country before, and this collection piqued my interests into learning more. I understand there is a civil rights catastrophe happening in that part of the world right now, and I caught a glimpse of the associated sentiment from her work here.
I would have appreciated a little context somewhere in the poems regarding the current politics, but I understand if writing content like that might have endangered her somehow.
I think this collection might also slightly suffer from translation, but it was interesting nonetheless.
I have never been exposed to anything from this country before, and this collection piqued my interests into learning more. I understand there is a civil rights catastrophe happening in that part of the world right now, and I caught a glimpse of the associated sentiment from her work here.
I would have appreciated a little context somewhere in the poems regarding the current politics, but I understand if writing content like that might have endangered her somehow.
I think this collection might also slightly suffer from translation, but it was interesting nonetheless.
March 21, 2023
Det tog några dikter in, innan jag kände mig riktigt berörd, men då kom det med råge. Inte sällan något som "skaver" i varje dikt, kanske är det som översättaren Tomas Nydahl skriver i efterordet, att hon pendlar mellan viskningar och vrål. Jag tänker att smutsen är med. Vissa dikter ganska enkla och berättande, andra med mer invecklade bilder. Mycket om språk, att leva under krig och våld. Några dikter från amerikansk mark med en viss vasshet och kritik men i intressanta bilder (som de framtida monarkerna som pissar i vattnet). Återvänder gärna till denna belarusiska författare.
July 13, 2025
Mort uses syntax to the max. I enjoyed the book though it deals with heavy topics of war, loss, and silence. Ultimately, only those who survive can speak intimately of such. I will be seeking out more of her work.
February 20, 2021
lovely collection of poetry, reminiscent of Wisława Szymborska. I think I will revisit this very soon.
Read
May 11, 2022A wanderer with a scythe
this is how love loved to visit us
and snatch us veiled.
this is how love loved to visit us
and snatch us veiled.
January 9, 2025
Finished in one sitting. Loved these poems. Poignant and aggressive themes of war, destruction, and sex!
March 4, 2025
This was good! I liked Collected Body more but you can see the origins of Morts style here.
July 25, 2016
“Do not eat the fruit from your family tree” Mort, a 30-something poet from Minsk, Belarus, warns her readers. I liked her work so much that I read both her two books of poetry. She writes in different styles (lyric poetry, prose poetry) and the personal often interacts with the historical and the geographical. I take the “Factory of Tears” to be Belarus itself, or else the fragments of the former Soviet Union, where “we gorged on dirt thinking it was bread.” It’s difficult to find authenticity in life: how can you tell the good from the bad when you’ve been fed refined food and reality tv? Some of the poetry is delightfully domestic: the poet “dethrones an omelette from a frying pan”, for example. All of the poetry seems fearless and very smart. Probably the most impressive is the 19 page prose poem, “Aunt Anna,” about the poet’s aunt, grandmother, great-grandmother, and the Soviet fiasco of the 20th century on a woman’s family. Mort takes inspiration form visits to their cemetery. Mort has emigrated to the USA and currently teaches at Cornell University.
August 9, 2015
So the first thing that struck me, was that it's a poem collection. I have not dealt with that before, and it seemed somehow daunting. The second thing that stood out, was that the book contains the original belarussian version on the left pages, and the english translation on the right pages, which is a really neat feature, even if i do not speak belarussian.
The initial fear of engaging poems was mostly unjustified, as some of the poems were more explicit in their meanings than i could have feared, still with a good chunck of the poems being too subtle for my un-trained mind. Still the poems that i really got, was really good, striking some nerves of the belarussian society, life, love, people, sexuality, historical relations and such. As i read more of the poems i probably also got more used to the style and eventually thought i got most of the points trying to be made.
All in all a pretty decent, mostly melancholic, poem collection, that surely has it highlights.
The initial fear of engaging poems was mostly unjustified, as some of the poems were more explicit in their meanings than i could have feared, still with a good chunck of the poems being too subtle for my un-trained mind. Still the poems that i really got, was really good, striking some nerves of the belarussian society, life, love, people, sexuality, historical relations and such. As i read more of the poems i probably also got more used to the style and eventually thought i got most of the points trying to be made.
All in all a pretty decent, mostly melancholic, poem collection, that surely has it highlights.
November 15, 2010
I'd like to see her perform these.
