FAMINE TIME

Black stains on the fruit – 
Aphids 
crawl through orchards – 
baskets will be empty 
and the mouth parched – 
We'll ax out the fruit trees, we'll graft the fruit trees – 
We'll uproot ourselves. 
What crumbly soil... 
Thistle seeds crackle 
in abandoned orchards – 
Electrical switches crackle in the brain... 
light – dark – light – 
Earth and firmament are soothingly violet – 
that's how thistles bloom before famine time... 
Let's forget ourselves.

Dark. Light. Dark. 
A painful movement – there's no more air space... 
Violet fog. 
Stinging words, the same in any language, 
in the violet fog – 
thistles prick so hard before famine time... 
Let's betray ourselves. 
TO WHOM?

I can't find you – 
Don't look for me –
Thistle seeds mature, for upcoming famine time, 
in the violet incubator... 
Soil is crumbly and flat –
where will we hide?
– – – Glass mountain in the center of the highway 
dazzles me in the sun, startles me under the full moon... 
we'll split, we'll splinter 
into sharp, shining shards – – –

Again you're living in a fairy tale? 
I should be afraid of you – 
Don't shout, 
don't shout that we must stop –
the roadside's green and gray, 
the roadside's full of car cadavers 
and the first grasses –
are trampled, spattered 
with dandelion buds. 
Wave your hand, 
not your head. 
The glass mountain grows taller, 
gets slicker and more fatal, 
only in your subconscious –

Be quiet, 
note how calmly we breathe, 
how deeply we breathe, 
in the skeleton and in the dandelion's bud –

From the large, large cloud 
comes not rain – 
but hail, 
stinging, sharp –
striking, striking and striking... 
The face of the good witch 
that protects you 
is hackled by hail, 
like pockmarks –
the hair of the good witch, 
that shields you, 
is tangled with hail, 
like fish scales –

From the large, large cloud 
comes not rain –
but hail which hackles the soil with crude, childish letters
–

like a frightening advertisement... 
do not love – do not live – do not love – 
your witch is pathetic 
in her goodness.

– – – Windmill in the center of the highway –
birds turn round in whirls, 
millstones grind empty... 
we are late – we won't make it – we will starve –
let's quickly change into horrible scarecrows 
and frighten the birds, you hear?

Again you're playing childhood games? 
I should love you – 
I should have punished you – 
Don't whisper, 
don't weep because we had to ride –
the last steeds have long been locked up 
in the zoo. 
Bridles decorated 
with brass stars and bells 
hang from the ceiling, 
only in your subconscious, 
and jingle, and glitter, and jingle –

Stop it, you see, how the face of the good witch 
follows and protects you? 
You feel how the hair of the good witch 
shields you from the wind and birds?

Black stains on my palms – 
how can I touch you 
and love you?
Black stains on my lips – 
how can I convince you 
of the bonfire which would save us?

Black stains on the sun – 
the head swims... 
oh, how the head swims...
famine time... 
famine time.

famine time –
everything turned edible: 
the windmills, the glass mountains, 
the dandelions, the grass on the roadsides, 
the car cadavers, 
the scarecrows, 
the bewilderingly soothing 
violet color 
and the crackling thistle seeds... 
dark – dark – dark –

Famine time – 
everything turned edible 
we're running out of things to devour 
with whalish jaws, 
with dragonish maws –
even the face of the good witch 
even her hair is gone – 
just the stinging choking hail...

Famine time – 
everything turned edible... 
And why should I preserve you?

Translated by Aušrinė Byla


GRAFFITI

In uneven, primordial letters, 
neither sadly, nor serenely, nor gravely – 
you write, daub, scribble in passing 
on viaducts, fences, walls 
and in me 
strung out sentences, 
so you can console yourself and me – –  
so you can breathe – 


*

Earth's gods have left us –  
all: 
both those, who believed in them, 
and the others, who said 
they exist only in dreams and longing – 

Earth's gods are vacationing 
in the Land of Legends –  
sitting on cliffs they cleave the sun 
and suspend it in midday –  
they bathe in rivers of milk, 
rest under breadfruit trees 
and with their fingers lazily scoop 
honey from the lakes – –  
It's dazzling – satiating – sweet – 

Medeine alone remained, 
wailing, scolding 
in all the trees – : 
spread out, little fir, spread out,
cover the wounds on the earth –  
little oak, thicken, threaten, 
break – , 
only do not yield to bending – –  
little aspen, stop your quivering, 
you are not the first to betray a father – – 
Little maple, branch out, 
so that a young boy can 
rest under you, 
a soldier boy of Lithuania – 

Your wailing and scolding won't help, Medeine, 
The time is long past since we were a nation of soldier boys –
only artificers of words –  
of pregnant and hollow words –, 
and so let the aspen quiver... –  
Medeine, why did you remain, 
why are you not vacationing 
with the other gods of earth, 
in the Land of Legends?

