CLEAN EARTH

we uprooted beets
the field – sharp dragon's teeth
after feeding Sorrel, Father
gave his blessing, kneel

we kneeled, beets
in mounds, leaves dewy
roots – earthen cranes 
creaking toward heaven

blades flashed, our backs
damp, hands tired
joints aching
the heavens grayed

alters burned yellowish green
like candles the mounds of beets 
melted;  the heavens let
out a gush of tears, harness
the horse Father, we're going home

the road is potted like Mother's
face like Father's hands
the wind raw, wheels
barely turning in the mud,
the earth, like death, clean

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



COLD

Mother
with Mother

we went underground
into the cellar for pickles

the water in the barrel was murky
liquid covered with mold
Mother said

Ah, but the water's cold
the water's cold I repeated

and where does this cold come from
so cold my arm loses feeling

maybe from the dark
from night or from the ground

from the ground

beneath the ground it will be even colder

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



A SUBJECTIVE CHRONICLE

Everyone is dead. (César Vallejo)

Julius the cattle feeder – dead, 
pierced by steers – drunk, 
animals don't like people who escape from the pen.
Daktariūnas – dead, they called him Little Cloud, 
because, when lighting the stove, he'd be completely black.
Vytautas Norkūnas – dead, he lived alone – winter, summer, he wore 
                                                                                      rubber boots.
Lame Liudvikas Trumpa – dead, didn't want to get drafted, banged a 
                                                                                   nail into his foot.
Valerka – dead, killed riding a motorcycle, 
you can still see his footprints on the telephone pole.
My cousin Vidas – dead, he liked to fish, when they buried him
during the potato planting, two swans swam across the lake.
The weight lifter Valdas – dead, he was in the habit of riding freight 
                                                                                              trains –
fell beneath the wheels
My friend's son – dead, he was born dead.
God's son – dead, he was also born dead. 
Then there are the dead whom I never knew,  
never greeted or ever even suspected of living, 
and then homes and holy places – dead, seeds and their fruits, also dead, 
books, prayers, compassion – dead 
and forgiveness for oneself – dead
everything important – dead
nothing, remains.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



FROM: ALL THAT OUT OF LONGING
JOURNEY ALONG THE EDGE OF THE SAND

I

The very edge of the world – oh
how dreary this land is:
garish cows,
a herd without a shepherd,
the bay's murky tongue,
an eternally still mouth,
a dark ox in teh sparse reeds; 
quiet, suspicious girls –
Europa's 
or Neringa's.

And a church beyond a bend in the road,
Christ's ship.  Through a wound in the Eastern wall
heavy fishing nets burst forth –
along the water,
on a crust of blackened sand,
rotting fish lay.
Give us this day
our daily bread.
Our bread is petroleum,
it's crust is tougher 
than a coffin.

Along a battered dock 
row boats bob;
their rust travels
through our blood,
through original sin
and forgiveness,
through the blood of Northerners
with teh mark of a Lithuanian soul –
Still we condemn their hearts,
their colors – blue, white, red –
their dogs, their fences and their trash.
They are like flocks of suffocating birds.

Above their rooftops thick crosses 
of antennas intertwine
unable to catch the voice 
of God.

But this is just a border village, on the border.
The beginning.
It scrubs your very bones,
while a bottomless whirlpool of wind
draws you towards the very center.


II

A wind whirlpool, that's what
the scrawny grass arrow predicted.
Like a crippled insect,
tossed onto its back, fighting 
tiny particles of sand,
it sketched a cursed cycle of events
in the damp dune.

The heavy sigh of fog dissipated,
uncovering the beginning
the net of my eyes could not see:
death's multi-colored writings
blow away in a second, miniatures
of Egyptian pyramids fall apart in the sky;
then, the aching sand dunes
mirror ruins back onto themselves;
Martians send telegrams
to the most beautiful mummy on earth.

