Poems from:
Dienas un gadi (Days and Years)
Ceļa akmeņu raksts (Pattern of Stones en Route)
Poems
Published by the Australian group of the Latvian Press Society and the Sydney Latvian Society. 1985
The 18th book of the series of works by Australian Latvian authors
published with the support of LAAJ Culture Fund
18 – 350
National Library of Australia card number and ISBN 0 9595023 6 X
Dzidra Dzelme cover art.
Cover design and vignettes by Haralds Noritis.
———————-
[Translation by Dzidra Mitchell]
Days and Years (Dienas un gadi)
**JACARANDA YEARS**
I went out onto the road
I went out onto the road
such a yearning grabbed me by the throat
like the reins of some passer-by
dragging me away.
I stayed, straining back
like a stubborn goat,
whites of the eyes bulging
like a calf.
The noose still gnaws,
Presses like midday heat.
All of life’s strength was,
in one wrench, thrust around my neck.
A stone lies by the roadside
A stone lies by the roadside
where you must go/your path so hard
Do not long for the stillness of the stone
You will lie like a stone
when all will be over.
A green light is being cast
on the road for you, softly, by some branch.
Go, without hesitation
over the daunting path
further along you will get your breath back.
Jump, jump fearlessly over the chasm.
You will lie like a stone
when it is all over.
Some sharp stone
Some sharp stone
has penetrated me
for ages already,
but now it cuts most keenly
when day goes into autumn
and one ought to bring in the harvest in peace.
Not a vestige of the clarity
and sound advice,
that glimmer in the ears of wheat
when they have ripened
when fulfillment is reached
as they fall to the scythe.
Where is my granary?
Has the whole crop
been sifted away with the wind?
Or was it just imagined
in its maturity and fullness,
unfit for exile
or for home -- not to be found.
Night
I want to wake, to wake up!
I am heavily, heavily asleep.
My keeper’s claws
secretly grope along the walls.
I open my eyes,
I look through the wall –
I see green grass
in another part…
My eyes fall shut.
I sleep heavily, heavily.
Everyone is in chains –
Even those, with claws.
I grope in the dark
I grope around in the dark, evening having arrived,
slow rain has started on the roof.
The floor feels cold, and the back starts to ache
like a nasty draft.
I grope around in the dark, scrabbling about year after year,
now and then a strange wind howls in the trees.
The fire becomes precious, just dig among the ashes a bit,
where there are still some embers.
I grope around in the dark, like a hibernating bear,
the rain has started hammering more loudly on the roof.
Corners have filled with a dark lethargy,
like some slow-witted kinsman.
Cloaking myself in my sorrows
Cloaking myself in my sorrows
as though with warm earth –
I dig in deeper, deeper…
Blindly, like a mole
lying there for a long time, listening:
there is life, a pulse is still beating!
The earth will surely open again,
when a firm hand knocks,
rise once more, with new shoots, into the day.
Time rings out
Time is tolling,
its pulse can be heard
through aeroplane and street noise,
if you listen
on a festive morning,
if you listen deeply, seriously
as flowers listen,
with mouse ears [name of a flower];
if you listen in the fields of life,
stopping by snow-thawed ditches,
at the roadside --
you can hear joy
at hearing the bells of time tolling.
Stillness blooms on a festive morning.
Day, the joy you bring
Day, the joy you bring,
as light as dandelion fluff,
to be blown from the palm with one breath.
And yet so real,
as alive as the little seed,
swaying on the fluff in the sunshine,
rocking gently, as in a cradle
nursing new life
such power hidden in a tiny detail
which could wake at any moment.
Day, the joy you bring
is like dandelion fluff,
carrying the tiny seed
with its power sleeping –
that can wake at any moment.
Everyone around is screaming
Everyone around is screaming
but you’re asking,
that my voice be smooth.
For whom?
For ancient gods?
You want to erase
every discord
you ask for, request –
accord, harmony.
Oh, I'm singing, I'm already singing
chirruping softly
if only like an oriole.
I ask to call out,
like a woodpecker might tap out
a more portentous rhythm.
Everyone around is screaming
but you ask
that I should sing,
harmonize well –
with what?
Freedom regained this day –
Freedom regained this day –
a knot has untangled
freed from the nooses of hatred,
where one was kept as a servant.
