HERITAGE

I am rooted in soil
spilled with the blood
of young lives, lost
but not forgotten.

Homeland,
a badge of identity
the feet of my forebearers
have walked there.
They danced.
They praised.

I see a man, moustached
hands calloused from
working the fields.
Eyes weary.

I see a woman, burly and ragged
bearing the hue of my own eyes.
she pulls a child at her side
her mouth is cornered in a frown
released to her discontent.

I see a people
graced with dignity
flowing into a new land
disheartened by displacement.

I see myself, once removed
a heretic of heritage
skewed and confused
I am learning why
the Old Woman feared Thunder.

Homeland.
Green valleys, saturated with sun
I sense internal heat.

Rooted in that soil,
I envision a walk
to the Hill of Crosses,
and find a place to rest.


LIETUVIS AND LIETUVĖ

Two travellers
return from the parched shore of Ozymandias

No stone icon to greet them but a winding road
framed with dotted farmsteads
         lily, mint and peony spiral
         through the atmosphere
         intoxicating their flinging spirits

Travellers: Lietuvis and Lietuvė
Seeking a place to lay their bodies down
         battered minds and dreams of freedom
         have dissipated into jocular memory
         have entered the vocabulary of "past"

"We must find a hayloft where swallows breed," says Lietuvis.
"Near woods of baravykai," replies Lietuvė.

Long they travel, each step savoured
like honey-flavoured cheese on Whitsunday
         that feast of flaming tongues
         where language was no barrier
         and spirit was most holy

"There," points Lietuvis.
Two storks lay nesting in the cart wheel of a sturdy oak.

He takes a sprig of rue and gently places
it in Lietuvė's hair, she brushes her hand lightly against his strong fingers.
         today she is a maiden chaste
         aglow with possibility
         his love will fill her empty longing

"Lietuva," he calls out in his excitement
And from the birch-lined barn house
Lietuva emerges.
         smiles and waves them in
         the wicker fence-gate has been unlatched
         to greet them home.

- - -
Notes:
Lietuvis=Lithuanian (male)
Lietuvė=Lithuanian (female)
Lietuva= Lithuania
baravykai=boletus mushrooms


TO MADRID

You will take me to Madrid 
  where long nails as plectrums 
  dance upon guitar strings to deliver 
        Segovian air, 
  and deliberate Flamenco heels dance passionate
  sweeping heartbeats into butterflies.

I have never been to Madrid. 
Know nothing of Spanish life. 
  But your eyes have made love to Madrid 
  your mouth has tasted its honey 
  felt the quickening of desire.

I will tremble in your Madrid 
on a dry-hot languid day resting in Chinchón 
  as we eat sopa de ajo 
  as your language tongue whispers my name 
  then ruptures symphonies of pleasure 
        against my waiting lips.


ONE WORD

If I seek one word for you
all others would collapse in jealousy
"Linguist-envy" would become
a treatment term
for abandoned words
lying wasted and wanting
to be a word
for you.

If I must choose one, and
such noble descriptives do exist:
joy and peace and happiness
(no shabby-fodder among them).

"Siempre" would call itself 
to the bidding table
ask for fair consideration.
It has, after all, been
reliable and true for centuries.

But "l'amour" would lie
kicking and screaming
crying for justice
(a piece of the action, really)
the hopeless romantic that it is.

If I allow one word – 
one solitary, strong and meaningful word
Steeped in tradition
weary but not worn
sought but not readily attained
a word that stands alone
but can balance all others
capable of anything –
one word for you:
"rimtas."

- - -
Note: rimtas – earnest, sober, intense and serious person


HOWL AT THE MOON

The Australian sky 
surrealistic
clear 
sun-filled striking blue
There is no point in waiting for rain.

Yet my body hankers
for the joy of moisture.
It longs to return
where trees sag heavy with snow
and the ground turns white.

The Australian night sky
black as indigo
cave dark 
its full moon 
awakens the wolf in me.

It is then that one must howl
at the moon
and realize that the world over
it is the same moon.

Wolves everywhere howl –
"Understand my feeling!"

Who would have guessed this secret about the moon?


UNDER AN OPEN SKY

It's difficult to mask oneself
be dishonest – for love

Yet I did not hide
like a trembling, cowering animal
crouched in the bush.
Not I.

Under an open sky
I ran quickly towards you
(while days moved slowly)

I knew that at home 
I was an invisible shadow
a visiting ghost

Walking as if through empty walls
alienated (mostly from myself)

Under an open sky
I withdrew
in search of truth.

I dreamed about the rhythm of our hearts
(calming me, arousing you)

It is hard to deceive
for love, for heritage
abandon my English tongue
and disappear
fly off to a future unknown.

I am told, happiness has no limits
when your heart is free
when you understand who you are
and answer love with love.

It is very simple.

I used to wander through life
with eyes closed.


* * *

Someone
somewhere
lost
gazing through a window

unbeliever 
unaggressive
sober

homeless
missing everything

someone
for the moment
still trying
notices from within the lake

she is not fully drowned
floating

not yet gasping

someone

wants to fall asleep
in peace


THE FAIR

You bought me
fairy princess wings
and a crown

we rode
the Ferris wheel

turning

the sky appeared
the future opened


ACT OF CONTRITION

Anger is stronger than love
more desperate than desire
me if it kills you 

Hot and sweaty in moist ecstasy
bold but understated power 
less than rape.

Hunger is weaker than truth 
when sins are recited in cubicles 
memorizations absolved
for a mere prayer. 

Bread-baskets clickety-clanking
sounds of silent abnegation 
reverberate 
for a mere psychoanalysis. 

Yet, hate is longer than forgive
me while I wash the ring around your collar
scrubbing to remove my innocent breath 

No quality control 
No inspector no. 6 

My panties have been dusted 
with the body and blood forever.

Mary Gurekas (Marytė Gureckaitė) is a Canadian of Lithuanian heritage. Her work has appeared in Canadian and US journals and often reflects her Lithuanian sensibility. She lives and writes in Montréal, Québec and spends part of the year in Vilnius, Lithuania. She is the editor and publisher of Morgaine House; teaches drama; and works with special-needs children.