VARIATIONS ON THE THEME OF AN IRONIC DREAM

Your dream was round and soft: 
it will raise your body from space 
so you will more perfectly dream 
the taste of the orange.

The sun's filament is in the orange peel!
The earth's sap is in the orange peel!

The litanies of all the saints, 
all the sacraments, 
the intercessors in medallions 
come together to socialize.

They will shade your eyes from the constancy of heaven 
so the dream will be perfection.

Wasn't God's hand beautiful 
as it stroked the angel's hair 
wasn't God's face beautiful 
as it thrust a glass eye into yours

The sun's filament is in the orange peel!

Socialize, litanies of all the saints 
socialize, sacraments

The earth's sap is in the orange peel!

Soft and round the irony-filled dream: 
you suck the orange, swollen in the sun, 
because it reminds you of the taste 
of your own ground.
 
Having stroked the angel's hair 
with all the precepts and sacraments 
the hand returns 
your delirious body into space, 
so you would more perfectly suffer, foster-child, 
the irony of the orange.

IV

In your hands are peeled oranges, 
continents, peninsulas, islands. 
The foster-children, having left their parents, 
share their last supper. 
The funereal hymn begins to echo –  
the long dictionary of the dying race, 
letters from the exotic land of birth 
spill into your eyes.

VI

I grow I grow I grow 
the fierce African grass

I grow I grow I grow 
a grandson for the talking drum

when he grows he grows he grows 
the grandson for the talking drum

when he grows he grows he grows 
the grandson in the tropical rains

his hand will grasp a sharp machete 
and black will be the African moon

Translated by Jonas Zdanys



OF LITTLE FAITH

Let us not seek –

we will never find anything:
neither earth nor spring
written up in green letters.

Just dusk
and beggars
along cathedrals
playing their violins.

Let us not seek –

we will never find anything
until we become earth and spring
unto ourselves.

Translated by Zita Sodeika



LITHUANIA

Soon, I will be no more,
soon, I will go to sleep:
My country is winter,
my country is midnight,

only in the palm of my country
while the moon is shining,
a snowy fruit tree shimmers.

II

My country is winter,
my country is midnight,
a lonely voice
in the age of lost homelands,

only in my country's unsowed fields,
awaiting sleep,
echo the trailing bells of sleighs...

I will be no more – but not yet
I will turn deaf – but not yet.

Translated by Zita Sodeika



FROM A MISTY AUTUMN MORNING

I never loved the earth.
I meant to leave it
to its loneliness.

Yet, the other misty morning
when you chose autumn's brooding horizon
I understood it – sadly.

I'll never leave you alone
to an ill-fated death
in human loneliness.

( I never had the courage to say
that I, too, am
a singular earth.)

Translated by Zita Sodeika



THE DROWNED WOMAN

You ached for you own river:
to fold your clothes on the shore
and play with the water – naked.

Your river came to you:
the shore held but a ragged shadow of bush
and the footprints of bare feet.

Now you have your river:
the wind lifted your shroud
and gave the river back to you.

Translated by Zita Sodeika



JUREK 

I

I would lift your body into the crown of a green tree
if I had a tree
	greening.

I would lift your body into the moist shroud of heaven,
if I had a bird
	in flight.

I would lift your body unto a starry mountain top
if I had the summer's sun
		unfading.

I would lift your body into its own gray shadow
if I had an orchard
	unsapped, unharvested.


II

The mother asked the crown of the greening tree,
and the tree answered: – No.
The mother asked the moist shroud of heaven,
and the shroud answered: – No.
The mother asked the chosen tribe of Judah,
and the twelve thousand answered: – No.
The mother asked the chosen tribe of Gad,
and the twelve thousand answered: – No.

Piously kneeling within her body,
the mother carried the fatal verdict.
Nine months you dwelt separated by non existent time.
Nine months the sea became the earth,
nine months the sun lingered on
and nine months the earth civilized itself.

