THE WOMAN FROM THE ARCHIVE

a woman of indeterminate age
in the fading light
hands folded on her lap

those same days
those same faces
a current carried
on and on

hair full of archival dust
dishevelled, calligraphic
writing, deeply hidden
sadness

on the window
a bouquet of dried
meadow flowers, barely fragrant
in the fading light

you turn and set
next to one another
flowers, dreams, gazes
a fragment of song, a smile

all
of your treasures
at twilight, woman
no one loves

***

in the nets of psychoanalysis
you might find a few small stones, a black feather, silt
or some tiny box
filled with forget-me-nots

perhaps you will unexpectedly pull out
a black lace dress
given by your grandmother – it fits just right
but there's no place to wear it

such a small dark storeroom
in the half-cellar, heaped to the ceiling
a dusty black piano
you are probably four years old

and your father
and your mother
are so young still
on the facing halves

an icy wind suddenly tears open
the door
you cry and cry
and cannot sleep
you are four years old

night, night, our benevolent
night, let down the curtain
gentle black heavy
dust
will fall on your hair, spider webs
will wrap your body, crepe de Chine
outside the window will blossom
a Chinese rose

***

in the dream I sewed a black dress
a black dress falling
with deep heavy folds

through the black
transparent lace
stares the windswept night
and loudly 
rustling trees

with no regrets
I cut off my long hair
threw it into the fire, let it burn
let it

I dreamed that I dream
that I sew a black dress
a black dress falling
with deep heavy folds

let it burn
so the toad that lives by the well
will not carry it
to its nest

what are you afraid of
it asks me, what are you afraid of
mice, owls, snakes, spiders
bats
are beloved creatures

I sew a black dress
a black dress falling
with deep heavy folds
I sew a black dress

heavy
vapors rise above the thick brew, swamps
stirred by a dried hand
only skin and bones

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



FOR ROMAN POLANSKI

o Pan's flute! you call to me
in the middle
of the nineteenth century

I am so happy

familiar, comfortable
things: a straw hat
on a round table, a white
dress on a chair, the mirror
you gave me on the dresser, its frame engraved
and a bouquet of flowers

the wind
stirs the curtains, brings up the fragrance
of fresh cut grass, what a remarkable
morning

make love
in fields of heather!

light purple
clusters of heather, dark
sharp heather honey, my head
spinning

my bright
encapsulated world

***

these three girls, possibly sisters
out for a walk
on Sunday

their whispers
fade
down rustling lanes, their secrets
and laughter

eyelids trembling
like butterfly
wings

he
a few steps behind
with hat in hand

with a quiet
all knowing
all fixing gaze

that's how you read even
the deepest secrets in my heart

***

there is still
one more happy awakening after
the sun has risen: the apple
on the warm white windowsill
that someone's hand put down
as I slept (just as it did for my young
mother, long ago, in that distant
house): juicy and fragrant

o summer, o dream!

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

I know a place where when you
brush your foot across the sand
the sand moans sadly
as if weeping

sometimes
a woman appears there, dressed in black, with eyes
emptied of tears

wind carries her across the sand like
the shadow of a cloud

there was a death camp there, during the war

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



THE WEAVERS

after school a hard hand 
gathered us to the sewing shop

a flock of young girls 
with children's faces 
bindweed at our waists

all winter we sewed white 
shirts for orphans 
white calla lilies blossomed 
in hothouses beneath the glass

blossoms 
for the bride's bouquet 
for the wreath of spruce 
for emptiness

melt the distant snowdrifts 
with your hot sighs

melt the ice 
in the sewing shop's mirror 
it alone is our secret 
friend 
understood our dreams

I watched 
through the windows, through cracks, through fences 
there, beyond the river, 
was a world locked to us

the night nurse 
black wings embracing the sleeping children 
listens drowsily to the storm 
and the heavy keys ring at her waist

***

heavy eyelids 
envelopes filled with sand and heat 
gnaw the eyes, a clump of frozen earth 
locks up the feet the hands

you know 
the look of cold steel 
you know why we are called 
by the dark precipice of the window

let no one 
turn and look back 
let no one point for another 
let no whispering 
drag itself after you 
like a dirty bouquet-ribbon full of holes

the sleep of lethargy, Franz K. 
winter

***

bend closer
I'll whisper a secret

a large ear 
it hears 
what I mumble in sleep, sleepwalker

a hand 
with long thin fingers 
burrows through my brain, searches 
for the hidden the forgotten
it is not possible 
for you to hide beneath 
the sky

so much the better, so much the better

I want to be an embryo again
twinkling each night
above the sunken lake

Translated by Jonas Zdanys   



* * *

you would like to live 
in the old house 
with thick walls and wide windowsills 
on which you would sit embracing your knees 
as darkness came

you would easily grow accustomed 
to the cosy ghosts 
of this house 
and would listen to something 
forgotten playing in the moonlight

sometimes an unfamiliar barefoot 
child with a long nightgown would run in 
and would ask you to take her on your knees 
the stairs would creak, as if someone was climbing 
above the ceiling steps, a cough

those hands that sewed 
the covers of these chairs 
have long since gone to dust 
and the colors have faded

how much warmth 
and love in these patterns

and you too will someday be 
only a ghost 
in an old house

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *   

every spring 
as the hawthorns blossom 
along the river

my grandfather 
smiling hands me 
a flute he has just carved 
from willow wood 
he's been dead a long time my grandfather

and tiny yellow butterflies 
cover his face

***

your golden freckles 
your face 
speckled with brown spots

your belly

your belly, which you carry 
so carefully so heavily

a great magical sphere

you turn your head smile 
at him who walks with you 
and say something 
to him

gentle sunflower ripening
in our irrevocably lost homeland's empty fields

***

look, then: how big this 
bag is on my back 
here are gathered all 
the sicknesses of the poor 
the flu, mange, lice

tuberculosis, misfortune, despair 
anger and revolution

this is what I've brought for you

as you dance singing before the glowing 
Christmas tree 
in the great echoing high-ceilinged 
room

as the first star 
rings in the dark sky 
like a silver bell

***

my grandmother's flowers 
myrtles and geraniums 
starched lace on red down pillows
that were my dead grandmother's

