GIFTS OF AUTUMN

The wind, in the stubble rustling, announces Autumn.
The fields have turned grey, and in hollows the oxen are lowing.
The gossamer's flying. The summer wheat's reaped and brought in.
The winter-wheat, also, the farmers have finished sowing.
Bloom, dahlias! Ground frosts will come down and scorch you.
Turn yellow, bend down by the road, Lithuanian birchtree!

The sun's getting lazy. Blue pinewoods are nodding, sleepy.
Make haste, o you cranes, before twilight, don't wait till the night!
You'll get lost if you stray. It is late, but the Milky Way's keeping
The chain of its beacons across the dark sky-vault alight.
Fall silent, green grasshopper! Autumn is here with his treasure.
Come, Father, pour beer in our mugs, let us drink it at leisure.

There's plenty of everything! Apples roll down from the hill.
And bread! For the greediest there'd be enough and to spare.
The rowan-tree burns. In the mud big fat porkers lie still.
Grey geese raise their clamour. The blackbirds on treebranches bare
Sit noisy and gay as young boys in a mischievous band.
Big carts in a caravan lined, at the cellar-door stand.

We sit down together to drink to the bountiful year,
Inviting our friends and our neighbours to feast with us too.
There's piles of brown meat-pies and juicy green cucumbers here,
And honey smells sweet, and good beer foams and flows: here's to you!
We drink, then we eat, drink anew, and then songs start to sound
Of the bounty that gladdens our hearts, that our labours has crowned.

To you, poet, Autumn brings new inspiration as well.
Go, praise with your rhymes the green rye-shoots that sprout in the fields.
And the stubbly loam left for winter; harsh frosts our old peasants foretell.
Sing of hard-working peasants rejoicing, of Autumn's rich yields,
Of the blessings and gifts of our fertile and bountiful land,
And your song will not rust while her birches and appletrees stand.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg


MY WAKE

If ever the time comes for me to die
Take a white birchwood table out there to the river,
Set it up on the slope of the bank underneath the black alder,
Strew it well with fresh hay, raked up before lunch,
Cover it with a clean length of linen smelling of dew,
Just rolled up and brought in from the meadow,
And there lay me out with my forehead towards the blue sky,
And the sun, and the moon, and the stars –
Towards the blue heavens of my Lithuania,
Without any mourning or weeping or guard of honour,
Without solemn speeches.
Gather a crowd of my jolly old countrymen,
Slaughter a hog in the evening, the day before,
Singe it with straw, and wash it with river water.
Spread it out on a doorboard and carve it,
Laying aside the lungs, the liver,
The hams and the heart, the fat,
For all this will come in handy for the gay vigil.
Then kindle great fires by the river,
Cook big cauldrons of fat cabbage soup,
Stew a lot of potatoes,
Plenty of brisket and meat;
Roast fresh pork on the coals
And sausage with buckwheat.
Make pork jelly,
And distil three caskets of good, strong wine,
Pour it into clay pitchers and let it cool.
Spread tablecloths out on the grass underneath an alder,
And when everything's ready and set,
Seat the guests.
Invite all my kin – to the farthest,
Call my friends and neighbours.
With babes in their arms
Let my old brides come too.
Have them sit in the meadow
And start serving the guests,
Singers and musicians,
Dancers and their partners,
Children,
The dust-covered passer-by from the field road.
Call together the birds that I loved:
Blackbirds, orioles, finches, cuckoos,
Storks and night-jars, hoopoes and owls;
Let the teal waddle in from the rushes,
And the sparrows gather in whole families.
Let the kingfishers creep from their nests in caves;
Let the flies buzz over the dishes, just like in an old cottage,
And let wasps fly over the honey-smeared plates –
There'll be plenty, enough for them all.
Only please don't sulk and sob,
Please be merry.
Let it be a merry affair, my wake.
Truly merry and gay,
Because I, although sometimes sad willy-nilly,
Didn't like melanholy.
So you, too, enjoy yourselves on this occasion!
Let the wine-cup go round, from hand to hand,
Let it be noisy,
Let songs and laughter fly through the aldergrove;
Let those who are young tickle the girls –
I was fond of it when young and not so young too.
Let the feasting and games go on till white morning,
For I, undoubtedly, would have merited
All this merry-making and joy
After a long, crazy and troubled life.
Let people keep saying until long afterwards:
"My, what fun  it was,
That feast at his wake!"