The mother asked the good provider earth,
and the earth answered: – Yes.
The mother asked the coffin builder,
and the coffin builder replied: – Yes.
The mother asked the nursemaid for words to a lullaby,
and the nursemaid answered: – No.
The white voices in the ward
called for a meeting of green and red
when the mother gave birth, screaming,
an offering for history's plea.


III

Bewail the fate of Jurek,
oh cantor of the Synagogues of Vilnius,
bewail the green coffin of Jurek
in the illumination of blood
in the procession of mollusks
in the cruel folds of history.


IV

The earth was tilled and ready,
the earth prepared for harvest.
Chunks of paradise, ripened in space,
fell and splintered in the sand.
Against illumination of blood,
Jurek played with the objects of heaven.

Possessions will also be called
into the hall of Last Judgment.
Only those without possessions
shall not be guilty of them.

Before the painful agony comes to pass,
let the harp of David sing
to the meaningless echo of water
against the scraps of displaced possessions.


V

Sell some bread to little Jurek, he is hungry.
You came back without bread, with the star of the House of David.
Give a plot of land to bury Jurek:
You came back with the star of the House of David,
and brought your own coffin.

Why did they sell you a coffin,
and me, Jurek, they sold bread?


VI

Angry men come to the courtyard.
– Jurek, ride! Jurek, ride!

Neighs the wooden horse in the courtyard,
and smites the concrete with his hoofs.
– How can I ride, how can I ride –
my horse if of wood!

– And the wood was alive, and the wood screamed
and the wood ran for help!

Neighs the wooden horse in the courtyard,
and smites the concrete with his hoofs.

– How can I shout, how can I scream –
my speech was hacked out by their axes!

Angry men came to the courtyard.
– Jurek, run! Jurek, run!

The wooden horse fell in the courtyard
tilting towards the blood.


VII

The slow, lumbering procession of mollusks.
Green grass and soft clouds,
pool of blood in the forehead
into the warm redness
into the soft sunrise
behind the slithering, silent
procession of mollusks.

Oh, cantor at the Synagogue of Vilnius,
with his mother's voice
bewail the fate of Jurek:
the pool of blood in his forehead.


VIII

Daring not to risk hate,
in the eerie moment of fate's recognition
I cover the brown eyes of Jurek
from the fury of the sun.
Let a falsified image of our age
remain in his ripened eyes.

I shall lift his naive body
into the silver rain
into the wind of pines:
and let the heart, that never knew hate,
murmur together with the silver and green 
with the trees and the rain.

– It's not the echo of bullets at the edge of the forest,
it is a swarm of silver bees
on the way to the hive of our orchard.

– Into the silver rain
into the wind of the pines,
so that you would murmur
like the wind, Jurek,
I toss your green coffin
and fall to my knees.

– Hammer it tight, so no one could open the coffin
and verify death!

– It's not the echo of bullets at the edge of the forest,
they are the old tribes of Testament
helping me to hammer the nails
into your green coffin.


IX

From the bottom of the dead sea I lifted out the hieroglyphs,
and yet, I know not the true place for my grave.
The coat of arms of the old nation
kept to the fated painful rendezvous with its warriors.

The emigrant came at sunrise
seeking a shore, looking for a ship
at the crossroads of the village and river.
Joy was there and joy died
never exchanging places.
Wild animals adorned themselves
with oils of silver plants
for their Last Rites.
Caressed by the black moon, the adopted child
rushed into the net.
For the crowned head, the hyena gave absolution
and later, the hyena returned.


X

Palms sweating fear
water shall dry,
and water will be touched
by green grass, silver wind
and the evening sun of February –
of the sowing time, of the south wind.

Into the soft fur of the jungle rush the unanointed.
Into the soft fur of the jungle rush
the joy betrayed by God.

There is no homeland!
No softly flowing Niemen,
and the oats no longer 
beg to be sown.

There is for Jurek, the silver, and the green.
There is for John, the black skinned dream,
so there could be a murmuring, breaking heart
in a foreign land, on foreign soil,
before the Last Rites
with oils not of sunflowers.