Stop!  Freeze!  Frame it, capture it on film –
film stinking of long conveyor belts,
skyscrapers, movie screens, abandoned mines.
For one thirsty moment 
it will live longer.
Soon it will grow dark – a huge unattainable
skeleton covered with sand, rinsed with rain,
will rise –
a mixture of salt and freshwater.
Firs will kneel a moment,
the night's demigods
bend over it.
Its heart will learn forms
and grow ripe –
concerned with teh solstice
over its own dying head.
And still it will attempt
to keep watch.


III

Above the dying head, above logic,
the eyes still shine, the soul 
beats wings of wind and sand,
slams closed teh gates of language –
I say to you'
this is where the Lord alights,
tired of all the wars, famines, and Lithuanians –
his bare feet,
having trampled anger, corruption, shame,
find beauty here
and rest.  But we recite only imprints –
the skin between our fingers, pubic hair,
the lines of fate or blossoming scabs –
we search for his footsteps, trapped
in the center of his knee – it's strange –
we'll build fires, lets the spirits fly,
from the temptations of the sea and the innocent bay,
let them fly from the middle of the sand – through that horrible
intestine – Liudwig's wretched soul – through unlit depths
travel entire villages, the souls of Kuršiai crawl
towards a German paradise
in the sand filled Baltic hell.


IV

In this Baltic sandpit hell
together we, listen, do you hear?
Repeat – how I love this space and beauty –
how it hurts even, but I can
only praise it with my song,
gnash it through my teeth, oh
I see your eyebrow 
over there,
shooting above the dunes,
above the sunset.
Before I thought it was the pinnacle,
but now, see, it lies
at our feet.  Heaven and Hell,
the Devil, an Angel, an Alter, the Savior
and an outdoor toilet;
the Sand's mask
chewing relentlessly away
at the marshlands.
It's edge is like the very threshold of sin,
like a blind man's hearing –
sharp!
I believed!  Choking with women,
wine, I thirsted after the moon, I grew thin,
I wasted away, a beggar among my acquaintances –
	yet I sought no thrown
	I didn't have a single friend.
Only the wind's sharp shards gently stroke me.
Now, in the sea's reflection – how naked
do I shine!

Shine again, we are alone, I do not know
what happened when my blood
mingled with the blood
of martyred people, downtrodden people,
heard of only by accident,
with the blood of Lithuanians, Prussians, Sėliai, Kuršiai,
Žemgaliai, Jews, Poles or as the poet says –
maybe a Tartar?
Swimming through the steppes,
on a small shield made of skin, sucking
on a dried clod of mare's dung.
Shine once more, maybe inside, nothing is ever forgiven,
and holy places shining of gold, the sand dunes even,
swing to the sound of clanging Cathedral bells.
Its just the reflection of our poverty.
The sacrifices are clear.
Sacrifice and purification – are they the most obnoxious of decorations?
How many times can one sacrifice a lonely life Lord?
Did I believe?  Did Your fisherman, a Kursis,
lolling, carried out by the waves, his eyes bulging, believe 
when he called to You:
Save our souls and carry them towards you!
With my body, washed after baptism,
cut from the eternal forest of eternal hymns,
laid out before you, when I lay down, did I believe?!
Or will it remain in the court protocols:
Hier ruhet –


V

While you were resting 
I remembered:

That sand animal – the Great Dune –
I've climbed those slopes before –
once, at the head of a procession of suicides –
only one person was dead though –
a crazy unhappy woman –
my teacher.  I carried her photograph
tied with a ribbon and my feet sank
into the village's asphalt covered hill.

And I felt as though I were burying my faith,
leading you into a sand madness
between the sea's melting rhymes,
and the bay's marshy sleep;
as if I were burying all the churches,
run-over cats, all my loved one's,
my wrecked home, and withered trees.

Through downfall, through penance,
through shame, through the forests of heaven
and the blood of autumn I walk
as if I had been chosen to recognize a picture,
which I am carrying, which I am,
which is splintering apart, cracking, clouding over,
which already looks like a bit of the bay –
it lets out buds, crowds of pods,
wilts in a moment.