Earth, touched by the sun
under a distant, russet sky
opened to infinity –
all roads open their gates.
Feeling ones wings grow,
to be carried forth fearlessly
through cities of the world,
whose towers you now know to be yours.
There, when you have found yourself thus
in the dazzling highland fields
you want to accumulate in small details,
want to pour into containers.
You want to thrust against borders,
push against fences and gates,
get familiar with bolts and keys
and prepare to intumesce.
Having drunk from the cup of bitterness
Having drunk from the cup of bitterness,
you will become calmer,
you will have been pared back like an overgrown plant,
but there will be no less strength.
Your rather glittering trail
will become more shadowy,
but you will see your neighbour's path more clearly,
and won’t flee from its sun.
Having drunk from the cup of bitterness,
you will bend even lower
and you will say that there is more God in the green land
than in the distant sky.
The fragrance of dill
The smell of dill is pleasing,
autumn morning seeming heavy –
wrapped in fog, branches dripping.
Maple leaves covering the road,
where pale birches lead –
the notice warns: “Private.
Private property. Do not enter.”
The fragrance of dill lingers on fingers
the tiny seeds harbour distant futures,
within themselves, holding everything close, tight.
Covered with your hoardings,
say to the gloom: "Don't come!
Private property. Protected.”
**OCEAN YEARS**
To be thus
Is it to be thus?! No cliff is safe,
an overwhelming wave washes away
the warmth of the sun from one’s grasp,
with winter shadows, it infuses gardens…
Like a bird's wing that touches the stream,
seeking support amid the confusion,
touches lost moments of thought,
and getting brief moments of peace, finding there a smile
which, blindfolded against the course of fate
was given and taken in the light of trust.
of little comfort and fragile,
melting in the waters of sorrow that flow and flow
and flow,
but that is all, when the decision has been
stamped
and here, the bolts for a new tomorrow have been slammed shut.
Your silence is now eternal
Your silence, now permanent
hurts me,
the way drought hurts a tree, stops it from growing,
prevents buds from joyfully unfurling.
Or is it teaching
one to toughen up?
To be one’s own judge, scold oneself,
forge one’s own strength in one’s own furnace?
How can the hammer respond,
where reverberate, echo, be reflected?
Your silence, now eternal,
hurts me.
Mountain, lay your coolness over me
Mountain, lay your coolness over me
your stone nature,
your changelessness,
weigh down on, quell this confused, restless spirit.
Keep me in step.
From your distant shoulders
cover me with your light.
Mountain, hold, contain me
today
and tomorrow
hold me for a day more.
But then, then again – let me,
let me go
my big, heavy, mighty mountain.
**CLOSENESS YEARS**
Someone is thinking about me
Someone is thinking about me –
and their thinking
fills all the houses in the street
growing up from the ground in the gardens
and raining from the sky;
cars bring it into the city,
it lights up the streets,
in the depth of night
it floats down like wakefulness
onto sleeping eyelids.
Like a blue sea
Like a blue sea tossing upon the shore, the earth
shudderlng,
like a clear sky breaking over the mountains,
like rivers, full of blue sky, falling into the valley,
so dramatically blue was your look in the mirror,
which you tossed there surreptitiously, searching quickly
But what will you say now?
Just rain, streams of rain.
Let it come. Let the flowers be transplanted
Let the waiting happen, as roots reach deep into the ground,
taking root in the waiting, and growing.
Let them grow and grow.
But how can it grow,
that has already grown in the sky
and blossomed into a lightning flower?
Only coal can fall.
Black coal…
Coal can reignite, beware,
can burn itself out in blue flames.
In this passing parade
In this passing parade
there was a kind of consolation
some kind of testimony
that somewhere, that life
which flashes to mind
like a wave in the distant sea, has
risen up out of nothingness
blossomed for a moment,
has glittered in lights,
before sinking
into its un-beginning, (pre-beginning).
In this passing parade
there was a greeting to the unattainable,
which descends upon us
(with its nothingness?),
like the strongest of all
with its domination
laying down road signs for us
and the gains and the losses
are weighed, and evened out.
