news sounds notes visuals events links contact lt

STEPAS EITMINAVICIUS - Simtas metru Uteneles (Hundred metres of Utenele river)

[ Sep 03, 2012 ]


In front of my window -

A part of Utenele.

In winter, summer.


My sadness

Disturbed the white cherry

To joy the life.


Cuckoo in the garden.

A man with a cancer

Full of fright.


Suddenly I felt:

Your eyes

Do not reflect me anymore.


As the first time:

A crow on the top of birch.

A perfect beauty.


A pain in the mirror,

Caducity only.

But don’t be sad.


A sky of Lithuania,

How can I descry you

In my own planet?


Who is that coming back?

What effloresced on the way?

A son and a daughter.


- Niagara fall.

How beautiful is here, daddy!

Daughter’s voice.


Vibrant moon

Sends through the curtain

Signs of the anxiety.


I look into the cloud.

Feel: your eyes

Also see me.


Homeland is others.

But a yellow kingcup’s weather

Is not withdrawed yet.


A sky of homeland:

A lamb is looking into it

In the flowered meadow.


In our house

A young starling observes

Me – reading.



I lay in the room

Totally needless.

And the titmouse is knocking.


The order is violated –

A virus in computer.

But cherries are blooming.


Again as always

We drink maple’s blood.

There is no pity.


Lonely mother

Carried a bucket of water

With stops.


I see Zemaite,

Hurrying on the path of village.

We’ll meet again.


A stork came back.

I send a message quickly

To a son and a daughter.


We planted potatoes.

I found three bullets and a coin

In the furrow.


On Ladakalnis.

An apple tree is blooming. Guards

Six lakes.


I will present you

Outlines of the flying stork’s



Strawberry is blooming.

Mystery of the world unfolds.

Poets vibrate.


When cherries are getting white,

I closet myself in the room.

Killing beauty.


What starts to cry over there?

A child stops

Near his senility.


Wanted to die.

But a small ladybird

Perched on my palm.


Sadness which

I lost in childhood

I found in senility.


Grimaces of time:

Yesterday I was blooming, today

I became entirely old.


Blooming nature

Also reads Salomeja.

Nice to see it.


In Pauksteliskes

My mute sister

Waters peonies.


Being in the meadow

I observed how

Lithuanian language effloresces.


Downpours burst.

In this way Bergman’s movie

Scrubs the world.


In Monmartre while getting dark

A blind boy is playing

To those who are walking.


Campion was burning.

I felt this miracle

With my own children.


The sun rises

I observed a light hope

While drinking medicine.


I was sad in the village.

From the city you brought me

Lark’s nest.


When a lake

Even vibrated from the joy

A man drowned.


Connecting with it’s blue color

A sky and an earth.

It’s cornflower.


A grasshopper is tanning in the sun

The whole hour.

And it’s still green.


A white church

Is crying for Bronius’ pain –

Vyzuonos is the rain.


Rain in the forest

From the novels of Aputis.

It’s cold but fresh.


I saw a linden,

Blooming with bees.

I became lighter.


June twinkles

In the room I watch a film

About the summer.


A very serious job:

The whole hour I observe

A hurrying pismire.


Repelled all.

But maple’s branch sweeps

In the side of homeland.


Evening’s ray

And a child, wishing

To remember it.


A beautiful knit:

An earthworm near the knot-grass,

My vest.


A young kiss

We found in the senility



In the glow of summer

In the evening near the cathedral

Bruised my daughter.


Sarnele is silent.

Meadows’ brindle inflorescences.

A son near me.


While sun was burning,

I read Camus’ “The Plague”,

I was sick at that time already.


Flying for the food

A stork perished after snagging

The pole of electricity.


Still young mother

Went to find branches for birch rods.

Came back older.


How many wisps in the meadow...

Here disabled sister

Walks difficultly.


Mother, going

To milk a cow, shows me

A nest of the lark.


We both feel

A glow of nasturtium.

We are alien.


Tulips from our garden

Admire the reflection

On the windows of the train.


My ancestors

Walked the cloud together

But they still got tired.


I look into the linden.

See whose who were watching it

Hundred years ago.


- What are you always writing?-

Asked a mother

When it was a thunder and apples mellowed.


Falling down

An apple wakes up

A sick man.


In summer rain

Overlooked in the eternity

Tarkovsky’s movie.


Stars are different

In the city – don’t have apple tree’s



Clover’s smell

From Aputis’ novels.



In silence I observe

A peace of burdock.

It’s painful.


Miracle of the day:

To my daughter and son

I showed a hedgehog.


A birch, planted

On the mother’s death day

Shined today.


You car

And your home, to me –

An edge of a sky.


In Faro island

I’m silently looking for Bergman.

