Poems from the poetry book Bucolics (Bukolikos)

Translated by Medeinė Tribinevičius

courtyard Athens

And what of Easter – already it's hot in Athens
Dust rising to the Parthenon burying marble feet
Lost in the foothills of the mountain. The sun outshines everything,
Even the most beautiful of church hymns, uplifting the black
Folds of bearded priests and monks, when, having left the caves
with all their altars, they stand outside and proclaim: He is risen!
Every balcony abloom with red flags, and the laughter
of Elados denizens scatters like red easter eggs, cradled in the
of temples of Athena, resonating with hymns of joy to the little white Lamb
And here it's still cool, granite stones, seemingly steeped in eternal sadness
emerge from the soaked clay: the fields are grey
In the garden only the Scilla imitates the sky, shining blue
Hellebores gaze naively with big eyes, Sparta's delicate hyacinths
stream pungent sweat like incense burners. Wax
Drawn and bacon smeared hard-boiled eggs connect
The whole world with invisible threads. Life, life, life –
scream tits, yellow-bellied in the orchard trees when, across the meadow
Calmly ambles the old tabby hunter. Bells peal
from the direction of the hillfort. Now, my lambs, we will sacrifice
The curved-horned one. The Resurrection – such a strange thing:
Neither death nor birth. Both in one. Not a closing
Nor an opening – the very doorway. Existence, when you don't choose
anything, asks – what are you for? That's it, little Lamb, that's it

now it is summer

Everything / I told you / was once ordinary
Everyday routine – so unimportant / so easy
Terribly simple // Now / when I try to restore
The bits of time / they soak up like butter on warm bread
And people disappear from the background of history
Their names / their touch / their words // Presence
Is just that / so long as two green spiders chat beneath the mint
Then everything continues as usual: the frog gets the spider / the stork gets the frog
The lighting gets the stork / the hill gets the lightning / and the fire gets the hill
Now the crematoriums are full of / what I told you
Everyone is burning off somewhere / it's getting emptier
And emptier, and that bread / totally saturated with the
Drama I spread / now soars in the beak of a city crow
Comical / the history of the world is truly comical
And if not for the white-headed Elderberry blooms
by the lake / I would still be searching / for who is to blame

rex of peace

Hesitating like a gear
out of synch, syllables carrying on and on
stridently clattering across the sky's pavement,
November elbows its way into the calendar
Knocks on every stone
All the way to kingly Krakow
Reciting the crown's cuneiform
No names, no dates – only rex
And the rain washes the backs of the gravestones
And the rain is chrysanthemums
And they are as white as black bitterness
While morning offers wormwood coffee
And when the machine-gun drizzles soaks
Everything cold to the bone
The hill at the edge of the village is fortified
A pediment appeared from somewhere
And the columns in the sky are straight
Stoic strings of pride
When you know – the front line ends
Right here. And beyond it – a window mirror –
You hold my hand nailed to peace
Until everything is snowed under

the world and the garden

Of all the possible worlds for me
Wherever I was, or travelled to see
There was one / it seemed / the truest
Neither above / nor below uprooted

It did not wilt / it grew and sprouted
Caught some strings / plucked
at my alto feelings / often
That's how I knew / it was worth it

to keep up with the garden flow
Until all that was left was to go
Board an invisible evening boat
watch the shore fade as we float:

Everything just so / as foretold
More beautiful even // If a bit slow
The promiser laughs: you believed?
Always… // Go inside, winds ahead

with a happy ending

So often we spoke of trees
Enticing them to live in our homes
Gates in the yard set free
With notices / forbidding Boreas to blow

How royally entered the laurel
fragrant with all his wreaths
Which for victory in battle
Still beat Nikes wing

Slow as a procession leader
Cypress came proudly / unmasked
Floated in gently // And the whole chamber
Pulled aside its walls unasked

And after, through balconies / through windows
Hazels and lindens poked their heads
And the neighbour's cautious willow
Unhung the curtains like veils

And the Hundertwasser spirit of Vienna
Twisted the structure up so strangely
Began to spin us / promising something
Rehearsing blooms before their day came

Indeed – at the end of an early spring
The usual schedule forgotten firmly
The trees burst – exploded with zing
and a beauty seen only rarely

That the whole city stopped / and everyone
Turned to our little house
We called an invisible taxi
and left // and lived a long long time