(could you find some likeness 
in my face)

my mother's flowers 
ficus and philodendron, asparagus fern 
an embroidered white tablecloth, recollections 
written in a childlike hand 
in high school
 
I don't know what my greatgrandmother 
grew on her windowsill 
when my greatgrandfather 
left for America and my grandfather 
at fourteen 
became head of the family

   dis iz kazys paliokas 
    fotogref and he iz all redy 
    long ded in sum month 
    afder te furst
    war

       iz yur
       faters so Im 
       senden it 
       to yu dere vincent

(written by typewriter 
on the back side 
of the photograph)

Translated by Jonas Zdanys   



THAT SUMMER

she wore light 
long wide dresses 
the wind carried her

down streets and through parks 
easily, as if through a dream 
with blossoming lindens

the thin soft cloth 
did not hide 
her breasts and in the sun 
you could see her supple 
young body

it was so hot

we rested 
in wicker chairs 
in the shade of giant 
old trees, the river's reflections 
glittered on our faces, boats 
parasols and clouds floated gently by

your dropped bicycle 
in the distant summerhouses opened books leafed 
through by unseen hands

that summer 
there was no war and there was not to be 
the first the world
these are lilacs 
from Jaskonis's mill, which is near crumbling 
each year 
I pick a huge bouquet

empty neglected ordnance yards 
each year 
grass overgrows 
the trenches, the bunkers, and the bones 
in the common grave

these are lilacs 
from Jaskonis's mill, the saddest 
flowers, for you Jadvyga (the overcoat 
hacked by moths rots in the attic)

and for you Karolina, you are old already and for you 
Barbora, the miners's 
mother

and for me

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

all the fears of childhood 
all the dreams of terror 
nightmares, the loneliness of children 
the sense of guilt

a face pale as the sky fades 
and longing

for something to free her 
rescue her

a timid girl 
still hides 
in the soul's secluded rooms 
in weeds, mirrors, wind 
old photographs

I cannot chase her away

how cold 
how thin are her hands 
on your palms, my love

***

she knows nothing 
she understands nothing 
but when she furrows her brow 
and listens to the voices 
of her clouded spirit

joy 
floods her suddenly
like heavy breathing 
incomprehensible sweet sorrow 
how good it is 
to grieve and wait

her body aches, still grows

wants to be alone 
tries on mother's clothes 
changes 
feverishly 
chooses herself a name 
searches books for a suitable biography

of unattractive face, reserved 
gaping at a glass ball 
at a float swilled by the sea 
at a mirror 
is hungry 
to see

her purpose 
her destiny 
your 
face

***

by the river, farther on, beyond the border 
the red convent school 
where you grew up, a timid frightened 
thing

a distrustful 
look, two teeth 
hidden in the mouth, a watchfully guarded 
square of solitude
what arrogance 
of the one that you once were

the sweet taste of rebellion 
that first touched your palate 
in the convent school

what belief 
in the self 
and life to come

of the one 
that you once were

***

blushing you lower your eyes 
and you have no place to put your long 
twig-thin arms, you hide your breasts 
beneath heavy braids, under pleats and folds

on the avenue 
of old hollow linden trees 
head and lap 
full of yellow blossoms – 
I love this summer, these 
brick buildings, 
a large cool poultice 
for a fevered 
growing spirit

I would joyfully throw off 
this worn orphan's dress 
made of the devil's hide, wool, the strongest 
fabric of poverty 
worn by many girls 
before me
and that outgrown washed out dress, filled 
with the kitchen's stifling air and vapors 
and the alkali that eats at the hands, 
with patched elbows, 
the dress that cannot be worn out – 
the feel of the orphanage 
that does not leave you 
even if you molt your skin

I hide it 
at the very bottom 
under old 
books I have read in secret 
in the stuffy darkness of the eaves 
and slam shut 
the heavy 
iron
lid

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



PICTURE

the fragment of dream in my heart 
is a shard of red glass 
through which 
we could watch the clouds

a tall transparent tree 
a ladder leaned against a fence 
a gentle and solemn 
evening sky

the house is dark dark 
your window is dark

a red ball in the faded grass 
a crumbling wall 
counterforts

night carefully 
closed the door 
no wind
no sound

***

it is only 
a butterfly of night 
dead on a white leaf

and you 
want to be a hieroglyph 
in ancient writings

***

I am again that stammering child 
in the dark room, circled 
by ghosts 
by incomprehensible fear

I say your name 
to myself 
stuttering 
syllable by syllable

I touch your forehead 
timidly

a trembling 
compass needle 
I turn toward the north

your world is 
endless angry unadorned

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



FEMME FATALE

how simply 
this river flows 
winding its way 
through the meadows

how simply 
this river flows 
holding a full embrace of wheat 
before us

how simply 
it carries our obedient 
and trusting 
bodies

***

like that girl 
asleep in a red shell 
rocked by the waves 
in the moonlight 
you sleep peacefully in his arms