I find only myself.


To a lonely farm child

Is painful to be in a crowd.

Borders different.


You came quickly.

Hurried to bring me

August’s star.


Rowan trees are getting red.

We’ll need to burn sorrow

Only with ourselves.


August sounds.

Let’s make love again.

Death is near.


A house burned.

Are past breaths

Also burnt?


The whole day

Sees an apple in the cold.

Is afraid to move.


To a suprise of an autumn,

Caught in rain lives,

However there are no umbrellas.


Our sharing:

Me – Rilke, you – the screen.

Loneliness – to both.


I watched the berries

Of the rowan tree and saw

Your glance.


Sad September.

Thoughts flies to foreign parts.

How will I live?


Examine love:

Look into the screen in the same way,

See differently.


A huge miracle:

Thought the night in homeland

Rye germinated.


I eat an apple

From a dead homeland

In my memories.


I stayed in loneliness.

Only then glowed

Fields of truthfulness.


No people remained.

But I can stroke

Sad apple tree.


In a feast of things

I needed mostly

A glass of water.


When dahlias are freezing,

My daughter crying

Hanged laundry.


Autumn birches

Sees, hears from a hill

Our cemetery.


Little autumn’s maple

Is deadly wounded.

Reminds me.


But why a sun

Didn’t vibrated

After such painful words?


Nobody saw

How I walked in a moonlight.

Under my momentum.


Unborn poem

Tortures October.

All Saint’s Day is waiting.


Birds fly out.

Keep pictures in the wings.

We – in our thoughts.


A shadow of a birch

That you presented to me

Put forth a bud.


I feel a well

Dug by my father,

Full of snow.


Dark in the room,

Glows cranberries

Brought by a daughter.


Maybe lighter

We’ll meet winter

In the other world.


Sun was rising

In the frost of window

A move of a child was frozen.


Loneliness alone.

Silent titmouse

Flew to a balcony


Walking in the fields

Looking into the fire

Years passed.


To people’ souls

Sometimes I look playfully

Through the telescope.


Smalva in the childhood.

Utenele in the senility.

Destiny in between.


Titmouse outside the window.

I’m going for a walk.

Flew straight away.


Deseases befell.

Could I love you



Starry December

To come back to a bath. To see

Myself linghten.


Waiting for me

Your sight froze

To a foot in the path.


I look and see

How ancestors looked

What they liked to see.


Your hands

Are already tored of words.

Have to be silent.


A bud of snow

Visons appear –

Sweetness of the entity.


Giddy manoeuvres:

Lips that I kissed

Now kiss others.


A sweet truth:

Look into the same thing both,

See differently.


But why hands

That were shivering yesterday

Do not warm anymore?


Didn’t gather

In this life too.

Will we have one more chance?


My days already

Not always distinguish

Colors and scents.


Utenele was intoxicated

With my sad words and sights.

We will not wait till the ambulance comes anymore.


In my homeland

Which burned tonight

The horse is crying.


Wait, I’m saying,-

I still want to look.

Wait, it’s a foot of 5 year old child.


A smile

Which you gave me timidly

Last year




Clouds lied upon

The painful music

That it wouldn’t dare

To reflect itself on them.


Unexpectedly I found out

That my memories

Also turned grey.


I found a cent in the street.

But I can’t wait

Till the cuckoo comes.


I stroke your eyes.

And you hide

From my Hamlet-style words.


We bumped,


Until reached

The Styx river.


I couldn’t sleep.

At dawn clovers started to chirp

In mother’s homeland,

Dead in my childhood.


Somebody knocked the window.


Frozen loneliness.

I sheltered, pitied it.

And later?

I kept silence through it’s windows.



Those who are condemned to a different being

Look into their destiny

As beggars.

However they do not accept alms.


A word that was sent to me

By Donelaitis and Baranauskas

I received only yesterday.


In my room thymes

Admire flying swan in the picture

And smile.

I cough.


In Pausksteliskes,

Dead village,

Birds got tired to be

Without people.


My outgrown soul

Requires special goods.

Calm down – go to the longest row

Maybe in hundred years you will catch something.


Books’ man

Carefully enters the wagon

Sits down and watches through the window

The playing destinies.

Observes and satisfied models.

Poor he?


The most important – to look

As if you’re happy

That you wouldn’t hurt

Blooming cherry.


Yes, yes,

I’ve been a scoundrel

Maybe because of this nature revenges

Giving only despair,

When clouds bathing in Utenele

Dance gracefully?


My Thumbelina,

We didn’t stain our pain with words.

Will we be mute

In another world?


A piece of way

I’ve been talking to Macernis.

I won’t go alone

Any longer.