And then, when white morning kindles over the aldergrove,
Let them stumble and straggle away
To work, to rest, to sleep – whatever they will.
Leave me there on the sloping bank of the river,
Under the black, wide-spreading alders.
Ah, how nice it will be for me to remain alone
On the banks of my river!
How the water will ripple,
What songs will come from the orioles!
What music they'll make, those blackbirds, hoopoes and jays!
How gaily will chirrup the sparrows, my close friends,
How sweet will the hay smell – the trefoil, the sedge,
Wormwood, heather and caraway!
How lovely it will be for me,
How jolly to rest
After such a long, troubled, crazy life!

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg


SWEET APPLES

Well, maybe now, towards autumn,
In the dusk, when in my father's orchard
A giant moon hangs on above the fence,
When from the boughs Newtonian apples plop into the grass –
Maybe you'll come and ask me,
While I keep watch over the place for apple thieves,
To shake into your lap
Some of the very best sweet apples?
Maybe you'll come now after all?
I only want to see whether you're still as stupid
As that time, many years ago,
Whether you still can stay so long behind the orchard fence
Holding a lapful of sweet apples?
I want to see
Whether I am as stupid as I was
So many years ago.
Will I, like then, benumbed and lost in wonder,
Keep staring at you from behind the fence,
Both motionless and speechless,
Pervaded by the blazing giant moon
And by the scent of the sweet apples in your lap?
I want to see
Whether we both will, like two fools,
Stare at each other until midnight,
When you at last come to yourself, stir up
And, lowering your eyes, breathe out:
"My goodness, it is late,
I must be off now... It's already dark.
And Mummy – God forbid! – will wake to look for me."
Yet do come, anyway!
I only want to see
Whether we both are still as stupid
As that time, many years ago,
Whether, like then, beside the fence
Under the big full moon
We'll stare benumbed and speechless
Until the very midnight,
Until the first night cockcrow!

Oh, hang it all!
I'm sorry, dear, I've clean forgotten
That the old fence has long since fallen down,
And it's a long time since you are no more.
All that is left here is the giant moon,
An indistinct scent of sweet apples,
And me, of course,
That's all.

Translated by Lionginas Pažūsis


IMMORTALITY

A butterfly stranded in amber – in petrified resin –
Has remained intact, its wings still seeming to whirr.
It looks like the only way within reason
Of staying forever in this our world.

If your heart yearns to stay eternal,
If you dream of eternal renown,
Then dip down – from head to foot – into resin:
When everyone's gone, you'll stay on alone.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg


HEAVY JOY

Over the years
I've stored up in my heart
All dawns and forenoons,
Woods and mountains, plains and streams,
The tropics and exotic flowers from the Arctic,
Old barns with roofs that gape towards the skies
To let the early sunbeams in
And swallows out.
I well remember their twittering and darting
That made a shepherd open drowsy eyes.
Throughout my life
I carry with me
The warmth of ricks, the scent of hay,
All birch trees with their twigs caressing winds,
All boulders which by road or lake or river lay
And made a seat where roaming lovers
Leaned head to head, sat clasping hand in hand.
I treasure in my breast the hands of brides and mothers,
Of sisters, brothers, loyal friends,
Hands which embraced
Their loved ones' necks and waists.
I've gathered glances which reflected
The early snowdrops – heralds of sweet spring,
The new-laid bricks and bricklayers' smiles,
The toasts we drank, my friend and I,
The humble meals we used to share,
The equal burdens we would bear,
The joys and sorrows that we knew together.
And that is why I'm of good cheer,
I feel such warmth within my breast,
My heart is brimming with delight
That every day
I can invite
So many truly welcome guests.

Over the years I've stored up in my heart
The curses I've endured,
Blows on my back and to my head,
The cracks of whips upon my loins,
The whine of bullets through my chest.
In every chain I've bound my hands:
They slowly gnaw my wrists, I scarce can write.
I've planted in my wrinkled brain
All babies' tears and mothers' sighs,
A host of wars and scores of fires,
Regrets of lost dreams, devastated towns,
All scorned and never fondled necks,
All grieving and forsaken hearts,
All eyes that were by torture dimmed,
A sapless cherry tree, a wan with broken wings,
Late yearnings, premature fatigues,
All ailments rushing in with age –
Yes, all these in my wrinkled brain
I've planted – let them thrive and grow,
Splitting my skull,
Twisting my limbs with roots ...

So that is why my heart is dark
And heavy,
It wears a frown,
It's icy, chilly winter there,
So sad
That sometimes joy too weighs me down.