I kiss the dark dried rose 
in secret 
its petals flaking

o, never no one

a girl asleep in a red shell

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



THE BONIFRATRIAN HOSPITAL

having chosen exile, madness, oblivion 
their striped clothes faded 
faces pale 
they sleep so heavily

the hospital garden is still empty, wind sweeps 
the dust, romantic poets 
and he 
is a scar on the wrist, blood
flows gently through the veins

at the bottom of the hill the narcotic 
fragrance of ash trees, full clusters of white blossoms 
save this city 
you saw it from the hill

they stop in a circle, press together 
someone shakes you by the shoulder 
and you say waking: I wanted to go to sleep

***

it is an old garden, the cut grass 
is still filled with fragrant blossoms 
and you are there, in black clothes 
you walk down the path and I

watch you from a distance, fallen behind 
and above your head, ever darker, 
tangle the branches of the nut trees, an arch, a tunnel 
and you turn around angry
 
pale melancholy 
overgrown ponds, nettles and wormwoods 
immense trees, crows 
and suddenly

they disappear 
and there is only sand 
only the stinging wind, only the sun 
and no you

***

the station is jammed with people, but you 
find no place on the map where you 
could live 
long and happily

someone falls 
on his back 
onto the dirty wet floor 
onto the stone steps

convulsions 
in a circle drawn 
by an unseen hand

the horror 
of a difficult dream

***

a frozen
crow  in the snow
the crosswind 
in a poor hospital room

a tortured face 
in a white metal bed 
when 
are you leaving?

in the dream 
I bend toward you: never 
I am your 
lover

outside the window 
the white Church of St. John 
ruins

***

people who do not fit in 
are in shelters, orphanages, asylums

they recognize one another 
by the look in their eyes 
in reading rooms, the Old Town's coffee houses, the morgue

an unexpected abcess 
in a healthy body 
or 
a flower never seen before 
suddenly unfolding in your garden

***

unable to live 
unable to die 
they return 
are safe here
 
their poems have yellowed 
in editors's desks 
you save one such page 
to remember

the calming fragrance of medicinal grasses 
in unmown meadows

for some reason I remembered the doll 
I loved the most

can you see how we swim?

I cannot bear the crosswind 
close the windows! 
take off your shoes!

help me

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



THE VISIT

endless corridors 
the convent's interior garden 
worn stairs 
doors, white wards

numbing cold 
fetters the feet, the hands 
persistently hidden 
eyes full of fear 
with my last ounce of strength

I recognize 
the walk, the movement of the arm 
beneath the trees 
on the grass people are eating

it is difficult to imagine 
how much suffering there is 
in waiting rooms, operating rooms, crossroads 
a face

a selfish healthy joy 
beyond the gates 
summer, heat, wind blows 
my hair and white dress, I need something to drink!

endless corridors 
a labyrinth 
silent madness 
and perhaps: suicide

***

so much horror 
in this peaceful landscape 
as if it had been 
stricken by paralysis

a scream remaining 
behind clenched teeth

walked outside the windows 
knocked about the attic 
rummaged through the books and laundry 
sniffed around all the corners 
with a bat's sensitive ears 
fixated on the hospital's heavy breathing

a paralyzed landscape 
he lies with eyes open 
face twisted
given up to your will

an aimed 
blow to the belly 
to the empty place below the ribs

the sky descends 
like a metal press 
from beneath which will spurt
the grape's acidic juices

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



CHILDREN'S TASTE

there was a time when we ate
the swollen buds of linden trees
sticky and sweet

the sap of cherry trees, more delicious 
than berries

gnawed small 
green apples, secretly, with black bread

spat out the pits 
of handfuls 
of red hawthorn berries

sucked icicles

it was that sort of time

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



TEMPORARY CITY

walking 
in the evening 
along the banks 
of the creek, as the sky is lighted by the glow
from the hothouses, farther on the dump, the street, 
the pond, the hospital, farther still garages 
and the dried tops of pine trees

here in the spring 
a nurse was raped as she walked 
to work one morning 
and here, on this bridge, 
you were beaten, kicked 
by three men, healthy, uncomplicated, laughing 
(it was on some holiday)

then we looked in all 
the ditches for your glasses, shining our lights 
into the shallow water, but could find 
nothing: no frames, no lenses, not a single 
face or significant mark

only muck, only pieces of things, discarded toys 
a glove 
and your large black beret 
which we I pulled from the water

***

in the dream 
some woman 
young, very pale (in one ear
dangled a silver earring, the other 
was torn out by the branch 
of an appletree gone wild, there were once orchards here 
now tall buildings line the way, through their windows 
you see 
only other windows, as if some other world), that woman 
ran down the street screaming, and all
I could understand was: will I never 
be able to see Paris!

***

the dump, beyond the hothouses, where the spring sun 
warms us so pleasantly 
a brook burbles

there 
from under a pile 
of broken bricks, rags, newspapers, ashes 
stuck 
a hand

dry stalks of grass rustle in the wind

***

old woman winter, like some beggar 
stopped on the main street, is taken away 
outside of town, in shock and half dead, 
to die in the fields

the half-frozen 
boy (with no scarf or gloves) was stopped 
by two tall men near the school

(the hired 
killer's knife pierces 
the back)

go in (it belongs to no one) 
into the empty unhappy heart 
of this spring

into the blind alleys 
of this city

***

try 
to give a title 
to this poem

to their life 
which is 
and nothing more

***

the night is ever darker
beware, those are not real stars			
watch out, don't walk on the streets after dark
don't talk to strangers
fear telegrams, take no joy
in this day or in tomorrow, accept
no gifts, throw out medicine bottles, scissors needles
hairpins, burn
letters and never
keep a diary

they don't give you an inch
eyes in every mirror, in every 
face, in every brick of the walk

the walls have ears!

