Poems from the poetry book Gathering the Bones (Renkant kaulus)

 

Translated by Rimas Užgiris

 

 

Niktophobia

nights sharpen their claws on street lamps
laying siege to my windows
searching for the smallest crack
throwing themselves against the glass –
and that’s how most of them die

(I carefully check the keyhole
every day, taping up
gaps in the door and windows)

the spines of books stare at me
with the cavities of their letters
filling me with guilt

(every day I sweep up dust –
sheddings of shadows and paper)

closing my eyes doesn’t help
I press my palms against my lids
to see the stars –
islands of light
in a sea of darkness

sometimes i fall asleep like that…

again I descend into the cellar down
unending stairs into darkness and dampness,
into the underground where
my mother’s bloody hands
are breaking down a fresh carcass

a barrel of sauerkraut ferments there
and swill for swine simmers away
and a bathtub white as snow
opens its elliptical maw
to suck in all the light…

that’s where darkness comes from:
it dresses up in my skin
and rises from my bed
and walks around the room with my tread

it lifts a cup of water with my fingers
to satisfy its thirst,
it lights a cigarette, throws open the windows
(I check them carefully every day…)
and sends its sprays of ink into the dawning sky
(and that’s how most of them die)

 

 

Minor Lakes of the Moon
/CD/

                              a poem about Vilnius for Uršulė Gedaitė, upon losing a bet

Track I

the blackened Vilnius that I knew
through so many seasons of the year,
knew with filthy nails and dirty shoes
and with a cobbler’s knowing fingers,
I see it now under dusty drizzle –
the endless rain will soon be here
when dampness will sink in for good
and fog swirl thick as ink that lingers

at least I see where I am walking
and think I know where I must go:
it’s down there on the right bank of
the river where the life force flowed,
its by the Church of Paul and Peter
where winter pushed on through the brush
to slowly find its way to us once more –
though what we lack is snowfall’s hush

 

Track II

what we lack is snowfall’s hush
in Žverynas where I found a place to stay
as soon as I arrived, and had to
rediscover my world anew, as it crawled
across my hotel’s windowpane –
a continuous present tense – or when I lay
unsleeping on my bed, and listened
to the clang and clatter beyond the wall

copper locks clink on the bridge
that leads up to the park,
a boy runs past while holding
what seems a golden horn up high,
and you see your life is going gray
even as you start to make your mark,
until an idle wind stretches through
the narrow cages of the folded lie

 

Track III

until an idle wind stretches through
the narrow cages of the folded lie,
the water freezes somewhere by
the bastion of the Barbican, on the way
up to the Tamsta music club –
how’s life? Fine, though not really mine,
and snow continues falling without pleasure
causing the scene to fade away

but trains roll on, twists and turns,
the spiderwebs of branching brambles,
and power thirsts for more life force
as it drones through cracks in the veneer,
it forces you to rise up from your knees
despite the devil’s sloth that strangles –
and it’s all downhill from there,
though I hope we meet again, if I’m still here

 

Track IV

I hope we meet again if I’m still here,
even if I am just someone’s dream,
even if while chewing on my lips,
or gnawing on my conscience,
like some mankurt in his chains,
I’m banished from the city that now teems
with frost, the streets all stuffed with snow,
the ice now spreading like some kind of violence,

it seems all pasted on with vivid purple
like our ever-sliding hill, a kind of make-up
applied where crows have squatted on your skin,
or smudged about a face that follows you,
still secret from the rest, under lock and key
and left to wait for when you will wake up,
though it’s cold, and you feel sick and tremble
as if you were to see the dead that you once knew

 

Track V

as if you were to see the dead that you once knew
you jump up drenched in sweat
and stumble to the kitchen for some water when
suddenly as if you were now in a trance
you find yourself on Liubartas Bridge,
smoking your last cigarette,
exhaling nervously as if you haven’t lived,
inhaling like it’s your last chance

because the light we possess can feel like pain
as if it were a rotting tooth
with a nerve exposed, and the wind blows on
through a body that feels almost crystalline,
but there’s still time to thank the ones you know,
to say goodbye with sufficient warmth,
despite the stubborn winter, long and hard –
it’s like coming down from having a good time

 

Bonus Track

it’s like coming down from having a good time,
and maybe this city that still speaks
in Russian on the walls, saying suck me,
is the one I love, even as I lie
in the hopeless neighborhood of Good Hope,
which still feels so much like Twin Peaks,
or stroll along the river where the snow and fog
arrive as if there were a gaping hole up in the sky