Translated by Zita Sodeika



CHAPEL B

For Antanas Škėma

Instead of the somber grace to live 
understand what a mean joy dying is 

Death's this aged and faded
sunset across the Lithuanian landscape
sweet sunshine, back in spring, set up with
the moonman first spoke a language strange to her.
Death’s these deviates, the windmills
lurching into the rough side of wind for their gold,
that midnight a fullgrown girl went sneaking off
to grind the grain of her day-to-day chores in secret.

Death’s these fanatic plowboys
in a blind blood ritual with earth 
to rise like wild wounded animals from their lairs
then smash up on concrete, come sundown.
Death’s the cynical veterans enraged at being
sent back to the front with decorations, the hot lead
our girl, starved through as she was, threw herself
on once she was all out of tears to shed over her fate.

Death’s the manuscript sheets turned yellow 
along with title pages to old books
a gray-haired Vilnius antiquarian set down
in the chronicle of mold with its date for vanishing.
Death’s the maps to colonies reaching
right through to earth’s yield,
the baptism that slavery was 
Maria lay body and all down into.

Death's the names of new republics drawn 
from Africa, a landmass in history's snare.
Black Maria drops to her knees unconscious,
a slim amulet clasped in her hands.
Death's all the states wiped out,
all rivers that reach to the sea erased from maps,
a drought black Maria sings of
in the idiom of lillies, ice and rain.

Death's a collage of water and stained glass
kept from fading in museum vaults:
one girl rose at dawn and along 
with sweet dawn lay down in her down bed.
Death's dead set against both, in black or white: 
Gethsemane and Fire Sermon. 
Having first sung drought, Maria gives birth 
over to death, the landscape no longer there.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

Green all green 
as I want the green
to cover a fading pale
bathos of birch
in the coarse homespun 
of a northern moon.

Sharp as sharp
as I want the one sharp
crack of doom it takes
to wash a body 
God dreamed up by force
over into dream-shade.

Quick so quick 
I want it to be this quick
ice-slick
moonbeam noose
around a head dull to the pain
of cracking up.

Black on black
for I want just the black
the cusps of one moon
can enclose of a dream
from the wreck breaking up
on God's solid mass. 

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

The voice of a continent prays for explorers 
the voice of a continent cries out for adventure.
Round as water, salty as it is, 
I raise the season of death to my lips.

You had to be born of rain and ocean, torso.
You had to be silver, plaster, water,
for a bloody act of sexual resurrection
to give the northern moonlight back its
torso of a terrain, its joy turning to stone.

The map a fateful hand etched finds one voice
growing and towering out of fog, once the voice
of a continent cries out for explorers: 
the voice of a continent emerging from non-God.

Cold so cold I want only the cold
green September moonlight,
and that map copper inscribed
intaglio, to blend in with the blood.
Grey all grey for I want all of the grey
September sunrise sacrifice, 
and that map in an uncovered
network of bone, to pour out of the blood.

The voice of a continent assailing explorers is 
the voice of a continent submitting to their exploit.
It's for the bloody act of sexual resurrection
you, torso, had to be born of rain and ocean.

Voice of a landmass, now body and sex,
squeals out hysterical just before dawn, against the fact
that in a copper plate, intaglio,
midway through the ritual, an enraged God set out
to revoke the mass redemptions he threw down.

Round as water, salty as it is, 
I give God his season of death back.
I will not accept solid, everyday detail.
I will not accept the ripe oval shape a grape has.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

Maria was made for sex 
Maria emerging from truth
Maria's the black
this blood 
foam floats up on its crest

        Maria has the body span 
        with torso all torn
        Maria's a name given
        for water to be born

Maria you ease back to die 
under lashing keen whips 
Maria big with Africa 
Maria set up for kicks

        Maria wholesome air
        Maria give us rain 
        Maria lays her body down 
        Maria comes out of her son

Because you did not pray for solid everyday detail
in the ripe oval shape a grape has, 
I now take on the season of death 
as an ending thrown in ahead of the curtain.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