***

I would not want to tie my name to it 
nor my date of birth nor the place of my death

***

Franz K., my friend 
in the darkest time, when trees, 
having lost their leaves, tremble through their trunks 
in the wind on the dismal plain

and there is still no snow

where our corpses will be dropped 
with hands and feet bound 
mouths stuffed 
still warm

what a comfort 
it will be to believe 
that we will meet

the same blood flows in our veins 
and seeps
into the saturated ground

you'll croak like a bitch – someone said 
and spat

and there is still no snow, Franz K.

***

the blackened ancient coin 
lands on tails 
saying 
yes

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



THE OLD REVOLUTIONARY'S ROOM

o the poverty of holidays, the sadness of holidays

the shining 
windows 
in the emptying street, wet 
flags, torn and rent 
by the wind, rustling leaves 
beneath our feet

she opens the door: welcome 
it just happens to be 
her birthday

she leads us down a long corridor 
into distant perspectives 
into the past – glimmering 
clearly

a straight 
old woman (sweater 
with darned elbows)

a piano
takes up half the room
photographs – father and mother, old 
Vilnius intellectuals 
piles of manuscripts

a bicycle 
leans against a wall: yes, she still 
rides, along the Neris 
in the summer

cherished 
beloved names on her lips 
lives  –  complicated, 
entangled, tragic

(I see: she sits 
alone, in an empty room, the wind 
blows out the candle in her hand)

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



THEY TELL OF THE WARSAW UPRISING

– I was nineteen

with flamethrowers 
(it was a new weapon then) 
from house 
to house

I slipped 
on the stairs, hurt myself – such 
a sticky mass, jelly, something spilled, an open 
door into the room, where 
the parents slept, and here 
a newborn

–  did you understand then that you weren't fighting 
the regular army 
but civilians?

– I didn't see 
anyone with a uniform 
some had bands on their arms, some 
had insignia

I later heard that one or another 
crawled out from the piles of corpses 
but there, where the flamethrowers passed, 
no one was left

(he covers his face with his hands and weeps)

–  I, she says, crawled out, I 
one woman says
still only a girl 
I went to the hospital 
to visit my mother

they took us there, into that cellar (she points), people 
fell and fell, I covered my head 
with my hands (if only they wouldn't hit me 
directly!) fell 
and did not move

they hurt my shoulder, I was silent and didn't move, people 
fell and fell, one on top of another 
later 
they left, I was afraid to move, suddenly 
smelled smoke

I had such 
long thick braids then, I pulled 
a scarf from a corpse, tied it on –  
I was most afraid that fire 
would catch my hair

I choked 
when I could no longer bear it 
jumped through the fire – 

– when the processing began

when it began

I couldn't sleep

(he weeps 
the old 
soldier)

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

once again spring 
catches us by surprise, sudden implacable

where is that 
sweet smell coming from, I find it: the poplar's 
green buds, opening

all 
the joys of spring 
have become the sorrows 
of this spring

the Madonna's right cheek 
has been cut 
twice by a sword – these are not tears 
that roll down her face but drops of blood

the sky is clear, only the sun 
seems covered with something 
shines as if through smoked glass

I see you: an ordinary woman 
expecting a baby

kneeling before a dark 
picture 
filled with endless tenderness

in your womb you carry degeneration 
and death

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

here, where eternally frozen earth 
has imprisoned my bones

you carry 
a golden sprig of mistletoe 
in your hand

you come 
to set me free

the first delicate grass 
sprouts between my fingers 
with the sound 
of gentle tapping

sweet warm rain 
begins to fall like tears

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

a flowering garden, 
in Vienna, could there really 
have been such a place 
a peaceful afternoon, the end of summer

a few red hollyhocks, delicate flower beds, a gathering 
of golden sunflowers 
sitting on the left a young 
woman, dark-faced, wearing a white hood 
above her head green waves 
of luxuriant climbing vines

on her lap an open book 
large, thick, with metal bindings, but what she is reading

we will never know

quiet hands 
finish knitting a white 
wool stocking

she married a few months ago

one more day 
like a cut half 
of a fragrant juicy yellow pear 
with dark brown seeds

she sits in the tiny garden, in Vienna, in front 
of her home 
in an ordinary blue dress, her head 
bowed

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

That same 
narrow white road through the forest 
spreading trees, summer, and beyond the bend 
a lake, water calm and deep

a lost 
home, returned 
in a dream that repeats 
endlessly

what was left me 
by my great-grandmother, my grandmother, the dowry 
delivered to me by my mother 
at the edge of the world

I will give 
that photograph, barely visible, fading 
those shadows 
those waters

to you, child

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

You 
who led the way into the forest's 
cool shadows: your forehead 
was marked by a tiny forget-me-not 
that grew alongside the ditch when you 
stooped down in the thicket and stared.

Autumn by the sea, the wind 
flattens the worn-out dress 
against your back, salty grass 
cuts across your legs, your hair 
is thick with sand...

