SAINT SEBASTIAN

I trembled; eyes uplifted, I deplored
That agony might break my will at last –
One arrow here, the first to strike, O Lord,
And all that dread anxiety has passed.

I feel the fall of warmth and gentleness,
Drop after drop on me; my joints melt, while
Upon my vigil falls the far-off smile
Of my Redeemer coming, luminous.

Almighty, gloried be! I thought, so long,
This moment I would need a will that's strong.
Instead, You come towards me... O Lord, your light –

I cannot look, I'm blinded like the dead.
The vaults ring, jubilant with gentle might.
– I cannoy lift my sinking, leaden head.

Translated by Demie Jonaitis



PHEDRA

That evening, rivers overflowed!
Their banks did not hold space enough.
Carefree, the sun departed past the sea
on a golden bridge.

That evening, no ship foundered – gulls
silenced their sorrowful cry,
and it was joy, that streamed and flowed
transparent – yes, joy flowed.

That evening the white Pleiades drew pearls
through the high vault of heaven –
the bed of the river didn't even hope
for the joyous, brimming waters to return.

That evening, gay and endless,
the kings of fairy-tales caroused;
and on the mountain crest, with snows radiant,
no eagle came to rest.

That evening, organs uttered their full sound:
Magnificat anima mea –
as if a wind of grace out of the west
should stroke the shore of a sea.

That evening and my footsteps and this joy
met and were perfectly identical...
That evening, as had never been, each leaf
was drenched and washed in joy.

Translated by Clark Mills



OF AUTUMN AND A DOG

Beyond the forest and the fields,
past the blue seas and their white foam,
a step-mother drove a princess out,
drove her away from home.

Autumn. And rain. A dog howled there,
his cries muffled and few.
And the princess' locks were fair
and her eyes, flax-flower blue.

And there was no one, none to care
about the hound of the princess.
Only a birch in the blown rain
uttered a world's distress:

Beyond the forest and the fields,
past the blue seas and their white foam,
a step-mother drove a princess out,
drove her away from home.

Translated by Clark Mills



ST. FRANCIS

The image of the evening is so ascetic.
It is sad but good, my Lord!
Around the sun St.Francis' wounds,
The lilac trees smell of "l'Origan".

I stand up, a fierce man, paleolithic,
A string of flying cranes in autumn...
Beyond the sea, beyond evening, far away,
Francis' wounds smell of jasmine.

Why is my suffering wooden? Christ,
You taught me a lunatic love!
With dove in hand, unrecognized
I'll slip away, mocked by the earth and by love.

Oh, pain festers in my feet, hands, and in my wounded chest,
Black drops of blood under the thorns on my head...
Oh, love – the painful lines of evening,
Oh the dizzying smells of lilacs in the May night!

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



THE PARTISAN'S FUNERAL

Crows croak standing in a circle, dogs fight,
With terrified, hysterical voices
Treetops squeal as they toss in the wind,
And you lie in the town square, dumped in the autumn dirt...

Your eyes are unclosed, arms unfolded,
And face unwashed – bloodcovered, pained –
You don't see that no one visits the graveclothed dead,
Sings no hymns, lights no candles and speaks no prayers...

That's how the hun hordes, inflamed with barbaric hate,
Defiled you and monstrously left you
Like carrion for the tearing birds and dogs,

So the horrible funeral wooden frighten
From the march those who will flower with unwilting honor
When the ages come to envy your painful fate...

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



ONE DROP OF BLOOD

One drop of blood would have cleansed you,
But in your misery you missed it,
And though we drew our strength from the old times –
Our promises remained unfulfilled...

One single word would have protected you,
But in your misery you missed it,
And though we swore we'd die for our homeland –
Our promises remained unfulfilled...

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



ANDANTE

Swollen waters rustle,
Pour onto shore, –
The crystal skylark
Vibrates heaven's vault...

And black birch twigs
Bristle with buds
And nightingale songs
Gush through the night...

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



EVENING SILENCE

It's calm, only the leaves of a lone aspen
Abruptly and unanimously rise
And down again they flutter faintly gasping
Like tie-on butterflies...

Our road leads up into the lofty sky,
The evening looks around the sighs,
The hearts turn into aspen leaves and fly
Like tie-on butterflies...

Translated by Lionginas Pažūsis



THE CUCKOO

This little bird flew in, beating its wings
Straight for the orchard.
O what white snow fell from the cherry tree, then!
Soon as it sang, sobbing out
Grief in gold,
It had a song that echoed and rolled.

And it sobbed and grieved so, this little bird,
All through the orchard.
Its voice, silver now, swelled and swelled.
Snow drifted in, then lifted.
Next I thought I heard
This bird in mournful words calling,

Calling me in, where the whole orchard
Held snow in fresh, tender branches
And a breeze ran reckless, as it
Kept calling me back there, this little bird,
Where it was hurt to the heart,
Aching more than anyone alone could bear.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



THE ORCHARD CURRANT

The orchard currant grew
Teardrops on each stem.
Our love was so holy,
We told no one.

It was blue autumn then,
When cherry trees turn red.
The days run like water
Without coming back.

Soon enough, the sun will tag
Each cherry branch snow white.
But is our luck ever to turn
Giddy, as last night?

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



ON THE AVENUE

Once, the wind rushing past stirred up only dust.
People walked by like shades at twilight.
The street feels drained, there must be something else.

So daydreams wind themselves like flowers into wreaths.
I keep on waiting, looking as though I'm about to
Find what I've been after, all my life.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



PHOTOGRAPH

Right away it felt odd
To be left alone like that:
Stripped, and robbed;
With the look of a hardened con.

I suffered, took it hard, and still
The urge came on, like some dream,
To follow cranes on the wing,
Spend the night fading and ripening.