I walk through an exile of betrayal
	my thoughts to the ground
	in my heart – she falls.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



THE NAME

and when my last day comes
lay me down on a stretcher on wheels
and when you see two men in white at my head 
spin me around so that they face my feet 
if that doesn't help
burn down my home
pour the ashes into the river 
catch a blind perch
torture him till he tells his name
till he tells how many children he has 
what he had wanted to do in life 
whom he had wanted to outwit 
and after he had lost his sight 
what he had talked about 
drunk at the pub
and who he mugged in the dead of night 
under the bridge
who he scared to death
what signs he saw in the skies 
then hid from the blind 
if the perch reveals my name 
chop off the legs of the bed 
that will make it so much easier 
to carry me through the door

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



MEASURING MY FACE

my suit is fine
and comfortable
made of good wool my

my God has a cozy home 
my father
does not have a home my

my voice sounds
firm my footsteps 
account for
each and every second

my cheek is calm
even the fist hacked
into the gateway suits me

my father does not have 
an axe my axe 
is in my face

my woman is nicely 
dressed my woman
is a handful in my heart my

my God has
a mother my
father does not have a mother my

good manners do not suit my 
suffering my face 
needs to be pleasant 
calm noble

my God's face is young 
attractive my 
father's face is old 
decrepit my

my face has a tooth knocked out 
and an eye and a tongue what 
do I need such a face for 
I pay up quickly

my face needs
to look like me I
do not look like my face

my God does not have
my face
Father has my face 
I don't

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



AGE OF ICE

together we sawed logs
boards from the demolished 
cowshed, beams, thick books 
of blocks, page by page,
ring by ring, Uncle was at the saw,
Saint Anthony, Father and I
only served him, on our left, on our right, 
it was snowing, wet gloves, it snowed 
sawdust, we cut an entire 
shed full, Mother came out, Saint Ann 
came down from Heaven and said 
I'll take just one little one, for kindling
Saint Anthony said take that one and many more 
look how much we've cut, I see 
Mother laughed, Uncle laughed, 
the holy Father laughed, the 
saw lost its voice, the animals 
grew noisy and the lake
stopped churning when we all 
ascended into heaven

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



THE WIND-POWERED SAWMILL

sawdust blown about by weak midnight 
wind cuts into our eyes

earlier here: four winds up on the hill 
breath in bread and sweat 
leaning their damp muzzles together 
horses listened to the floury talk

Father and I lie in a groove, listen,
he says, now the frozen ground is walking
it will come from within the earth, from within graves 
from within the roots of trees 
from within the foundations of families 
from within the subconscious, together with horror, 
with fear – this woman
would creep over from the twilight, carrying suitcases, 
inside them were murdered infants (in the morning 
there would be blood stains on the sheets, you'd need 
to leave an open pit for potatoes in the kitchen) 
she'd lean over their beds, above 
dreams, breathe out ice – she'd leave 
a tombstone on her breast –

the sawdust snowstorm dies down
Father's hair, fingers, die down
the saw's muzzle cuts through the tree's years 
lengthwise, Father's years 
are cut lengthwise by the sandy white road: 
towards Autumn the people would meet there 
with their guns – the guns were ready –

and they'd throw fistfuls of shot
what speed, just think of it, that flying duck 
must have for that shot to get into its body 
what speed the earth must have 
for the cold to knock down life 
chop down its roots
reach its deepest heart

Father, see how everything around us 
no longer understands us

Father does not see
here he drinks his wine
here he shoes his horses
here he makes love to his women 
here he shakes off the dew
and everything changes drastically:

the ducks shoot windmill wings
the shot gives the horses a good shake 
the horses don't love women
the wine drinks Father
Father's blood is racked from the years' tree bark 
sunset
our sawdust is scattered by wind 
midnight's rotting wind

Father and I are nailed down by the frozen ground 
to this earth
to these trees
to this water
the compass's magnet shoots straight North 
we share the tough sawdust bread 
with passers-by
beggars
the clouds

