FOUR TREES by EGON SCHIELE

Copper trees 
in the faltering twilight 
cruelly burn 
the skin of the sun 
with their fiery foliage 
making 
their tremulous vows. 
Where do these echoes travel, these 
magic nebulae? 
To the haunted castle-land 
where rhododendrons bleed? 
Serene and dauntless, 
do you rejoice 
in your parallel worlds 
of Living and Knowing 
besotted 
by the brazen lodestar? 
Silence. Silence. 
The trees are voiceless.


THE IMP OF FEAR

The lake is merciless. 
It mirrors every cell 
and every nerve 
of my cold self, 
stares dumb 
as the face of an idiot 
reflecting everything he sees 
but doesn't grasp. 
Who is capable of ignoring 
pale water-lilies 
that brighten 
the noisome night of my mind 
where in the deepest corner 
smiles death 
the mild-eyed.


* * *

Our voices mute with amazement 
rise 
from the deeps 
of our lame selves 
which ignore 
the omens of future 
and menacing past –  
feelings 
numb with despair –  
magnanimously 
I offer you 
the tenderness 
of stainless rose petals 
on a rainy day.


* * *
	      to s.

I'd rather be a statue 
perfect and faithful like Isis 
self-effacing 
wily smiling in your hall 
the ever-sapient smile 
mutely 
I'd speak to you 
in all the languages of the world 
call you 
all the tender names 
I remember 
my almond 
oh my bitter one 
I'd tell you 
all the dormant truths 
that make our frenzied life 
chaste
magic 
and enchanging. 
Listen. 
I begin.


* * *

I often see you in a 
glass 
black glass in an ivory frame 
jet-black lake water 
twinkling with water-lilies 
so white they blind us 
teach calmness 
meditation 
mock at the mud 
beyond our feet


* * *
		to nida

Two dainty ladies a la Huxley 
smiling at the naive Robbe-Grillet 
speaking their own cantankerous language 
Walk in the part of Boulogne. 
Fidgety tennis-players romp gaily 
smiling wearing something green and rosy 
with their famous Oxford stockings 
and their old fiendish black beards. 
We smile at each other 
deciding conceiving trying 
to hide sincerity 
to feign feelings 
to play sometime a drama or two 
to drink the bitter wine 
red like blood we dream of.


* * *
		to peter

Flaxen July 
crushed my vitreous doll's house 
breezing by 
in the ancient Cimmerian city 
full of oaks oaks oaks 
crepuscular love 
of our eyes 
falls 
onto the slumberous carpet 
of the white night 
onto the sea 
of white crispness 
exploring 
all the fortuitous detours 
of fate

Edita Petrauskaitė was born in Lithuania. When she was five years old, her father started to teach her English. The English studies were continued at school, which specialized in the English language. In 1980, she entered Vilnius University to study English language and literature. She started writing poems in English in 1984. She writes reviews on English and American literature. She has translated short stories by John Updike, Jerome Salinger, and the most recent translation is John Barth's Menelaiad. Petrauskaitė is a literary consultant at the Lithuanian Fiction Translation Board.