Translator’s Introduction to Inga Gaile

The bear mother feeds the childa bear grows, a human grows. . .

(“Daugava, Daugava”)

The Daugava is the largest Latvian river—the “River of Destiny” we call it, recognizing it as a potent symbol: over the centuries, it has served as a trade route but also brought foreign invaders; draining into the Baltic Sea, it has helped Latvians go and see the world but has also been the prize to be fought over in bloody battles of countless wars. According to a popular myth, in the depths of the Daugava there is a hero, half-man, half-bear (yet called Lāčplēsis—Bearslayer—in denial of his patrimony) who keeps fighting the forces of evil personified by the Black Knight.

No didactic excursion in history or Latvian folk legends, Inga’s poem nevertheless alludes to some eerie prehistoric, mythological (or dream) era while at the same time telling a story—perhaps to the breathless, trance-inducing rhythm of some shamanic instrument played by—yes, who is that under the shaggy bearskin coat? We may pause to think about it, yet the Daugava, which Inga addresses in the diminutive—Daugaviņa—keeps flowing.

I’m coming out of the forest . . .

(“Fog”)

Inga Gaile is one of a whole generation of brilliant poets that includes, among others, Kārlis Vērdiņš, Anna Auziņa, Ingmāra Balode and others and that came of age after 1991 when Latvia regained its independence First published in 1996, she is the author of five poetry books so far: Laiks bija iemīlējies/Time Was in Love (1999), raudāt nedrīkst smieties/cry not laugh (2004), Kūku Marija/Marija of Pastries (2007), Migla/Fog (2012) and Vai otrā grupa mani dzird?/Can Group Two Hear Me? (for children) (2014). Admittedly “girlish,” inward-gazing and consciousness streaming in her first few books, with Kūku Marija, and even more so with Migla, her poetry has become tighter, more succinct—and perhaps more frank and outspoken, not shirking political and social issues.

How strange, it was just now, that road from windowsill to courtyard with the verdant horses, where kisses stung and wouldn’t let us go.

(For Zirgu Pasts)

Latvia is a small country and Riga, its capital and largest economic and cultural center, has a population of less than a million. If, however, Inga were a lesser poet, the pictures she paints with words would not yield such a vivid gallery of faces—poets who are her peers and, more likely than not, have performed, or watched others perform, at Zirgu pasts. None of them is mentioned by name (and perhaps these are not even poets—Inga is also a theater director, so the companions of her poetic protagonist might have been actors; this is of no importance), yet the precise location grounds the sadness of passing time and gives it a deeper voice.

I want to remain a person, I don’t want women’s happiness . . .

(“Woman’s Happiness”)

Inga could rightly be called an advocate of women’s rights—she addresses what tends to be labelled “women’s issues” in both her poetry and plays (well received by critics, her Āda/Skin, staged in 2011, was a hit with the audiences). In recent years, she has also been the driving force behind women’s standup comedy in Riga. Closer reading, however, will reveal that her concern with the plight of women does not derive from a sense of victimhood: it is stereotypes that she is passionately against—“one’s sex is just a characteristic,” she says; some men may objectify women but then women are often guilty of manipulating men by using their looks. She strongly believes in humanity—what we all share and what makes us want to be better than we think possible.