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

along worn stone steps, steep 
wooden staircases, ladders 
spiral tower stairs

on the stairs of our house

your silent spirit 
entered and illuminated 
all the corners, all the forgotten rooms

the dark crowded attic, the small rooms 
of the half-cellar, the damp and dismal tower, 
the tangled corridors, filled with echoes 
the hidden labyrinth

all our dark 
repeating memories

the candle's trembling flame

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

birds 
with black heads, black wings 
black beaks, black hooked talons 
dark grey bodies 
in the seaside town

big 
as hens

I've never seen such birds

they walk through the field 
a large flock 
clucking

attack gardens 
a black black 
cloud 
above my head

they speak in human voices

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

a cold evening, swollen painful 
willow buds

migrating birds are 
perched in the skeletons
of trees along the shore like great 
black blossoms

a small reddish flame 
there, far off, trembles in the icy wind 
as if alive, near the water

a fire stoked by children

it's almost warmer, isn't it, 
as we draw near

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

it was not Alisa

the girl who posed in the photograph

with bare 
feet, half-naked, dressed 
in rags, her dark hair 
cropped short

one hand pressed against her waist 
as if dancing

palm stretched out for alms

with naked 
shoulders

it was certainly not Alisa

that girl grew into a charming 
Victorian lady

gave birth to three sons, two 
died in the Great War

no it was not Alisa 
who was seen 
one hot summer afternoon, floating in a boat
on the river, by a lecturer in mathematics, an eccentric

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

in the damp places 
near the well 
I search for horsetail – so my hair 
would be light and shiny 
as silk

I crumble oak bark 
cut up the roots of sweet-flag 
and burdock 
gather cones of hops 
birch leaves

spread out and dry chamomile 
in the dark 
rinse with stinging nettles

so my hair 
would be long and soft 
when you see me sitting by the window 
combing it with a comb of bone

so my braids 
would bind your feet

at night 
I bathe in the quiet 
forest lake 
in moonlight

spread my linens on the grass

secretly 
brew you something to drink
from grasses gathered on St. John's night 
from roots 
from the waters of the well of life 
from magic

o grasses of sleep, bitterly sweet 
grasses 
of oblivion

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

cottages, circled by lindens 
maples and willows (they no longer 
plant so many trees near houses now, wild
unprofitable), a stream downhill, a path and bridge

high-ceilinged rooms 
where every corner 
remembers you, nothing 
has changed here, like everything that's lost

dusty, airless attics stuffed with 
useless household goods, forgotten things, unread books 
a damp cold cellar, pantries, storerooms 
drawers, closets, baskets, chests 
broken herbarium childhood's collections, gatherings 
a sewing box with thread, needles and thimbles 
a thin coral necklace, a ring, an old rag doll, a mirror 
a frayed diary locked with a tiny key, poetry

o all that 
is old

in the double-bottom drawer

you put it down 
bit by bit, fragment by fragment 
piece by piece 
like the stingiest miser

looking for something 
that would be yours alone, like your name 
even the tiniest thing 
something no one 
could ever tear 
from your hands

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

my grandmother's monogram 
on the old-fashioned linen tablecloth 
hemmed with a crocheted border

bleached and starched – like ice, 
my grandmother used to say, when during summer's 
hottest days she would open the linen chests and lift out 
tablecloths, pillow cases (my great-grandmother's 
checkered ones and her own white ones) 
lighter and heavier linens, towels, bedspreads, 
sheets and scarves

and when the two of us carried them out 
and hung them on the fences 
and when we aired out the linen chests, where dried 
tobacco leaves, crackling, crumbling to powder, 
kept away the moths 
and St. Agatha's bread, wrapped in a small handkerchief, 
protected against fire...

my grandmother's monogram 
embroidered in a cross with red thread

a small crown 
and under it 
MD

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

a few old photographs from among those 
we would look at on Sundays 
together with my grandmother, taking one at a time 
from the wooden box: this is my brother Praniukas, 
my sister Agotėlė, there, the collective, 
the threshing-machine, neighbors 
the school, at the other end of the cottage (girls 
with short hair, bangs to their eyebrows, boys 
with shaved heads, the teacher with hair in a crown 
of braids), here they scatter 
flowers, there are my relatives, at some service 
(most likely the feast of St. Stanislaus), 
your grandfather, with a giant mustache, when we lived 
in the Malijonušės' house, here's you, still small, and 
me, in Marijampolė, here's the bridge across the Šešupė, 
there's the servant girl, a cat in her arms, your father 
(I wonder if he's still alive), a funeral, me 
with a flock of geese, and here we are, with both girls 
(so serious, in white holiday dresses, that's my mother 
and my aunt Zoselė), and here we are, look, when we came 
home

old-fashioned, funny clothes, copied gestures 
in our faces concentration and patience 
the dialect, easily recognizable, sung intonations, odd words 
already so familiar that we are sorry 
when they fade away 
work, more important than anything else 
and in the evening the fragrance of the garden 
beneath the window

to gather all this, put it 
safely, like a photograph, into a black box

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



* * *

on winter nights, when my grandmother 
went to work 
I carried a lantern 
to light her way

large snow drifts on either side of the path 
the Big Dipper, the north star, the moon
and the man who lives there 
walking with a lantern, because he's cold and sad

he looks 
at our lighted windows 
at the burning candles, at the Christmas tree 
at my eyes, filled with sleep

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



SUMMER ENCLOSED IN A SEMI-DARK CUP

summer – enclosed in a semi-dark cup
locked with nine locks
scribbled on graph paper squares
in a quick hand, chicken scratch, you'd call it

from the first
to the last page, cheeks flushed
I read your book, studied 
Latin names

what grows, 
blossoms, bears fruit 
gives me such pleasure
that I'd like
together with you

to be everywhere, but I can't, you run 
too fast and then you laugh –
missed meadow-sweet – out of bloom already
can't find dogwood nor black-berried alders

you're asleep now in my dark cup
hidden away in canning jars, bottled, stacked on shelves
dried, you rustle in burlap bags
butterfly! how did you get in here?