IN DYING

Now I draw one timeless hour aside 
black Maria In coalmines they dig up coal
to bury their hair Maria Death walks there
stalking the men Maria Ordering them to rest
in a pit deathpicks hack clean Maria
Where mail from home is brought in
at midnight Maria 
With the sunset in flames
a conflagration the neighbours cry out for
With orders when to shut up or speak up Maria 
Mother left on her own
Father not back yet from work
The maid off long ago to get married 
With the war at an end Maria
On a gray postcard from Lomzh 
she sends her goodnight Maria

In coalmines they dig up coal They bury
their hair Maria A thinning roster of men
heads for the bar on Sunday Midnight they read
mail from home Maria 
She stares about in the cool evening rain
for a face to soak through
The sun sets in flames
Father not back after work
To sing the Nemunas flowing
all night long Maria Sewing the buttons on
a worn coat for the long haul Maria
Listening for the same dull steps
With the door to the stairs pried open
Waiting for a gray postcard
with goodnight from Vilnius Maria 

Lashing plantation whips break
in through the skin Maria In coalmines they dig up coal
to bury their hair Maria Death stands there
plowing down drinks shading eyes from the sun
to pick out the women Maria
A gray postcard from Lomzh 
her goodnight Maria
Says when to clench teeth or else
gives the order to scream Maria
Poland not lost no not yet on a gray postcard Maria 
Lashing whips you write
sting like snakes Maria

With shoulders and chest laid 
in hardpacked plantation clay
you lie stripped body naked back
to your African race Maria

Now I draw one timeless hour aside
black Maria A thinning cluster of men
heads for the bar each Sunday Death drinks there
To sing the Nemunas flowing A gray postcard from Lomzh 
Singing goodnight Maria

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

It's not to go to sleep we gather
in sleeping quarters,
or to pour a dream together we carry
sand in on our bodies.

        Maria survived. 
        She outgrew the grave. 
        Her earth breast
        filled with bronze milk. 
        Her teeth gleamed white. 
        Just as you spread your bedding for death, 
        her eyes blazed 
        a hot afterglow from the homefire.

It's not to dream dreams we gather
in sleeping quarters,
but to get the feel of death we fall
into a bed all made.

Maria no longer slept,
once she had the family amulet
fit a gash in her neck. 
No more ghosts rapped her window
begging to be clothed and fed.

The handouts held back for yourselves 
before you'd take on their language, 
with skullfuls of scalding coffee
to drink from at night.

A fish the storm tossed up 
stinks and stinks down by the lakeside,
with the same mean vexing drone
flies keep up all night long.

It's our loins giving out, now we have 
no land left to leave the children,
all our family buried off, breaking apart
bone by bone into dust.
Father wails his lament for the legacy
left behind in a church back in Vilnius. 
Dampness seeps in and spreads
all through the vacant family vault.

The words we speak fade
as this language of ours dies away. 
Water brims the boats
our tribe first set out in. 
All down the empty wreck of a coast
there's no one waiting for us to come back.
The words we speak survive this
language of ours, now it's dead. 

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

Tomorrow we go see you off
into the peaceful realm of the dead.
For now, we talk a whip-notched 
language about to die out. 

Ex-citizens of the state,
look closely into his death:
his fingers groped through
to the braille exile is.

Let your lifeless hand close
on our swollen palms,
and stroke on stroke we'll plow through
the spume of a dream we're locked into.

Ex-citizens of the state,
look closely into his death: 
there's no comeback in his return
and with no comeback no turning back.

Tomorrow we go see you off 
this galley of senseless pain. 
Meanwhile, we're scanning the maps
for a time forever gone.

Ex-citizens of the state,
look closely into his death:
it was flesh changed to word
not the word made flesh.

Our moss-covered hands keep churning
the dream-foam over and over. 
Mean with envy, our cries 
go out with the barge as it fades. 

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



IN MOURNING

1

Right at seven that morning 
right then at seven a.m.
it was that morning at seven
death had to have homage shown.