Given a little

But demanded a lot –

Trying to think intelligently

About my days.

And a sparrow bathes in the quagmire

Sometimes looks at me

And laughs.


Viktorija sees...

Zemaite is talking to Bite.

A bit further – sad Biliunas.

Vaizgantas and Granaukas sat down on the bench.

Why Juknaite is still not here?

Soon, soon it will snow

With September’s stars.


You’re poisoning my sun

I laugh from yours.

Paradox of race –

Absolute darkness.


My pleasant soul’s cohabitants,

We’ll meet near Sventoji river at dawn

Where it feels Vyzuona river.

We’ll watch, hear it and silently

Walk back home.

Determined not to meet again.


You reek in my eyes’ maze,

Hull sunflowers.

Want to return to your cove?

Won’t find a way.

Neither Ariadne helps you.


In the market of thoughts and feelings

I’ve been desecrated –

No one was interested in my goods.


The whole summer

I’ve been watching the life of bees.

Didn’t become more diligent.


It is raining differently:

As Zemaite,

As Aputis,

Or as Radauskas said.

We’re often going to the all writers’

Metaphorical rain.


How many words thrown around, desecrated!

They’re coming back in tones in your old age

And ask for forgiveness.


Purple clouds? Seen already.

Cozily smiling veronicas? Seen.

Roadsides shining with sadness? Seen.

Human emotions’ equilibristic? Experienced already.

And what then?

Life after everything is seen, experienced.

Not only.


Swallow the brave,

I will not touch your nest –

Live in the balcony.

Just don’t know if I could sometimes

Open the door a bit

And talk to you about children.


Through telescope –

Into the moon, clouds.

But in what way they

Can see

Our clamber?


I walk slowly.

Meet Baranauskas, Antanas,

Travelling to Petersburg.

See him soon in Seinai


Milfoils, lychnis, caraways.

Starlings, swallows, storks.

Window, chimney, doors.

Apple trees, path, onions.

Sweet, hurts, unexpected.

That’s how in our farmheads

We’re learning Lithuanian language.


On my shoulders I carry autumn.

And it is trying to escape always

To nowhere.

I turned grey while fighting.


Faster, faster.

Change clothes, eat

And hush –

Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya”

Invited to visit.


The earth of Granauskas

Somehow is incorporated

By a silver fence.

You can see through it

Sad faces, sad hands.


In Nyka – Niliunas’ Nemeiksciai

Near the forest, the birch

A white girl is sitting

And stringing wild strawberries.

Meadows are getting more and more red.

Archangel Michael

Is waving from Utena.


She is looking into the rowan tree and drawing.

At home she is stitching.

And smiling – in winter she’ll be able also to see the rowan.


Already full of snow

The white church in Vyzuonos.

In pre-dawn highways

Bronius Radzevicius is standing.

All focused, listening.


Have you already got

The sigh

About drying hay in the childhood,

About heady running through stubble?

Are butterflies in Anapilis


Jurga, the hammock

That you presented to me last year

Grew up.

One side I fastened to the cloud through Utenele river,

Another – to the ancestry’s wardrobe.

It also contains childhood meadows,

And a footbridge between my and your meditations,

And the planets of Antoine de Saint Exupery.


Catch cheerful sun bunny

And bring it to grandmother Emilija

To the nineteenth century.

Together take it to the big stone –

Let it save us all.

(From the testament to son and daughter)


Purple evening:

I’m listening to Vytautas Kernagis

In my small cell,

And you – in the center of Vilnius, in a crowd of people;

But the moon is the same for both of us.


Went to Pauksteliskes

And was looking for childhood words,

Childhood surprise.

Unfortunately. Someone outran me –

Found and sold.


Clever people know:

It’s not nice to feel in a poetic way.

And hit, hit

Through the naked consciousness,

Being silent in linden’s shadow.


A moment in Stockholm:

Hushed seeing

White clouds,

Which reflect our joy

That we’re able to be like this together.


Metaphorically wearing everything,

Metaphorically looking and thinking

Passed with dignity

Through the sad roe-deer,

Through the sorrow man.


Martinaitis’ Kukutis

Went to Juknenai.

Requested Antanas Miskinis

To visit Nemeiksciai together

Utena watched their journey

And wondered in Donelaitis’ manner.


If not me, then who?

And humble forgiveness

And egoism’s sign.

But fleeting machine splatters the one who is thinking

In its own way of meditation.



After fifty years

I dare to confess:

Then I burst into tears because

The sunset could burn


After returning from the forest we found out:

Your boletus are also angry

And mine – uneasy embarrassed.


In the childhood

I cuddled the shadow of dahlias

And nourished it.

In my old age I hide behind it

From annoying people’ heat.