like a fancy metal brooch
used to hook together a book of spells –
thick, redolent of leather, incense, the ancients
and the very first letters ever written by hand

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



EYE BY EYE

now broad stitches, now fine ones –
eye by eye, I'll be leaning over linen
all winter long
embroidering this table cloth

but during the night
you, only you, leave
magic blossoms and branches
on the windowsill

which, even as a child
I could not get enough of 
after the sun had set
and we were no longer allowed out in the frozen yard

I am just a poor laborer
hoping for a handful of pennies
for all my trouble
but how happy 

the thought makes me
coming to mind unexpectedly –
that like the woman who will receive my handiwork
who will pass it on to her daughter, granddaughter, great granddaughter
each one spreading over the holiday table –

pure snow-whiteness decorated with flowers and branches
that something even more wonderful than that
sparkles on my own windowsill –

your blossoms, your ferns, your palm trees

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



DEAD ORCHARD

dead orchard, dried
plum trees and the frozen apple, dead
trunks, skewed, twisted branches, knotted
fingers, in the cold gray heavens
with a wooden face
between hesitating clouds

beneath my feet dry grass
crunches, last year's, the smell of dust
permeates the air, piercing, sharp, sand
in my mouth, between my teeth, so brittle, so terrible
I'd like to scream out loud, hear 
my own voice

with wooden feet, I walk
back, to the windmill, barely, just barely
standing on a bridge beside the water, near the ragged
windmill, where it is cool and damp, where there are kittens
in the willow, where once more
I inhale
Spring

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



THE POET'S GRAVE

not one 
star –
a calm, windless
evening

shriveled frozen earth, freezing
curly chrysanthemum heads

– only from afar
my beloved hill glistens

as if all the stars had come down to earth

beside the forgotten poet's grave

but I am not alone here:  a few
half-burned candles and a hawthorn
branch full of red berries remain

as if asking –
soundlessly – lips not even twitching
"What do you need, my soul?"

and the answer –
like a shock of cold wind:
slicing straight through
my very heart

and your black
nineteenth century
wrought iron fence

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



DOLL MAKER

a murky profile
in the window;  lamp light glares against yellowish curtains
jerks forward, swings round
bends again

dumb shadow, stranger to all
you sit beyond midnight, sewing dolls
look, your friend, your confidant – the moon
is rising

shred by shred, pattern by pattern
day after day

each doll is always different;  her expressions vary
as if alive –
hairdos, clothing, everything, yes everything
suits a social position, a class

only, does anyone need her?
will anyone deliver her
into out-stretched hands, will anyone's heart
beat faster, from joy

you seat Piero by the mirror –
sad, pale, in shiny satin
clothing, you move towards the window
to talk with the moon
to complain, to seek comfort:

– each one of them 
carries away a scrap
of my soul

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



SITTING BESIDE THE VERY STREET

sitting beside the very street
on a dilapidated bench, paint peeling

people stroll past, children scurry
an infant left in a carriage outside a shop wails

wearing a small blue beret, the kind tractor drivers wear
a thick raincoat from who knows how long ago, high rubber boots

he sits, eating ice cream with wafers
two more portions on the bench, beside him

old, unkempt cheeks,
alone, by himself,
buses stopping before the shops
he sits and calmly eats ice cream

it's hot, the end of May

around him
a magic circle spreads 
quiet and solitude

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



FROM:  THE HOME WE WILL NEVER LIVE IN THAT PLACE 

that place, where one spring
we saw a grass snake – 
greenish gold

where a forest stream
curled around a meadow, laughing;  fallen
trees lay rotting, not touched by anyone

so warm
and green

that place, where for the first time, I saw a grass snake –
his gold crown

all that is gone now

a twisted barbed wire fence
ensnares that place, enclosing some kind of buildings, 
sheds, bulldozed ravines, mounds of gravel
and not a living soul 

only a sign reads:  "no trespassing"

Translated by Laima Sruoginis
 


EVEN MY HANDS ARE RESTLESS

even my hands are restless
laden with stiff laundry
taken from the clothesline
here in a small town

it can't be
that in your life not even you will ever
pull open the gate, enter a green yard, go to the orchard
where clean white laundry billows against a breeze
wholesome, fragrant

and where I would come to meet you
slow and quiet
as the last day of summer

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



ORCHARD

it was as though you were standing before a fence
and beyond the curved slats, woven with 
blossoms and leaves, over there, in the orchard, 
a group of children played

barefoot, ragged, grubby

your heart 
shudders, half-wild: those children
racing around, that orchard, longed for

you discover suddenly, within yourself, how badly
you'd play forgetting yourself, neither eating, nor sleeping

you start – someone calls your name 
beckons you – come! You look around – do they really
want me? 

that wall, sometimes stone, tall, thick 
sometimes transparent, or glass, didn't I
build it myself?