At seven a.m. 
national guardsmen 
put the city gates up
and at seven a.m. 
national guardsmen
draped in black capes
locked the gates shut.

And right at seven a.m.
right then at seven a.m.
all across the city horns blared
a fanfare blood red.

At seven that morning
right at seven a.m.
the national guardsmen
had to stay on guard
for the regime still had to know
where Lorca was buried.

And it was right at seven a.m.
their weapons drawn right then 
at seven a.m. the national guardsmen
went in the name of the government of Spain
asking where Lorca was buried
for right on dying the word rises
right then at seven a.m.

So it was right at seven a.m. 
the Pope received God
in private audience
because right then at seven a.m. 
the regime still had no clue
just where Lorca was buried.

The blood fanfare stiffening 
at seven that morning
right then at seven a.m. 
got the word to cover up.

So it was right at seven a.m.
a piercing word-fanfare took up 
what representatives of all faiths

had trumpets and trombones proclaiming
"There Is No God!"
in greeting the Pope on this occasion.

It was at seven o'clock that morning
right then at seven a.m.
the Pope revoked God
and it was then at seven a.m.
national guardsmen
raised the city gates
for the regime had no word yet
whether Lorca ever was buried.

At seven o'clock that morning
right then at seven a.m.
it was a deathlessness fanfare
trumpets blared past the gates.

So that right at seven a.m.
with no right at seven a.m.
the God who'd been revoked proclaimed
Lorca's resurrection.

It was at seven that morning
right then at seven a.m.
no more right than right then
dead right with no right
right at seven a.m.


2

And I do not want to see 
the hands grope in vain for a waist,
as I do not want to see 
the space a flattened body makes.

And I do not want to see
the face with its branching cracks,
as I do not want to see
the joint where a wrist pulled apart.
And I do not want to see
the stumbling feet crushed,
as I do not want to see
a body broken off at the waist.
And I do not want to see
the body pieced back as collage,
as I do not want to see
the bloodstream off at its source.
And I do not want to see
the harsh judgement envy insists on,
as I do not want to see
necessity's twisted letter.
And I do not want to see
death's reduced script,
as I do not want to see
the notice of deportation.
And I do not want to see
and end to the irony of exile,
as I do not want to see
a bloody finish to pride.
And I do not want to see
the hands of exile emptying out,
as I do not want to see
any trend in the final cries.
And I do not want to see
fear take the place of courage,
as I do not want to see
a master's death triumph.
And I do not want to see
the bones crumble and flake,
as I do not want to see
nonsense take meaning's place.
And I do not want to see
a master's hands tied,
as I do not want to see
the bloodstream turned off.
And I do not want to see
the palm of a hand sealed inside its fist,
as I do not want to see
the pain that's being clenched back.


3

What I would like is to have the strong
Lithuanian villagers gather here
so their broad fateful hands
pound an oakwood casket together.

What I would like is to have the simple
young farmhands gather here
and cart the oak casket off
with a team of wild stallions.

        We will not lift the lid back,
        nor let ourselves touch the collage,
        dizzy from wax and wreaths
        as each lowered head is.
        We will not take the body up,
        nor carry the casket out,
        hard as it is, all speech blocked,
        to settle into a cushioned seat.

What I would like is to have the old
Lithuanian mourner women gather here
so their large ripened tears
weep the weeping bowls full.

What I would like is to have the supple
skilled hunters gather here,
slowly tramp all the drifts through, 
and track the trail back to wild boar.


4

You landed in a dead landscape
the morning your meeting took place.
Soul bowed its way out of the body
at seven a.m. 

I have not stated the blood news.
That morning you met right on time
death shut the blood down
at seven a.m.

You are sure to know now
if the body's exile gets done
for the shade of wreaths sets you up
to conceive of a deathless state.

I have not announced the blood news.
You are to stay lifeless like this,
with a body snapped off at the waist
no one can guess whose it is.

You broke all ties to a natural life
without giving your verdict as to whether
the soul, in order to resolve the body, does
go into exile in the body's place.