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



HEAVEN’S DOORS ARE PAINTED

Father, oh Father, fancied building
a toilet, one more comfortable for sitting,
beyond the corner of the barn, near the woodshed, 
with doors facing the lake 
once he'd hammered the seat together Father said, 
come, Mother, and measure
it's just right I don't need anything more, but my dears, 
does it suit you? Mother asked and Father laughed
maybe there are too many splinters still, that'll give you something to do
there's a draft in here Sister screeched 
it cuts into your spine like a saw
maybe the essential hole is too narrow 
maybe we should cut it a few fingers wider 
maybe we should Father agrees
and I'll plane it too he says, it'll be smooth as a tabletop

Father, oh Father, built a little house
with scented boards and painted doors 
when he was finished Father smiled
bending on his knees before the big beautiful world

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



THE GENESIS OF TEETH

Father like God comes 
through the fields, let's shoe 
the earth, Son, he says

We shod and shod
blood flowed, we wiped sweat 
we sowed beans

A tree grew and grew wooden, 
Oh and on that tree 
sat Mother

Father plucked Mother 
from the tree 
and lifted me up

The earth rose
angry, it kicked the son 
and the tree broke

Father like God shouts
the tree has fallen down, Mother 
swaddles the tree

Mother went and went away 
Father dragged the tree away 
through the empty fields

I sit on the horse-shoe stump 
my teeth fall out 
I'll plant my teeth

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



FATHER’S TIME

How many times I've been
in this room, how many times
I won't be here, how many times
in the very center of death does Father sit 
on the sofa, lifting the old clock 
against the light, the hands 
turning against wind's time 
his fingers, soiled with earth, 
can barely hold the needle-thin 
thread of the second hand, the blind dog 
howls, recognizing him by his wounded feet 
and Sister, and Mother, and the women 
the women kneel before the mirror, Mary, 
Mary how do you find the needle, send me 
a tiny sweetbriar sword, Mary gazing out 
from the mirror, I'd sew up 
my torn heart, do you hear me, holy virgin 
Mary, God does not hear me and Father 
does not hear me, the wind has curled up
inside his large ears, his praying ears, this evening's sea, 
this evening's murmur inside sea shells 
the murmuring is only for him 
who listens, having placed the clock by 
his heart, the clock does not beat, Father 
laughs with his earth-covered lips, 
a man who worked the earth his entire life, 
who has now gone back completely to the earth, 
with his herds, his hay wagons, his hammers 
his pliers, his nails, his horse's hooves 
Lord, don't send me my death in the winter 
it's so hard to shoe the frozen earth, Father 
whispers to me, Father, I'd help you, but it's 
too hard for me, too hard to hold up God's hoof. 
he can't hear me anymore, the snow is on 
his lips
As for me – there are dried marks on 
my cheeks
and time is nailed to time's signs
and my hands and my horse shoes are cold
the innocent face of death shines in the dark
Father fades and dissolves
I've forgotten to wind it and it stopped
as though it were my heart

Translated by Laima Sruoginis



ROACHES

now mother says:
a roach crawled into your aunt's nose

now all of us are sure to get some disease
the custom in our land is to eat up the dead

now nights she'll come to pay you kids a visit:
even with no fault to point, that roach has no future

she's better off now than before
but saying that before would have been something for her to suppress

situations have their limits, a thinker would point out:
now we'll be feeding on roaches

let's shake off the living as fast as we can:
the dead will be running off by themselves

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



ICE AGE

we were cutting lumber, the boards of a demolished
barnyard, timbers, thick blocks
of books, page by page
chips and shredded bark, my uncle with the saw
saint anthony, father and me
only assisting, to the left and right
it was snowing, our mitts were wet, snowing
sawdust, we had the shed stacked
full of cuttings, mother came, saint anne
descended from heaven, she said
I'll take just a scrap for kindling
saint anthony, take more than one
you can see how much we got cut, I see
mother laughed, uncle laughed
the holy father laughed, the saw
passed out, cattle moaned
the lake stopped lapping, as we
were taken up to heaven

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



HAND HOLLOW

a hollow on a hilltop
in the highlands, the upturned
earth eyes, hard clumps
gemstones with sharp fingers
brown, crumbly fists

the swoosh of a skiff being lowered
into black hollow leafage
tarred sides deflect the rays
half-sapped birchbones flexing

the standing circle tightens
with two spades in dialogue:
“you've gone into hiding already"
“in the eyes of the Lord we're in
the open hollow of his hand"