Cursing wholeheartedly
Cursing wholeheartedly, and conjuring
hiding away from life, like a hedgehog
still with leaves impaled on one’s sharp coat.
Then abruptly spread arms wide
and again be happy –
just now a smile reappeared.
Oh, how deeply incomprehensible is
the great desire to live,
that is found among simple folk.
Joyous morning
Morning is still drenched with wine
from the previous night –
all splashed with coloured stains,
will have once again touched Michelangelo's easels
or Gauguin's palette with
the tips of its wings.
Morning is parading with slogans,
tossing flowers,
will have been with the hippies,
and other gentler flower-children,
who, having grown bearded, have reappeared,
walking around in groups.
It –
comes with promises,
will have looked into the countries of the world,
made friends with politicians.
Oh, let it be,
let youth have its due,
evening will have the final word.
Morning is bedewed with wine
from some holy day,
from the previous night.
The moon always drops in on the poplars
The moon always drops in on the poplars
hangs there, during the days, during the evenings,
swinging about in the branches, sending messages to the sky
gentle, semi-secret communications,
laying out paths with light, to invite
with glistening pale gold steps those walkers,
who, as though moonstruck, come
over roofs, over houses, over waters,
to where the moon has stopped at the poplars,
come to visit in their evenings
If scientists prove
If scientists prove,
as one hears, it could happen soon,
that plants suffer (just like us),
when you brake them,
will anything change under the sun,
if scientists prove,
that flowers in vases wail and
tulips cry, as you give them to me.
Oh, rose, Trudeau's rose, on the chest of haughty man
suffers day and night and dies,
will anything on earth change,
and one hears, it may happen soon,
if it sounds out on loudspeakers,
that leaves scream in festive garlands
and lettuces cry at banquets?
Oh, roses, we living roses,
on the chests of diplomats.
Sunday with Proust
Sunday. Coffee. Toasted honey bread.
Sitting outside with Proust.
The window reveals a wet world.
Grim germs pounce
and are fought off,
transformed into some benign seeds,
stored in a matchbox,
forbiddingly rapped with a cigarette.
Something gently nuzzles up
from the rain-washed world,
or perhaps from Mars, from
the Martians, because still,
still, we are not so alone.
And Proust tells of Illiers,
of Madeleines –
not women, though they sound like that, of
small egg cakes, oval, light, yellowish,
of a large church and
a living river behind the village streets.
And about those two roads, those two roads...
He loves. He can talk a lot.
How far does the wind go?
How far does the wind go?
How far does it come?
Just wanders about here,
through the streets, through the park?
But the sea, over the sea, there,
where no one stands in the way,
how far does the wind go?
Every day some word,
thought, assertion or question,
like a flower brushed by one’s hand,
on passing a garden,
like a leaf held in one’s fingers,
from a branch overhead –
I say to you, I give to you, I
send to you with endless sea miles...
over endless sea miles...
beyond the endless sea…
At the new fountain in Newcastle
At the new fountain in Newcastle
it is so beautiful there,
that the rainbow comes down to visit
and close, within reach, dances
with droplets, with wind
(with rain, with sun)
with water, stone, dances
on hand carved
images captured in stone,
which are like creatures, things,
like life,
dancing in praise of the human spirit.
Today a swallow
Today a swallow flew into the room.
It used to happen there each summer.
Not anymore, for the last twenty years
– I was on another shore.
A rather cool June day,
the wind is tearing, tearing the blossoms from the chestnut tree,
and wings beat lightly,
beat wounds that will no longer heal.
**DISTANCE YEARS**
After a Whole Forest of Days
After a whole forest of days,
behind the last hazel leaves,
leaning down
I found ancient times;
water levels shimmering,
grasses gently catching footfalls,
stalks,
a dragonfly comes flying slowly,
the smell of mud and irises:
Midsummer's Day,
Sunday, or another such day
with the breath of midday,
sweat and slush,
with a living bell in one’s chest.
A Seed Flying
From where this seed in the air, its path
known, unknown to it?
The day and its sun, goes with it towards the evening , the rivers waters flow with it,
the forests sway it and the wind carries it, with birdcalls,
but who guards it,
who protects it, when it lies down on the sand, on the ground
to begin life?
