LATER ON

...later, Autumn. We walked into the avenue.
A sudden gust of freshness: chests relaxed, 
briefcases lighter. The hearts of cars were beating 
faster than ours. A small, bearable dose 
of anarchy.
Later, we moved toward the pure grocery 
of the universe. Robertas suggested his place. 
We disappeared into large armchairs, 
intoxicated without even drinking yet, outrageous
with our joking, suddenly not recognizing 
each other. Later the alcohol swam
in our brains.
We were smoking cheap cigars and seeing who 
could howl the longest, no cheating –
to waken the dark yard, stir up the natural forces,
overcome the phobia of squares, the Fabijoniskes syndrome
I saw drops of sweat on your forehead,
and the neighbor who died yesterday
knocked at the door.
It snowed in the TV. Some folks were gone.
Laughter hoarsened. Guzas fell asleep in his armchair. 
At the cockcrow of the polar dawn, 
I put my arms around you and whispered: 
if we don't start everything anew, 
Sophia, we are lost.

Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys


ŽVĖRYNAS IN WINTER

Darkness strikes suddenly
like lightning strikes the chosen ones,
and whispers: don't fight; give up; calm down...
Shadows sneak into the house across the street,
melting into the bluish blaze of the TV screens.
A blind cyclone tosses between 
the roof and the dream.
The sun's rays reach out stronger and stronger. 
They draw open the curtains, and the newborn,
fleecy snow astonishes my eyes. This sparkle, tearing the body apart,
speechless, and for a moment ... myself.

Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys


ALONG THE MARKET ROAD

Along the market road, one can see far and wide: 
Craftsman hurrying, soldiers, women 
From the island, peasants leading slow, 
One-horned oxen. Myself, a sack clinging to the squeaking gate,
Talking about summmer, the meaninglessness of all of this 
The yellow ocher of the sun. The wind.

Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys


OCTOBER HOLIDAYS

The piano is silent, drop-leaf covering the keys.
Somebody closed the textbooks with their questions.
Mother, finding me in my hide-out under the porch,
Doesn't scold, and when asked, makes a cup of cocoa.

Rectangular windows twinkle with colorful lamps.
To stare at them, and stare, and forget
The defeat of the Dakotas of the Great Plains,
And the neighbor dead-drunk in his drinking-glass prison.

One window light melts slowly into the air,
Like a sweet bonbon disappearing in the mouth.
Almost like sitting and waiting for the war to begin
On the screen in the movie house.

Attached so much to what is cramped, what smells,
What weighs one down, and conceals,
Only when compelled, did you learn how
To defend, to side-step, to fall on the ground.

In your hide-out behind the hedged-in barricade
You watch the neighbor's chandelier burst into darkness,
And mutter over and over with lips nearly numb:
For sure, for sure, I won't be a guardsman.

Then from the porch the voice of mother: time to come home!
Tomorrow to awaken to the rumble of tanks and brass bands.
So it goes, such are the holidays, in our ageing,
October-born State.

Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys


* * *

steering wheel spreading land dusk
lake stain crossroad flash silent film rolling

roadside towns in a row
where you’ll never spend the night

who is it eyes in the mist foot in the peat-bog
shining pulsing every two miles

who is it you won’t leave you won’t betray
when the lorry horn honks three times

not a cock crowing not a voice not an omen
a can of milk tipped upside down at the bus stop

a drug-like deluge gone to steam in a valley
where we’ll be sailing soon hold on tight

Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys


* * *

Nights and my hair grows longer, 
poplars grow downy,
and more and more posters spread across the fence:
memory itself has molted a new skin.

When oh when did I throw out
the recording of your voice, the sketch of your movements,
when did I close the almond eyes
which, on occasion, reflected the plaza.

Translated by Kerry Shawn Keys

Laurynas Katkus is a poet, essayist and translator. He studied Lithuanian literature and language at the University of Vilnius and comparative literature in Vilnius and Leipzig. He has published two volumes of poetry and work has been translated into English, German, Slovenian and Polish. He himself translates poetry, prose and essays from English and German. He lives in Vilnius with his wife and son.