I hear 
clanging coming closer, a drum
and from around the corner a group of well-wishers wind 
their voices growing louder, clearer

my poor 
heart 

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



YOUR FACES

I never loved you, sunrise, I mean, weren't you 
terrible, waking me up with the roosters, rushing me 
down the narrow dark hall to the basin 
of cold water covered with ice 
that just managed to form during the night, when our bodies,
young girls' bodies, still wanted 

only to dream, to dream and dream? I had 
only one friend, a secret friend, sunset, we'd meet 
sometimes in the old linden lane, carefully 
I'd chew a slice of bread, making it last, bread
stolen from the kitchen, there I'd wait for you (I grew
too fast, and maybe that's why I was always hungry) why

then did you give me the heart of an orphan? Even now
I hunger for your embrace, to listen 
to your words, whispered, you understand me,
sunset, you give such comfort, peace
but look, how I've changed: wake me
please, even before sunrise

so that I wouldn't lose anything, that I'd be in time 
to greet you, honorably: and why then, after all
did you give me a different sort of heart? one that longs 
for that other world? you hurt me so badly! only now

I realize, that there are
two sides to your face, and within those sides
 
an infinite number of faces, uncountable

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



THE WEAVER

I hold a silk shawl in my hands – 
a weightless cloud, billowing
against my breath, if I let it go 
it would simply fly away 

old silk, its white
yellowed like elephant bones, an eight-year-old 
girl wove it, her hands were swift, skilled

oh and her eyes, 
dark and knowing in her sallow face 
fast, full with life, shining, and her braids
fell to the backs of her knees, she was loved,

spoiled, a real
whirlwind, you only managed
to weave three shawls, of the finest silk,

your palms became too rough, too clumsy, 
by the time you were just about ten
and your hands had grown accustomed to heavy work

two shawls were sold
with the third 
you covered your head on your wedding day

that is all that is left – 
your life's witness – 
short, hungry – 
this yellowed spider web

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



* * *

I blow lightly
and the bottom
clouds over
the clear surface
turns dewy
magic mirror of the soul 

in your darkest recesses
lies that room which I sense
I am not allowed to enter
almost forgotten
perhaps locked, no,
most likely it is not 

what am I looking for
when I toss about in the
labyrinths of my dreams
but never seem to find
a safe place
or a real home
or the forbidden room 

my palms turn wet
can it be here? 

what I fear so much – to
cross the threshold, to part
the curtain, velvety, interwoven
with golden threads, behind which
is always the same scene 

it repeats itself
never changing
terrifying
incomprehensible
dimly remembered
from a distant childhood 

no, I cannot
I will not

the room I am not allowed to enter
a small box forced from my hands
will I ever know
what is hidden there
what treasures what secrets
what abysses 

dark mirror of my soul 

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

a little girl
has moved into
my mirror 

I don't even
know her name
a bit too serious
a bit too pale
as if after an illness 

like a child
growing up among
adults
does not quite know
how to laugh 

or like someone after
crying, for a long
time, secretly, in hiding 

those eyes of yours 

do you know just this one word 

good-bye 

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

I look at you
as you sleep
in the wicker bed
where so many children
have slept before 

my best friend's
little daughter 

your breath is like warm waves
with the smell of fragrant
chamomile blossoms and of milk
it fills the whole house 

your dream
passes on to me
so quiet, so peaceful 

could there be
an angel
bending over you – with
golden transparent wings
somewhat like a dragonfly's 

you grow in your sleep
too quickly, too fast 

I think of nothing
I just keep looking
at a sleeping child 

only a child
could
perhaps
make peace
between me and the world 

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

you rushed in
laughing
such a sweet little thing 

one summer day
a few years ago 

rushed into my life 

and you're still there
holding your breath
wide-eyed,
you are watching me
as I unwrap a doll:
first the head, then
two arms, body, legs,
it says hi to you 

I made it
just for you

and you
press it to
your heart
wordlessly
in this so
incredibly clear
sun-washed field. 

magic child,
you will never be mine 
 
Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

Delicate little girl, you
looked straight
into my heart 

with the blue eyes
of wild chicory 

you could have
been my daughter 

your childhood
and mine
could have intertwined
as in a woven sash 

reading
the same fairy
tales 

picking many kinds of herbs
in fields
on river banks
at lakesides 

taking them
to the attic to dry
pressed between old newspapers
looking up their names
in books
without beginning or end 

you are full of secrets 

your existence
is a mystery, a wild
chicory, in this wasteland
of scrap metal
and broken
blocks of concrete

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

So that one day you could
say quietly
with a smile 

my home

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

lying flat on thick transparent ice
you look for a very long time
intensely, into the very
bottom of the lake
even your head seems to spin 

what did you see there
what sort of world 

wish I could
after all these years
step back into that one day 

translucent, ringing 

and read your thoughts 

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

This smell, of lipstick
and powder, I adored it
I can almost hear the rustle
of real silk – my mother's
party gown
a golden band on her finger
her only ornament 

things almost forgotten 

she is combing her hair, the
sadness in her face stays fixed
in the mirror, and the raised
hand with the comb too 

soft music on the radio 

once again I am
a little girl
watching her mom dress up 

the best of all
the prettiest
my own
no one else's mom is like mine

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

how you wished
to get sick 

have the snow come down
in large quiet chunks 

read Dickens
in bed, until
your temperature would rise,
toward evening, and
they told you to drink
your raspberry
and linden-blossom tea 

just so you wouldn't have
to go to school 

how I wish I could get
such a holiday today

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

I found a golden hair
on the snow 

I picked it up
a long long
golden hair
left by an angel 

he rested here once
by the river Rausvė
on his back
on Christmas day
one hand under his head 

this is how I first saw him
unexpectedly
as I was coming downhill
on my sled. 

