“The Kiss” is translated by Sam and Clay Witt with Arturas Valionis and is also taken from In Those Beautiful Years of Great Disappointments.
Excerpts from
In Those Beautiful Years of Great Disappointments are translated by Craig Czury with Arturas Valionis.
For more Poetry from Lithuania
Arturas Valionis Translated by Sam Witt and Clay Witt with Arturas Valionis
the kiss: a fragment of fortune-telling
those born
are obliged to watch
the arrangement of elephant bones
to them stories about the marks
of the nails
on the smooth, unbreakable forms
are dedicated.
forms that are rinsed
with the sweat of palms
and shaped by the granite
of trained fingers.
not every scratch
has its own story —
and only some of them
have been memorized.
after stories languish,
the rough edges are worn down
and out of the bones
various adornments are turned,
the cavities are hollowed
into belt-buckles —
what is all this for?
soft and blunted,
the voice of the woman
in a whisper,
will give a name,
her lips will touch the forehead,
hiding her regular bite
congratulating
(will the mark remain? )
will her kiss moisten the pits of memory,
( black measurements on the doorpost
show through a fresh coat of enamel )
— and melancholic then become
the thoughts of the born.
and so I hail
the downpour which will wash onto the dunes (will it?)
objects, plenty of objects,
spoiled somewhat by the water
and the unchanging movement of the sand —
downwind, downwind
water and sand sharpen the forms,
and the body movements
become lighter and less distinct.
have you seen the leaden gondolas of the clouds
above the drying sea?
into the ground their elegance has soaked,
and sails like puffs of smoke held
in the cupped hand of the coagulating water.
let the restored remembrances
of the alleys
leave me —
the wish of the sea-woman
to give me
the illusion of ice-covered hair,
the eating of pears at night,
echo of a laugh,
coming back.
the silhouettes of fruit take shape in the bowl
and the knife I throw
does not hit
the bread of inclement
non-reality —
I am here. I touched the wall
overgrown with moss
but groped for only a few
crumbled bricks —
already the cobble-stone road of the fourth city
flows by under my feet,
untrampled
while an army waits patiently
by the half-opened gates. For a regular bite —
the mark on the forehead. For the sign to enter,
which is absent.
excerpts from
In those Beautiful Years of Great Disappointments
Translated by Craig Czury with Arturas Valionis
glittering in the sun
our stories
written and re-written
without changing a thing
wait
for a great sudden change
wait wait wait
stinging under gusts of rain
afterwards
glitter in the sun
awakening
Goodbye your women melted in smoke
as they closed the gates and rode into shadow
the lighthouse saw them off and grew hoarse
Our women rode out with the horde at daybreak
their horses left furious shoes strewed with crumbs
enraged my sweet slumber my eyes glazed with dust
how quiet looks:
the smoothness of pebbles
stuck in the rush
your silhouette moving further away
- my disheveled memory
by the hitches at the ends of ropes
the nearest
this echo’s not real
there are no tree trunks
it slides down
*
there is no surrounding
half-circle of forest
which continuously creeps closer
*
there is no steamy flooded swamp
scurrying critters through its root mounds
*
nervous watch-springs don’t tick
but tumble against her in front of me
their thunder illumines
how to defend oneself from the wind of recollections
monotonous strokes of wings give peace of mind
triangles that leave us cackle
snow into sawdust
as cold wet pieces
flood maybe only moisten
every movement of the dam
every stirring
needle prick by prick
the places that are given a pointed nudge
are lazy fishes of the mind that jump
above a dense blast of steam
stream-lined
swimming their dusty bodies away
through crumbled arches
fountain minarets
(when they pass each other
memory spurts through their seams)
later carried back
in a cascading color of asphalt
back again
cutting like an incision into a tree trunk
coming together
counting stumps and rings
more difficult to recognize each year
tear them to shreds
the bandage leaves of plantain grown in holey pits
gossamer veins of grass