I am learning to preserve the word, 
so that it would be 
as it was in the beginning, 
warm, radiating in a rainbow – –  
Be – I Am – I Leave –  
so that a few original words would suffice 
to reveal a person's life – 

After midnight, when I cannot sleep, 
I play with maps – : 
I rearrange nations 
drawing them other borders –  
I switch mountain sites, 
alter river beds –  
scatter lakes, finding 
them other hollows – – 
And how wonderful,
They're all silent – – – 

Suddenly, when the third cock-crow sounds, 
I can no longer change anything – 

I don't fabricate, 
only play, and dream –  
soon the rains will wash away, rinse away everything –  
and again it will be as it was – : 
usual, unchangeable, calm – – 

Only the fabricated state borders will remain, 
they're not fabricated, nor dreamt by me – –  
This is the game of others – 

                                Cel mani par par Daugavu
                                Tu Daugavs laivinieks...

sang the mother, 
hurrying from the last star to the first –  
she sang forth, left hurriedly –  
Now you are on the other side of the Dauguva, 
in an eternal evening of St. John 
running a circle barefoot around the fire, 
you lean your head back, so the wreath 
won't slide onto your eyes, 
and – "ligo, ligo..." – 

I no longer weave a wreath on the evening of St. John 
I no longer light a fire – , 
I only hum, hum unhurriedly: 
carry me across the Dauguva, 
carry me across the Nemunas, 
Great Ferryman – – 

                        
*

Last night Van Gogh ran down our street, 
spattering everything with his colors, 
vivid, shocking –  
in the morning I race, like a hunting dog, 
I search for his ear, 
so that he would hear me – :

you spattered our lawns with sunflowers, 
reaching the sky –  
come back and see how bright! 
How many suns are in our street! 
Come back and look: 
the houses of unimagined blueness 
are prepared to sail off –  
orange faces with red beards 
are prepared to shove them off – – 

You forgot to spatter me –  
I am merely a hunting dog, 
black, and I know, 
your eyes do not see such as me 
and your hand does not touch – ,

but I found your ear –  
Do you hear? 
I want to sail off, 
with your prism of colors –


*         

I am learning to preserve the word, 
so that it will not jump 
out of the bushes of my subconscious, 
like Pan 
and frighten everyone –  
In the beginning was the word 
let us not violate it –  
let us leave the seed solely 
for our children – 
I draw a skiff and sail to you 
on our river, 
which is not and shall not be on the map – , 
but its bed 
will never run dry, will not overgrow – 

I sail to you with joyous news: 
our dried up bush is flaming! 
only there is no voice –  
I heard no magic words –  
I am listening, believe, I am listening, 
so that I could hear them 
for others, you and me – 


*

I am learning to live without words –  
And you, what are you daubing in passing? 
And you, what are you writing so hurriedly? 
What do your signs mean, 
they're no longer sentences 
on viaducts, fences, walls 
and painfully in me? 
You no longer see yourself, 
you no longer hear me –  
Let it be – – It doesn't matter – –  
Just breathe, breathe – 

Translated by Rita Dapkus


IN SPRING

My Shadow Blooms

While the snow melts, I search out a space:
my shadow is ready to bloom.
While the thawing breeze turns me dizzy,
I'm searching for space,
searching for reviving warmth,
searching for wind-shelter,
while my shadow gets ready to bloom;
my shadow that just has to bloom,
even before the first green shows.

With water foaming in the open yards,
water flowing down the street,
one broad water-logged noon,
I suddenly feel I'm left all alone,
with my shadow floating away
like soil dislodged, washed away from its bank;
while the yellow-tinged bubbles break,
like buttercups, blooming in the sun.

And as I said:  I'll give you the gift of a blossoming bank
down by Childhood's Creek
this spring,
before the first green shows.

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis


The Tree Revives

Now I've injected the windowsill with rain from a storm
I quietly wait
Now I've injected Father's dried-up stick with lightning
I quietly wait
Now I've injected the bitters into the wooden leg
of the cobbler along our street,
and early this morning,
even before sun-up,

there's maple sap dripping from the sill,
birch sap dripping from Father's stick,
cherry sap oozes from the wooden leg
of the cobbler who to this day continues to live
in the First World War.

I said we'd have a maple
right in our rock-paved yard,
I said we'd get a birch grove
into our blind alley,
I said, didn't I, we'd have a cherry orchard
inside the city slum?
What cuckoo, though, will sing for us?

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis


ROCK

If you let me go, I'll slip into the night,
dive down as into a pond
and let the fish comb my hair with their fins,
and let the water sprites
measure off a part of me,
so that the children
wading out, some lush noon,
would have something to stand on,
to keep from going under,
with my face a craggy 
moss-covered rock,
and the mothers will stay calm,
the mothers will have no fear.

I breathed fear in
gasping gulps
from the first 
day I arrived,
deep greedy gulps
till I started to smother.
If you should let go,
then why hold me?
You can't hold me against my will,
with all I desire:

I want to be and I am 
the rock thrown at a live target,
the rock's sharp edge
that stays faithful to rock,
having chosen the rock,
believing in rock,
in the rock where I found myself.

If only you'd let go,
why do you keep
holding the rock inside
your waiting fist?

If you'd let go,
why wait, 
with the rock raised,
like David before Goliath?
What are you waiting for?
Braid the sling out of my hair,
whirr it high above your head;
fire away,
let me go!

Translated by Vyt Bakaitis

Liūnė Sutema (Zinaida Nagytė-Katiliškienė), sister of Henrikas Nagys, was born in the lowland region of Mažeikiai. Liūnė Sutema's mother was Latvian, and one of her grandmother's German, hence from childhood she was trilingual, versed in the stories and traditions of three distinct cultures. Later she read avidly in Lithuanian, Latvian, German and English, although never denying that her main poetic influence was Rainer Maria Rilke. In 1945 Liūnė Sutema, along with her family, fled the occupying Soviet army and finished her Gymnasium years in Germany, where she later studied German literature at Innsbruck and Freiburg Universities. Later she emigrated to the United States, where she published five collections of poetry. Liūnė Sutema was close friends with the poet Algimantas Mackus, and they both influenced one another's work, following principles of unadornment, in reaction to the heavily adorned language of the poetry previous generation of Lithuanian émigré poets.