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



ACCORDING TO SCHEDULE

a man comes in sits down on a bench
sets two huge suitcases to either side of him:
one is brown and the other on wheels
inside no doubt it has his hacked-up ladylove
clear to any eye are the red stains
blood-soaked at the death seams
the man pulls out a knife bends over to rummage a while
turns around and suddenly jabs the knife into
a pack of butter and gobs it on some cuts of cold chicken
and then takes to eating it eating and eating

people slow down in passing
the clouds have nowhere to rush off to
and pigeons all around drop back with no wind
and buses all around red and yellow and green
in arriving most odd in leaving
all automated phones are disappearing
make a call for ten kopecks
or the Lord's ten commandments
you will remain sitting next to the butter being eaten
next to the cold cuts of chicken
next to the bleeding ladylove

kneel down on the bench and pray
stick your bared head in his crotch –
women cross their legs
and men get their hands nailed to a cross –
and there is no Freud anywhere on this square
where a man arrived and is nearly finished
in view of the buses eating up the world
nearly finished eating up the bench your wornout feet
your swollen future

there and then the pieces of heaven began to drop from my
face
and started according to schedule
the curse rolling uphill
and according to schedule
rolling back again

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



ALL DAY ALL NIGHT

By night we are all dressed
by day we are naked
bravely we march across the water
we take one step on dry land and we drown
fire we say keeps kissing us
ashes we scream split our skin
hammer we lift our heads
saw we hoist to replace the flags
in prison we raise our soul
in freedom we feed chickens
we pore through a book with our fists
our fingers polish the shield
we pray and we see evil spirits
we curse and we look up to God
the saints we torture with zeal
scoundrels we wait for to buy us off
the sea we stay quiet for cucumbers
the hills we declaim for the worms
war the most genuine grammar of death
peace the slaughter of humans nonetheless

by night we are in a group
by day we hang all alone

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



LOYALTY

plaster pigeons are perching
under the eaves of God's house
a grain merchant comes by
starts to scatter gold grains
the blackened pigeons drop and
shatter at the merchant's feet

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



MANTRA OF WAITING

	for my son Mykolas

for cold water so cold some cold water
for black earth so black some black earth
for sharp axles so sharp some sharp axles
for hard rock so hard some hard rock
for frail bone so frail some frail bone
for distinct ruins so distinct some distinct ruins
for soft decay so soft some soft decay
for spry spiderweb so spry some spry spiderweb
for blind languages so blind some blind languages
for foreign city so foreign some foreign city
for bloody infant so bloody some bloody mother
for bursting flesh so bursting some bursting linen
for waking soul so shallow some waking body
for wounded father so wounded some filial wounds
for holy spirit so cold some holy church
for hungry death so hungry some abundant life
for fulsome world so empty one living human

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis



THE SMALL CHERRY

a mole gnawed off the cherry
the blind subterranean sovereign gnawed
through the young roots of the cherry
I'd planted so joyously in spring

when the breeze rustles its crest
how the blossoms fall for the creator
stretched out in its shade
right on the hair, the mouth
gets the juicy fruits, all immersed
in red, leaning in, while the leaves fall yellow
ruddy along each rim – like thoughts
into illumined non-existence

gnawed off! Now a wreath for me of its
dessicated sharp branches
for so much pride, just the dry twigs!

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis

Sigitas Parulskis is one of the most interesting, and certainly most popular, young poets writing in Lithuania today. Born in the village of Obeliai, Parulskis has published three collections of poetry, three plays, a children's book, numerous essays and critical reviews. He is editor of the literary insert of Lithuania's most popular daily Lietuvos Rytas. Much of Parulskis's material draws from his childhood in rural Lithuania, his experiences as a conscript into the Soviet army, and an archetypal relationship with "the father". The poems translated here are from Parulskis' award winning collection Of the Dead, published in 1994.