Its path is known to it in its ignorance, its path is safe
even when disappearing into peril,
it flies free, untouched by fear or hope,
itself – everything,
and entirely free it carries its miracle, which is a miracle
only to us,
who travel not like it, we who are heavily soaked
in our own questions.
When on brown leaves
When on brown leaves
I feel the first ice,
my heart, as though sensing the joys of winter, trembles.
As if the old bay horse
has to be harnessed again,
and after lengthy sojourning I must turn homeward.
I tie the straps
into clever knots, tightly,
taking a guess, which way used to be north, which way was south?
For a while now I have been getting ready, preparing to hit the road,
not knowing which way the horses will or won’t lead?
When under my feet
I feel the first ice,
I stop at the crossroads of the four cardinal points.
And with the migratory birds
I send word –
it seems that they are also now going eastward, northward.
It snowed in the night
It snowed in the night,
a lot of snow,
and it is still snowing gently.
The sky is full
hanging close,
and thoughts wander,
as if jokingly
begin to drift
away under the branches of distant forests,
under the snowy sky,
that brushes the eyes
with slow flakes...
Soon there will be a border ditch,
then a field and a garden.
The window is bright, waiting there,
with the sill covered with snow
and several ice flowers,
the window there is lit up brightly,
waiting with festivities
for the new traveler.
What kind of window is it?
Where is the one waiting?
Where is the traveler?
There
She spread a white tablecloth on Sundays (linen threads),
and we happily gathered around the breakfast table.
Dew sparkling everywhere, the garden, yard, field, road, and forest
stood clear, calm and green;
the river, Aiviekste, driving tiny ripples,
threw its reflections onto the walls – inticingly,
and the clock, flashing its gold dial,
slowly struck the morning hour.
But time did not stand still.
“Well then – get dressed, get ready…”
she called as she cleared the dishes.
So we have been getting dressed, getting ready, to this day.
Mother's Day
...I feel your arrival close.
And flocks of birds swirl more jubilantly below the morning clouds,
tree tops reach up closer, more surely, to the sky,
clear blue opens up mid cloud and – sees me.
I rose early this morning. So that my day would be long. A precious guest is here today.
I rose early, so that my day would be long. So that we can really enjoy this visit.
My guest is still sleeping. Must be allowed to sleep still longer. Has come a long way.
They are tired. Tomorrow, another long journey ahead.
I rose early, to make this visit long, lasting all day today.
Must walk on tiptoe, quietly about the house.
Peace everywhere. It is Sunday, love lies over everything.
I walk gently. Lightly touch things, with eyes, with fingertips.
Leaf through books, their words carry better meanings this morning.
I look out the window. Thinking – what to give for breakfast.
A guest, and late breakfast, stretching till midday, all day.
Sunday breakfast, stretching to eternity.
“Well, get up, get up then…”
I try to move about calmly. There’s still plenty of time. Everything is laid out and ready.
I try to move calmly, but still a lid bursts from my hands – sugar spills…
“Stop hurrying, don’t hurry like that. Sit down for a moment still.
I have enough of everything. Only, a bit more - closeness…”
I keep opening and shutting the door slowly. Listen to the noises from outside,
they hang in the air, accompanying the slow pace of this morning.
When the guest will arise, time will only pause for a moment,
perhaps at the breakfast table, then rolling on, flying, the day will be gone.
The guest is still sleeping. And the day waits.
I rose early, so that this, my day would be long.
I rose early this morning.
I’ve a precious guest. About to set off on a long journey.
I rose early, to set the breakfast table noiselessly, and then wake them.
Let them rise. Get dressed. Yet sit down, sit for a while.
I rose early this morning.
The guest has been seen off.
It is still morning. Only the morning still hangs about, lingering.
A day! There aren't that many days.
There is still – yesterday.
The child
You took a long time telling me
in your own language,
and I listened for a long time
and I said:
How nice that was!
But then you smiled
a little slyly,
signalling,
that it was a joke,
a half joke,
and I laughed --
I know, I know ... but ...
And we talked again
and listened for a long time.
So, again, around me
So, again, around me,
green fir trees stand,
aspens reach high,
old lilac bushes are budding,
pure water, every day,
rains from the sky
(but all the magazines recommend whisky
on every page...).
Again, in Canada,
a land that is like a
third homeland to me. Full of strangers.