And each time, just as sap starts
Oozing its sweet juices,
I'll bring it up under my glasses.
And my knees give, right under her stare.

To spend the night, fading and ripening!
Shadows do, to get it right:
Only then does the sun
Show its intimate side.

Leaves and rivers are on my mind.
My chin sits firm on its fist,
And those moist lips cling
As in that split second.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



SOMETIMES

Sometimes I'll sit there all evening
And not find one word.
Yet some nights are filled with rhyme schemes,
Sonnets and rondeaus!

I saw the sea as a deep wound.
I know it's only wet to you,
But to me it does resemble
The sonnet, or rondeau.

You'd like to hear lips mentioned,
With cheeks, or gleaming teeth?
But you know how it is with a sonnet,
How it goes with rondeaus.

And what's the point, so what if I –
0 what's the use, that you are fair!
Can that bring even one drop
Of young blood back to me?

Sometimes it feels so sweet,
My whole life is a play on words.
Sometimes though, it's more
And more fascinating,

Once all alone with love and moonlight,
To be weaving an evening not my own,
In quatrains and octaves,
Sonnets and rondeaus.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



PROLOGUE

My green youth, poisoned!
But not by chin, or eyes, or hair:
By pinewoods, with a healthy blue dose,
And fields, one nice open smile.

Maybe it's bad, maybe no use,
My being sad and close to tears like this,
But my own eyes, and heart gone wild,
Did really see that many buds.

And felt for that bleak stretch of field,
The seas of sheer desire there.
I hope some of this will show through
In my book, to a few.

Dear reader, you must know what for.
Don't be taken in, or look for more.
The way the sky, fresh out of rain, shows clear,
Just so: there's nothing human here.

What was she like? Where did she live?
And was she beautiful, or not?
Who cares? Remember, it's a stage
Routine: to wring the hands a lot.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



INTIMATE BALLAD

Early morning
Flowers showered
Their fine spray in diamond drops,
While the sky was blood and wax.

You said!
When night's tar seals in
Today's cuts,
We'll go in the garden and tend
Rue and lilies.

All went as they said it should,
All in a dream.
Even the stars, with their indifferent eyes,
Looked straight into me.

Yet I felt so much shame,
Such qualms
Coming back through the field,
The blossom in my hand got crushed.

Early morning, flowers shower
Their fine spray in diamond drops,
Now the sky's all sores and scabs.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



I SURRENDERED TO YOU

I surrendered to you
A piece torn from my youth.
You'd say: one day chases another
Like a boat in a storm, broken loose.

You took what fun you got, then tossed it off.
The orchard was left bare.
Night parted the bridal veil
And showed the crying eyes.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



CLOUDS

Clouds now lie low, real low.
Black, heavy clouds.
I drank sweet life
From the cups of your hands.

And it looked all clear.
Yet you (may you rest in peace!)
Took my days and spread them,
Like linen, for the sun to bleach.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



THE ROSE

I never saw all that much blood
Rush in on any wound, or evening before rain,
As on the lips and cheeks of this
Rose I keep from giving her,
Not to risk spilling my exquisite pain.

Her birthday. I plague the rose, the street, the evening,
While waiting for a miracle that can't take place.

In an inmate's tear, hope
Drains from the rose.
My heart puts on a record,
The saddest song it knows.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



THERE ARE QUIET NIGHTS

There are quiet nights
Bore you stiff with silence,
There are people living
As though dead,

All kinds of desires
Stay quiet inside them,
The way the nights grow
Irksome, with insomnia.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



THE KING'S DOG

The king's dog died. Such a good doggie
Only the best of dogs could be.
The king called all his court together
To hear the doggone eulogies.

Marquises, countesses, earls and barons,
The many soldiers, servants as well,
All tried to get in good with his Majesty
At that top dog's funeral.

A regal tear fell on the bier.
Then one tear each
From all that high-born retinue.
The servants, too.

The jester spun a rap to cheer his master:
Dogs, Sire, you sure have, as many as you please,
But where will you find another like this doggie,
The best of any of these?

The king grew stern. So did his retinue.
Courtiers, servants, all together
Hanged the jester, as his due
For smirching that good doggie. The best, ever.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



INTERRUPTED PRAYER

All night, the waves kept their edges keen
Against hard stone, night's blackness.
Lord, don't give up on me in this desperate hour,
Or let the galaxies burn out.

Just let me endure my anguish till daybreak,
And your storms can rant and moan all they want.
Just don't let the stars run off scared, not just yet,
Or the earth cave in underfoot.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



SAYING GOODBYE

You didn't see how fine a snow
Snowed from the apple tree.
And I was sure my poems would
Get through to you, politely.

There was a tale I read once.
No word could rouse you, though
What made the princess stir was
One blossom from the apple bough.

Sleep solid, without care.
No word can sense what pain may be
In Snowmaid's icy sting,
Or blossom falling from tree.

With dumb pages in unwritten books
Let heart stay vague and blanched:
You'll never see how it really snowed,
Or the blossom dropped from its branch.

It seems we're not to meet too soon.
So, the blossom will not fall.
Sleep soundly, snow princess.
Now no one will wake you, ever at all.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis

Jonas Aistis was born in central Lithuania. He studied Lithuanian literature at the University of Kaunas and received a grant from the Lithuanian Ministry of Education to study French literature at the University of Grenoble in France from 1936 to 1940. His doctoral dissertation examined the linguistic structure of Gospel translations into ancient Provancal. From 1944 to 1946 he worked in the Nice, France, archives and in the Paris National Library. He came to the United States in 1946, served for a number of years as chairman of the Lithuanian Writers' League and worked at the Library of Congress until his death in 1973. Aistis published ten books of poetry. He also wrote literary criticism and edited several anthologies of poetry.