Translated by Lionginas Pažūsis
 

ADVANTAGES OF AGE

You must admit
Old age, in point of fact, is an advantage. 
You have no hair and therefore no headache 
Over how to comb it – to the back or side, 
To make a parting or to go without. 
You have no teeth and you are never tempted 
To bite off more than you can chew. 
Besides, you waste no time with your own toothbrush. 
When feet go slow you save on shoes. 
You shrink from crossing rapid streams 
And take a bath instead 
Avoiding all the risks of being drowned 
And saving thus your pains. 
You don't go chasing pretty girls now –  
Your heart may rest. 
It's comical, isn't it, watching lads 
Waste breath and time, 
Wear their shoes out –  
Oh, how they suffer when they are in love! –
And all for what? – For pretty misses. 
o sum up –  
A man would surely not exchange 
The wisdom of old age 
For all the follies of his youth 
If he had any sense.

Translated by Lionginas Pažūsis


THE BREADBAKER

The millstones are footworn. 
The walk is overgrown with grass. 
There is no doorsill. 
Aspens grow where the cradle once stood. 
A bird warbles for the breadbaker.

The helmet is bullet-holed. Squirrels 
Lick dew like cats. 
The soldier is not here. 
War killed the soldier. 
The woods protect the soldier's 
Life and courage.

Sprouting thistle 
Peers through shattered windows. 
The cottage is empty. 
Mother used to call:
                   – Go to bed! 
Those dear punishing hands. 
Where are they? The woods are all around.

The birch switch 
Would be sweeter than honey. 
There is no one to wield it. 
Time doesn't stand still. 
The breadbaker is caught 
In the smouldering of a long-past day –  
Such is the history of war. 
The woods rustle, murmur.

Translated by Jonas Zdanys


THE WHITE PIANOS

Once, half a life ago
I promised a good-looking affable young girl,
A prima ballerina in Baku,
Just for a single rapturous embrace
To forward her from Lithuania a snow-white piano
With rosy keys.
I said that my old homeland Lithuania
Was paved with them and I myself had three of them at least.
She gazed into my eyes and saw that I was damn sincere,
I did not lie, perhaps I did not tell her the whole truth,
But did not cheat her (I eagerly believed in what I said),
And she unfalteringly trusted me. 

My youth has gone!
A whole long life has passed,
But that rash promise – haunting as a dream –
Is unredeemed as yet.
Now I'd be willing to repay her.
Unfortunately, in Lithuania there's not a single
White piano with a rosy keyboard left (How odd!
At that time there were heaps of them!).
I beg you all who have or saw one, let me know,
I will be glad to overpay:
It is my debt of honour after all –
A sensible old age has to redeem
What senseless youth has ever promised.

Translated by Lionginas Pažūsis


THE WHITE PIANOS

Once, half a life ago
I promised a good-looking affable young girl,
A prima ballerina in Baku,
Just for a single rapturous embrace
To forward her from Lithuania a snow-white piano
With rosy keys.
I said that my old homeland Lithuania
Was paved with them and I myself had three of them at least.
She gazed into my eyes and saw that I was damn sincere,
I did not lie, perhaps I did not tell her the whole truth,
But did not cheat her (I eagerly believed in what I said),
And she unfalteringly trusted me. 

My youth has gone!
A whole long life has passed,
But that rash promise – haunting as a dream –
Is unredeemed as yet.
Now I'd be willing to repay her.
Unfortunately, in Lithuania there's not a single
White piano with a rosy keyboard left (How odd!
At that time there were heaps of them!).
I beg you all who have or saw one, let me know,
I will be glad to overpay:
It is my debt of honour after all –
A sensible old age has to redeem
What senseless youth has ever promised.

Translated by Lionginas Pažūsis

Born into a peasant family in the village of Bubeliai, near Seinai in Poland, Albinas Žukauskas attended the Lithuanian secondary school in Vilnius and from 1934 to 1939 studied law and journalism at Vilnius University and the Warsaw school for journalists. From 1948 to 1953 he was chief editor of the Lithuanian Publishing House for Literature VAGA and from 1953 to 1959 editor at the Lithuanian film studio, heading the script department. His work was first published in 1928. His first book of verse, Times and People (1938), written in free verse, showed him to be a progressive poet with a popular touch, who has been through the school of avant-garde literature. His collections, Long Furrows (1962), Barings (1971) and Shallows (1975), are marked by a striving to avoid poetic effects, by conversational syntax and originality of verse structure, recalling a fragment of epic, a novella based on reminiscences or a fable based on ironic deliberations. His lyrical vision merges with fantastic concreteness. Žukauskas also translated Polish and Byelorussian poets into Lithuanian.