I love the cover of this book. That is my kind of photograph. (credit to Iveta Vaivoda and Valerie Brewster)
The poems finish strong, making me want to go back over them, which I often did. Here's one of my favorites:
A Portrait of a Mother in Fall
we tie a knot on everything that bends
and only our necks are free of knots
the sky like the soggy feathers of a bird
that's sleeping or most likely dead
and dinner comes
exchanges food
for our time
she used to bend over her teacup brim
as if it were the edge of the universe
and she would sip and pause
and sip and pause
and never talk
of what she might have seen
and it is comforting to know
when far away:
the end of the world
is in our mother's hands
And also:
i'm
as thin
as your
eyelashes
I love the cover of this book. That is my kind of photograph. (credit to Iveta Vaivoda and Valerie Brewster)
The poems finish strong, making me want to go back over them, which I often did. Here's one of my favorites:
A Portrait of a Mother in Fall
we tie a knot on everything that bends
and only our necks are free of knots
the sky like the soggy feathers of a bird
that's sleeping or most likely dead
and dinner comes
exchanges food
for our time
she used to bend over her teacup brim
as if it were the edge of the universe
and she would sip and pause
and sip and pause
and never talk
of what she might have seen
and it is comforting to know
when far away:
the end of the world
is in our mother's hands
And also:
i'm
as thin
as your
eyelashes
April 2, 2010
I am a little unsure of how to rate this collection, so for now I withhold giving it some stars. On the whole, I really enjoyed it. The poems are stark, some angry, dark, and violent, and some very surprising also. It's cool that Mort writes in Belarusan. In fact, many of the strongest poems are those that are political in nature. Her live readings are awesome. And, there were 5 or 6 poems here that just blew me away. On the other hand, there are also about 20-25 pages of this collection that totally fell short for me, and another 5 that just weren't good--cliched and boring, basically. Oh well, she's only--what?--26 or 27 or something. I'll read her new work whenever it comes.
August 30, 2011
Mort's readings are dynamic and much celebrated, but these poems do not do much for me on the page. Is it translation? Hard to believe, as the translators are considered pretty terrific poets in their own right. Perhaps it's because what works orally does not always convey well in print? I have found that to be the case with other spoken word poets. These poems seem to vacillate between startling and pedestrian, sometimes within the same stanza; and a few seem downright obscure.
Maybe I am missing something. I'm open to being enlightened.
Maybe I am missing something. I'm open to being enlightened.
June 3, 2008
The long piece "White Trash" seems central to this collection, and is quite a ride. I also like how the book is varied in tone and style--refreshing for a first book written in English, but especially refreshing for a translated book, especially by a young poet. So there's the powerhouse "White Trash" alongside some effective epigrammatic pieces alongside more conventional lyric poems with single subjects (New York, men, etc.). I'm already looking forward to Mort's next book.
June 25, 2008
Just finished this one. I first heard about her in the last issue of Poets and Writers and could tell from the poem they printed that she was one to watch. Excellent book, very powerful stuff. She writes with a level of energy and intensity that is too often lacking in much contemporary poetry. This is her 2nd book (and she's only a 26-year-old kid!) so it will be intersting to see how her voice evolves in the years to come.
December 15, 2009
Original review:
So good.
***
Update:
Read this on April 13 at the temporary library; Dec. 14, found and read two new poems by Valzhyna in the Dec. 2009 issue of Poetry (pgs. 197-199) at the new library: "crossword" (Her pussy reaches up and turns on the light in her womb) and "Jean-Paul Belmondo" (You move through the streets - listing them is as useless as naming waves).
Italics mine.
So good.
***
Update:
Read this on April 13 at the temporary library; Dec. 14, found and read two new poems by Valzhyna in the Dec. 2009 issue of Poetry (pgs. 197-199) at the new library: "crossword" (Her pussy reaches up and turns on the light in her womb) and "Jean-Paul Belmondo" (You move through the streets - listing them is as useless as naming waves).
Italics mine.
August 14, 2009
This book is not pretty. Very little pattern to the page, though what really gets my goat is the clumsiness of her line stops. I think this is the single biggest problem with youngish poets who never concern themselves with the technical side of composition and write purely from the heart; they don't revise anything that is "truly felt." Still, she's got potential. So long as the critics don't murder her with a big pillow-case of acclaim.
May 26, 2008
This Belarusian poet is absolutely astonishing. I would love to hear her read, which is supposed to be even more galvanizing than reading her on the page. Very fine poems by a young writer with miles to go. Translations are by the author working with Franz Wright and his wife, Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright.
December 25, 2014
To understand these poems you have to know something about the author which is that she stands and recites these poems with such excitement that reading them actually doesn't cut it. My suggestion to you the reader would be to find her video's on YouTube and listen to her read factory of tears, then and only then, should you read these poems.
May 8, 2009
Dark and often surreal poems from a young Belarusian.
June 16, 2008
I love this book. Mort writes with an amazingly light original touch about very serious things.
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