So, again, around me, fir trees,
but I reach out, I reach out
I don't know to where...
A leaf in the wind
A leaf falls, dallying in the autumn wind.
Happiness is fracturing, dallying in its day.
as waiting, we still hold on
to sinking supports,
as waiting, we still get up on our knees
with our remaining strength
which, like a tree, was once green, alive
and vigorous.
Happiness goes on dallying,
as if waiting for the invitation
to sit down once more,
before leaving the house.
I want to put everything down
I want to put down everything
that is to be lifted, carried, stored,
everything gathered and collected,
I want to put it down
and leave it at home,
where everything that is necessary
or useless, stands indisputable
as something important,
as practical proof
of our existence,
of our immediacy and reality.
I want to put it down
and go out on the street,
go on this unloved street,
and for a moment to be in it,
in the way that a flower, the grass, the earth is,
like the smoke is in the air,
like a raindrop
and how the sea is,
in order to thus gain proof
of my own existence.
Man, wolf
The wolf, running in the woods, stops suddenly --
It draws air deeply into its hot breast
"... a man has been here today ..."
something seems different to the beast's heart
"... there was a man here today ..."
the moon strangely pale lies behind a cloud,
a distant window sparkles close --
a midnight window.
A man was here today...
the morning wind whistles music into the branches,
Scarlatti --
rings out
in the midnight window!
Weary, lowering its head on its paws,
the wolf sinks into the darkness.
Playing old music pieces
... And following ancient footsteps,
stumbling a little,
friends, holding on to your hands,
I walk old roads as if
sorting through things in a trunk --
a little tarnished,
dear, beloved, treasured
things, finding jewels.
Something could still be put to use,
I realize -- I am not yet a beggar!
I still have them in my hands,
trembling a bit,
I grab them a little convulsively,
as if up a wide staircase,
somewhere rising up and disappearing,
dazzled by the sunlight,
along known and unknown
endless passages
climbing a bit again,
stumbling a little,
friends, holding on to your hands.
Poetry is more
Poetry is something more,
than hatred and love,
although –
poetry is hatred and love.
Poetry is something more,
than words and thought,
although –
poetry is words and thought.
Poetry is something else,
than color and sound,
although –
poetry is color and sound.
Poetry is something else,
than only that,
which someone wanting to express,
has captured in words.
Poetry is
– as if a bird from a night-green branch
has landing on your shoulder,
and spoken along with you.
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Prose and poems: Erna Ķikure
Published: Inese Birstins, Canada, 1990
Cover art: Dzidra Mitchell, Australia
Cover design: Nelson Vigneault, Canada
ISBN: 0-9693766-3-4
PATTERN of STONES en ROUTE
(Ceļa akmeņu raksts)
(Translation by Dzidra Mitchell)
—————
I listen on one side, on the other
I listen on one side, on the other,
silence everywhere, silence.
Silence sharp as a knife!
Through loud festive chatter,
silence sounds like a knife crashing
onto an empty [tiled] floor.
There, back then
There, back then,
there were white columns all around and
children were playing below, trams were running, people were walking.
The columns were at the opera house,
at the National Theatre, at the Courthouse.
There was St. Peter's church steeple, and the Powder Tower.
Bastej Hill. Grīziņ Hill. (It's far out of town,
you have to take the tram there.)
There was Vērman's Garden, Strēlnieku Garden,
(we wrote in the sand of the paths
with flower stalks, with lilac branches),
and canal edge greenery all along and small bridges.
The Dome Church. The Castle. And Daugavmala. [Daugava shore]
It was beautiful there in the old town,
when there was a market in Daugavmala --
The Daugavmala Market. Crowded, smelly, active,
with fish, herring, barankas.
Arins loved the barankas, jokingly
he draped a string of them around my neck and we went
to look for St Christopher, but we wandered off somewhere else.
The barankas were small or larger,
round, crisp water pretzels
Threaded on a dried grass string, (they called it -- jute),
strung just like herring.
Arins also liked herring. He loved
wandering about in Daugavmala market (on the way from the Academy).
Flower vendors sat in rows
along the edges of the sidewalk with their colourful,
fragrant baskets. Arins loved
to buy flowers.
