It is interesting to observe the increasingly personal nature of Lithuanian poetry and its various expressions and themes – to observe how the poetic tradition has changed since the mid-twentieth century, when Aesopian language replaced Soviet realism, or when irony permeated the public discourse. Later, postmodern games appeared, which are now almost entirely replaced by poetic simplicity and sincerity. The distance between reader and author has diminished, though it does not always result in complete confrontation, full disclosure, or recognition. However, regardless of this emerging relationship, poetry that becomes more individual, sensitive, and intimate, while maintaining its quality, is far from being only about the “I” – self-gratification, or as critics often sarcastically remark, “self-therapy.” This is well illustrated by Kristina Tamulevičiūtė’s work.
The poet, writer, and one of the most important Lithuanian translators from Slovenian, Croatian, and Bosnian has published her second poetry collection this year, Namai (Home). Her debut, an essay collection Pasakojimas apie vieną miestą (A Story About a City, 2013), won the traditional First Book Competition organized by the Lithuanian Writers’ Union publishing house, while her poetry collection Gyvybė (Life, 2023) received critical acclaim: it participated in the “Book of the Year” selection and won the Zigmas Gėlė Prize for best debut. The latter collection was noted for its clearly expressed circular structure, relatively new themes in Lithuanian literature (such as post-traumatic stress and miscarriage), and attention to the increasingly discussed collective intergenerational trauma, such as occupation and exile. Tamulevičiūtė may also be known to her English-speaking audience as the author of the lace-pattern book Crouchet Like a Goth (2025).
Tamulevičiūtė’s work is consistent and subtly infused with her personal experiences. Life in Bosnia, literary translations, and acquaintance with the culture and history of the Balkans, especially the lingering trauma of war, connect with her own family’s fate in the Šiauliai region, which allows her to try to understand her own personal tragedies. Thus, in both poetry collections is a desire to understand and perhaps give words to misfortunes and complex feelings that span generations, such as grief, love, longing, and pain. Questions of will and destiny are also considered; a person’s fate is predetermined. The ambivalent nature of life-giving and destructiveness, already familiar from her earlier work, is intertwined here as well, just like the threads of lace in her Gothic worldview, interweaving life and death.
Although the same themes continue to be present, the central focus of the newest poetry collection becomes change: reconciliation with mortality. Namai has a linear structure, consisting of the sections “Gimda” (Womb), “Kūnas” (Body), “Namai” (Home), and “Kapinės” (Cemetery) – from the very beginning to end. The pagan, mythological cyclicality, the unbroken connection, passed down from generation to generation, is replaced by a chronological perception of time and worldly experiences. Every location – womb, body, home, cemetery – indicates spaces that can be both cozy and uncomfortable, evoking feelings of security and anxiety. Pulsating emotions, alternating and chasing one another, are human life experiences. At first glance, the simple language of the collection may sound banal, but a closer reading reveals Tamulevičiūtė’s intentionality and consciousness. Abstract, capacious words allow a return to fundamental experiences that are not owned by a single narrator and can be understood universally.
This book conveys a strong image of nature. Whether it is a village, forested or marshy areas, a river, lake, or the sea – urban motifs are almost absent or appear sporadically, often associated with illusions, social expectations, or conflicts. Meanwhile, the natural childhood home acts as a healing space, imbued not only with various experiences but also with reflections on them. In Tamulevičiūtė’s worldview, there would be no love without cruelty, as illustrated in the poem “Širdis” (Heart). In the poem, the narrator describes the houses built by her great-grandfather, which, though different from others, are still familiar to her. When you pour your heart into something, care for it, or build it with your own hands, it becomes preserved. It’s good to be there even with an alcoholic grandfather, as long as he’s not drunk – you can understand his own flight from trauma. And, of course, regardless of the relationship, as generations change, homes change too – everything is abandoned, destroyed, and needs to be reconstructed. Ironically, what matters least remains: “Only the outhouse stayed up behind the shed – / untouched, as if forgotten, / albeit, no – / it was the only one built / without a heart.”
In my view, this poem is one of the most powerful in the poetry collection, effectively conveying Tamulevičiūtė’s worldview. Attention to detail allows the reader to vividly imagine the great-grandfather’s houses, the complexity of family life, and the narrator’s and her relatives’ desire to shape and create their space while being unable to escape what can roughly be considered nature. Because inauthenticity, things without a soul, last longest. The poem “Širdis,” like other poems in the collection, also highlights the ambivalence of the village – not the place itself, but the people living there embody its spirit. This is a gentle counterpoint to the binary “village versus city” trope characteristic of the Lithuanian poetic tradition, focusing on environmental details and atmosphere rather than the people acting within them.
Meanwhile, the poem “Baby” explores human will against larger forces. It ironizes a child’s illness – as if everything would improve simply by wishing it: “I’ve heard that stifled thoughts can clog the sinuses, / the body conjures a disease, the immune response, / and the cure – if you will it and believe it, / program yourself and meditate – / and you’ll be right as rain.” Attempting a child’s perspective, it is also a multilayered text about motherhood and inevitability. The poem is further threaded with discomfort and continuing themes of miscarriage, loss, exile, and violence. The small baby, both literally and metaphorically, fears what is uncontrollable, unavoidable, and far greater than itself. It is simple yet extremely impactful, especially at a time when so much guilt and responsibility is placed on an individual, as if they are not trying hard enough at life.
Overall, Tamulevičiūtė’s poetry is significant in the Lithuanian context because it addresses themes of “non-motherhood” that remain rare or stigmatized in both literary and public discourse – when planned parenthood fails. It is not just about societal expectations of how a mother should be. Rather, it is about miscarriage, carrying the heavy weight of loss, or relief that some may not understand, highlighting the duality of survival (“non-motherhood” may also be infertility, associated with “illness” or inadequacy, guilt, and other emotions). This gives rise to the darkness, discomfort, and instability of the poet’s works. Simultaneously, Tamulevičiūtė’s poems challenge the image of the “good girl,” the roles of daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter, lover, and mother. The narrator is not comfortable in these roles, which are accompanied by discomfort and insecurity, despite mostly acting within spaces that can be considered home. Thus, it raises the genuine question of whether this poetry, as editor Erika Drungytė describes, examines exclusively female issues, especially as the narrator seems unassociated with household care, and the traditional concept of the home as a cozy refuge is questioned.
Interestingly, although there is no God in Namai, there exists a higher power arranging the world’s order. There is a presumed human capable of divine powers – creating and destroying, seeking and preserving aesthetic experiences, yet not dramatizing their own desires, feelings, or actions. The narrator does not flee or avoid her and her family’s past. However, poetry is used not for therapy, but for capturing and preserving these reflections in poetic language. This is not the aestheticization of trauma, but something more. The poetry may resemble meditation practices, acknowledging the act of thinking – noticing a thought without developing it. The hopeful ending marks Tamulevičiūtė’s ability to let go and move forward. It will be interesting to see what Tamulevičiūtė, who has so far written mostly about life and death, will create in the future, as this book marks the end of one creative stage.
In any case, Namai is an interesting poetry collection likely to attract more readers and critics. It is simple yet highly visual – almost postcard-like. Despite its tangibility, it is consistent and impactful, sincere, open to interpretation, and multilayered, without imposing a single reading. It seems a prime example of metamodern poetry, inviting the perceiver to engage with the work, and the connection with the poems depends on their own knowledge and experiences. Hopefully, Tamulevičiūtė’s language will find readers beyond Lithuania, as the experiences are far from hermetic and local. This is authentic poetry, for which I wish to find its home.