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

river of my childhood 

with every springtime flood
the river washes away
our footbridge
washes over the fields
right up to the orchard 

every spring the
rising waters
also wash away
a newborn baby
wrapped in rags 

you can hear the
whimpering
in the evening
barely audible
floating by 

the baby of a servant girl,
a washer woman,
slow, plain, of few words
to have a look
we would all run there after school
but what we found was
a bundle of dirty rags
between the reeds 

river of my childhood
you wash away all secrets

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

his real face
you will have forgotten by now
(you don't even know
if he is alive, or well)
just a few photographs: a young
man, from good family 

so few
memories
a handful of shards
which wound you whenever
you pick them up, but you
still hope to put
them together, though
it doesn't work 

he is taking a picture of you
a bow in your fair hair
a velvet dress
an enormous doll
you press it
to yourself, tightly
with both hands 

they are holding you in their hands
there – the three of you
sitting on a lawn
he, mother, and you 

did it really exist
that world
dependable, familiar, your very own?
it is hard to believe 

you are still so little
you fly to the gate at the sound
of each engine on the road
to see
perhaps it is he
coming home 

and the never-spoken why
is stuck
in the throat
like a lump
bitter and burning 

Translated by Gražina M. Slavėnas



* * *

a crow
frozen into the snow 
a draft
in the dingy hospital room

a face suffering
in a white metal bed 
when
are you leaving?

in a dream
I lean over you: never 
after all I am 
your fiancée

beyond the window
the pale church of Saint John 
in ruins

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



* * *

five years of wandering 
through strange rooms 
through hospitals
through uninhabited islands

how thin are the threads 
that hold us together 
with the world 
how painful

the spider web 
dying to break free 
exhausted 
fevered

we run, we run 
searching for shelter 
for a homeland

and our every step is documented 
registered and evaluated
by the one
who follows us
and punishes
with silence, mishaps, suspicion, hopelessness

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



* * *

and you, who swallowed the one and only 
pomegranate seed – red and bittersweet
you had to go to the underground, to the dark, cold 
to the dead
you, whose name from all the possible names, 
my parents – gave to me like a seed of fate

you would come to play
with me, as though you were the neighbor's child, 
a girl my age,
lead me into the light, to the orchards in bloom, where
I would dance with the others and sing with all my heart

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



TIME TO TRANSPLANT

this spring I must transplant, it's about time 
my aloe, old, gnarled
aloe vera, treasured beyond words
by those who know its healing qualities 
hidden deep within

what a tangle of roots, tiny ones, thick ones 
so tight that there is no way 
I can remove it, no matter what I do, 
I grab a rock and smash the vase

and why, after all,
were you so stubborn, clinging 
to the clay walls of the vase 
with all your strength?
what was it you were holding onto? 
don't scratch me, don't scrape my arms

don't tell me you liked
your prison, narrow and poor as it was,
where you never had enough water or food, after all 
you'll get a new vase, spacious and beautiful!

my soul, don't tell me that you too 
are clutching at the unstable
temporary walls
of your prison

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



BASIC OVERHAUL

in a frenzy I turn the whole house upside down
from basement to attic, amazing myself, I can't stop wondering
what imp has possessed me, it's really
so ludicrous

with no prior plan, although at times
it seems all predetermined inside me
I choose what to discard, what to give away and to whom
and who could even see a use for

any of the things I find, forgotten, useless
badly made
so many that are worthless, that now have nothing to say
yet were all so significant once

I leave no closet untouched, haul out
boxes and trunks, look the bookshelves over
pull out and turn all drawers upside down, even the secret ones
even those securely locked, with the jewels and photographs inside

in the evening, dusty, exhausted, my head
wrapped in cobwebs, I look into the clear
water cupped in my hands: yes, it's me
making changes and changing, desperate for change

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

small willowtree, in full bloom
in a yard winter left cluttered, at the tail
end of april, locked in by the everyday

flowering as if inspired

a cloud
drifted down from the sky
is what you are like, with your yellow tinge, soft
as the touch of a hand
that has an exotic fragrance, all covered with bees

I was blind, not having seen you for so many years
till today
you opened
yourself to me, unexpectedly, in all
your beauty

a buzzing
cloud, grown
radiant in the immensity of spring

at this moment, your soul is
that close: shockingly clear

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis

Nijolė Miliauskaitė, recipient of the 1996 Lithuanian Writer's Union Prize, is predominantly known as one of Lithuania's leading poets. Born in Keturvalakiai, a town in southwestern Lithuania, in 1973 Miliauskaitė graduated from Vilnius University's Lithuanian Literature department. She has worked as an archivist, an editor, but in recent years has devoted herself solely to her writing, and aiding her husband Vytautas Bložė with the preparation of his unpublished manuscripts. Miliauskaitė's poetic voice is unique in that it draws its strength from the gestures of everyday life, from ritual, from the Lithuanian landscape, from Lithuania's recent as well as historic past. Miliauskaitė is the author of three books of poetry; she and the poet Vytautas Bložė live in the small town of Druskininkai, famous for its mineral baths. Beginning with her earliest published poems, which date back to 1968, Miliauskaitė has been writing poetry which focuses the paradigmatic task of the poet – the gathering and revelation of insight about the human condition – through a poetic reconsiliation with the things of the world and through the reorganization of the metonymic particulars of memory. Her poems reveal a concentrated sensitivity to the demands of such reconciliation and reorganization as well as a kind of elegaic composure while facing the demands of both. Each is also an expression of the need to engage in an elemental process of naming the things in the world, including parts of the self, and thereby to conclude successfully the contemporary Lithuanian poet's task to generate a new mythology, to engage herself and the nation in what she calls "the search for a suitable biography." It is because of these aesthetic and personal qualities, and because of the clarity and simple intensity of her work, that her poetry is considered to be among the most compelling written by the younger generation in Lithuania.