But mostly -- he had no money.
Money had to be saved for opera tickets.
And the heart marches on
And the heart marches on
in its blank Surrealist painting.
Oh, not empty -- [there's] the horizon, the lights,
some scattered objects,
a hat, a chair.
There is the ring of distance in its steps.
I listen to its closer steps
wondering, how it is faring
continuing on further, further under the blue eye of Magritte.
The eye of the world? God's eye?
Time is slowly drawing a veil over you
Time is slowly drawing a veil over you
like an autumn spider
with webs full of dew,
and my heart becomes lighter,
like a boat floating away
without its expensive cargo,
slipping away into the wild
and getting caught somewhere,
on some coast, in some sand ...
Our bones are getting scattered
Our bones are getting scattered
in the furthest the reaches of the world.
Our quarrelsome, alert spirit
in what containers does it accumulate?
Speeches, tongues
murmur like yeast in fermentation dishes --
will it manage to leaven our good powers
in those the fateful cauldrons of fire?
Plough your own work furrow
deeply splitting rocks,
with your own advice
and -- old wisdom.
You put your hands
You put your hands
on the piano keys
slowly, calmly, lightly
and sounds started to vibrate,
tremble like aspen leaves,
like a lake, like a heart.
These days
These days were spent half way,
half passed in dreams
about the future,
which has turned into the past,
like a forest road,
leading somewhere
that peters out, turns back
and stays home.
The mind chokes anxiously
The mind chokes anxiously ,
bumps into one of the gate bolts here, another one there.
It is permitted no lamentation, no loud crying,
secretly it leans toward another living being,
guarding life itself.
Bless, bless the day yet given,
pigeons are walking on rooftops,
lift your eyes to the roofs.
A day lit up by reality
with rain drops on the first leaves,
a day with pigeons on rooftops,
a day awaited, taken
that rips, ruptures, explodes,
bursts open over rooftops,
sinks into the streets like flower smoke,
the sea, the sea is flowing in the streets,
swim, sink into this day.
How many times already
How many times already
your vehicle disappears
around the bend in the road --
I am left on the doorstep
with smiles of care and hope.
Everything is in God's hand ...
A new waiting starts again.
– (Following the visit of Dzidra in Montreal, 1988.)
Here is an autumn leaf, red, pink
Here is an autumn leaf, red, pink
like a spurt of blood
and the other -- a golden yellow sun!
Take it, winter will be long
everything will be so emptily white.
When it takes a long time to grow dark, when the day sinks slowly
in the autumn chill, the evening breeze,
long waiting unites what existed in the past with what did not.
In the ancient homeland gardens
the old apple trees are covering themselves for their winter sleep.
Sorrow must be expressed
Sorrow must be expressed,
it should be peeled off like dry bark from a tree.
Happiness has to be shouted out,
it should be called out like the cry of birds
into a wide choice of distant seas, coasts --
you have to give your heart a bit of peace.
Gently wrapped, clouded over
Gently wrapped, clouded over
the winter sun has stopped
in the naked twigs,
on the low roofs,
with a far, distant, ancient voice
barely audible, it starts to speak:
"Do you remember?"
I remembered and my heart warmed
a brief cloudy winter moment,
[and] as I recalled
childhood voices grew warm.
The distant voices full of sunshine.
The clouded winter sun
spoke softly.
Oh, that remote home
sunk in time ...
– (Written l8. January l989.
The news came in February that my sister had died on January 22.
Recopied without changing anything.)
The autumn sun falls on the hands in my lap
The autumn sun falls on the hands in my lap.
How did I get my mother's hands?
I am amazed, I look at my hands on my lap.
The autumn sun is the same.
The shadows of the rose bush play the same way
on the wall of the house.
I hear the same ancient voices ...
A young girl
puts her hands on my shoulders affectionately ...
Or maybe I am her?
The autumn sun is the same.
Dear, beautiful Aiviekste
The river of my childhood, my youth,
with sun, flowery meadows
where steps sink in easily,
They say you are now dammed, slow,
full of muddy floods,
inert, heavy waters.
My brave, sunny river,
I call at an unknown door –
my river, my true river,
after silvery, spring inundations
full of summer clouds, you are now –
condemned to muddy, heavy waters.