Now you are like a boat
run aground in the shallows
the stream hurries past without changing
its indeviable course.

Now to avoid
mindlessness of exile
you present your credentials
to a sovereign crown.

Now you are a citizen
having reached a deathless state
swears allegiance
to the crowned head.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



* * *

Our exile fading
is our language fading.
Zhilvin, oh Zhilvin please:
there's no colour to the breaking foam.

There's no way to measure the blood,
just no way to dole out the pain.
Zhilvin, oh Zhilvin please:
what is it you settle on?

"What is given? What is chosen?"
"Earth given. Death chosen."

"What is given? What is chosen?"
"Nothing given, with nothing to choose from."

The foam withdraws into myth.
Zhilvin, oh Zhilvin ayee!
That's all that was given, 
all there was ever to be.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



IN TRIUMPH

And death won't be won over.
Dead men don't turn back
once their elbows prop rubble,
with the north moon's north eye
to shine on the body that was.
Bones may be gathered, but not put together
like a word, letter by letter.
The soul left behind, but no soul left.
And death won't be won over.

And death won't be won over.
Women cry out for sex as for rain,
in earth turned arid and flat.
Bones glaring white dry out, down
to the size of scant summer dust.
Dust may be gathered, not enough to cover
the waist of a body crushed.
The body left over, and none of it left.
And death won't be won over.

And death won't be won over.
Nor are the men ever to come home.
Though clocks keep the beat of a pulse
beyond time, there shall be beds
set up for the night in empty rooms.
With none to return, and all gone,
the doors shut blind.
Time left behind, and no time left.
And death won't be won over.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



DYING IS STRANGE

The one night I got to spend enjoying spring
would have to be the one I hit the dirt,
though the dew had turned green earlier,
much greener than anything that spring.

My legs collapsed and with no one there to raise me
from my knees, not even rain being able to rouse me,
the grass alone dared to come near
dumbstruck to discover anyone human

would die in spring,
with such fragrant rain pouring in

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



REFUSING TO BELIEVE

Let's not waste any more time, in looking

there's nothing we can find;
not the earth, nor any sign of spring
our greenest lettering can write down,
except for the poor souls swaying their violins
down by the cathedrals
all evening.

Let's just abandon the search,
since we're never going to find out anyway,
not unless we let ourselves become
our own earth, our own spring.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



TALK ABOUT THE DEAD BEING BORN

Here's one place torture broke down.
I frown and am reassured
God is on our side.
Gott mit uns.

While a transcendent moonlight
plied the low window sunshine hides behind
with blunt common sense,

I set off on an eternal
honeymoon with death.
Winter surprised us:
for all the snow that fell we took no notice.
(Yes, angel, still snowing.)

Winter is the time to give birth,
while confined in a place pain wore down:
full term by chill moonglow just to take on
a feel for alien seasons.

Children who die have a need
to go on believing; don't they, angel?
Children with no more life in them
still need fairy tales, don't they?

The reserves being called in
with God on our side
are riotsquad angels.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis

Algimantas Mackus was born in Pagėgiai in western Lithuania, and was forced to flee Lithuania along with his parents during the Soviet occupation of Lithuania. Mackus died tragically at the age of 32 in a car accident in Chicago. By the time of his death, Mackus had published three collections of poetry; a fourth was published post-humously. Mackus had worked as a journalists for the émigré community's radio program Margutis, and edited a magazine associated with this program. Mackus' poetry has been characterized by Lithuanian émigré critics as being "complex and at the same time easily accessible" or as "an attempt to reach God", yet however one might try to describe Mackus' work, it was clear that he had been able to break with traditional Lithuanian literary bonds and create a new style that combined elements of the past with ideas absorbed while living abroad. However, it is the tragic nature of Mackus' life – exiled at an early age, forced to live abroad in countries where he found no place for himself, while at the same time being too young to clearly remember the homeland, and an early tragic death – which has turned him into a symbol of a lost generation for many Lithuanians at home and abroad.