Adolescent mourning

Is significantly more sad

Than today

When equilibristically

I’m trying not to slip off

The fierce finish line.


Draughty house,

Draughty dialogues,

Draughty child.

With fright looking into

His own senility.


Posted a campaign:

“We are looking for the spirit’s aristocrats.”

Flew by helicopters,

Drove jeeps.

Found one.

Found and straightaway ate.


Greenish shirts

From 5-year old days

Is observing the dignified host

With indignation.



Sights are


Getting cheaper


Neatly sting day impressions,

Hang near the onions in the kitchen –

Let them ripen.

Before sleeping guess

If tomorrow will still be dstined

To repeat such work.



In the mornings

I take my spirit‘s little dog

For a walk.

Pushes him, scorns.

I should protect him –

I’m not able to.


Through the keyhole

Into himself


And started to cry.


To poetry:

If you present me

The silence of the well’s lever

I’d marry you.


In the young age - onomatopoeic interjections.

In the old age – interjections.

Other parts of the speech are resting.


Your world is shouting –

A whispered word

You won’t hear.


I see my dead eyes.

They are the same vagrant

As it is now.


When poetry falls asleep,

Prose and drama awakens.

Already is incapable

To eliminate the chaos.



Parts of speech:
There are also leaders
There are outcasts.


While I’ve been miserably scratching

My own floods and ebbs,

The train to the Grand Bazaar

Laughing whirled.


Burned homeland.

In the tent we’re listening to

Dramatic crane bird’s scream.

We know that just the two of us hear it.

Suddenly – from the forests full of lakes

The spree of new-Lithuanians.

Cranes get confused.

Yes, the homeland is really burned.


In suicide’s pocket found

Only a picture of a starling.

The crowd solved the whole day

What could this mean.


My odysseys,

Pythagoras mine,

Unfortunately, even shakespeareas

Got deadly tired.

And I don’t know what to do now:

Escape without them

Or to publish this truth to everyone.


At dawn

Bird’s nest

In my room

Suddenly began to cry.


When the sunrise was blooming

I sent a carrier pigeon


Sunset lit

The planet of EXUPERY

Smiling already.


What do you think

Constantly looking at the stars?

Mom, I don’t know.

So why are you so sad?

Because I don’t know.


The homeland burned.

But surprise’s look through the window

In the middle of the winter



Probably my whole life

I’ve been

Just the subordinate clause

Failing to find the main one.


Before the frost

During potatoes digging time

Clouds looked into me

With the mother’s eyes.


At midnight I hear:

Utenele, flowing into Vyzuona,

Is reading Bronius Radzevicius.


My years were watching through the window

And kept silent.

I tried to chat with –

I did not understand the answer.


On my own table

I placed beautifully my childhood, youth.

Autumn’s years to this policy


Only this much

But also

Even this much.


Near the field

After the rain

Gathered my impressions

And argued.


The birch, planted in childhood,

Sent a message:

“Birds left me –



Mine „alter ego“

Flying through amsterdams, paris,

Observes and wonders.

And I’m digging a bed,

I’ll care for onions –

The most transparent harmony.


Our everests are not high,

So we overcome them easily

And applause ourselves.



Grabs my sights

And takes them.

Don’t know

Whom gives.


The doubt of silence:

Where cosmos saves

The dust heap

Of words – random, not washed?


What do you regret mostly,

Asked the elderly man.

The bee, who when I was 7 years old

Strung and died.


What is crying there?

That cranberries going to autumn.


That our illusions.


Dance together.

However we danced

One by one.



December’s grease is tempering puniness,

But increasing threatening sorrow.


White boy is flying with a bike,

And from behind –

Youth’s, old age’s events.

And I’m going slowly,

But no one is going after me.


I sit at the corner alone, needless.

No dog, no cat.

The mouse is running in.

Just smiles

And proudly dissappears.


In the morning worries, works

Like hyperboles.

In the evening – being tired –

Everywhere are just litotes.


My September:

Rowan berries

Sadly look

At the dying maple.


While we twaddle,

Our trees got old.

Didn’t plant new.


Did you find this evening

In the forest of Labanoras

My thinking

Thirty years ago?


I’m guilty:

Looked into buttercup then

When people built houses,

Baked bread.


Evening is coming.

The homestead smells like boiled potatoes

And children’s desire to eat.

And amazement.


Firstly turn right,

Let’s walk to Bradbury’s direction.

Later – Steinbeck.

Kept silent with Faulkner

And we’ll return to our own maze.


I got scared –

Son and daughter

Are talking with my eyes.


We count cents and watch

How dies

Lithuanian word.


Let’s keep quiet –

Linden near the garden

With bees

Want to talk.


In freezer I keep

Last year’s glances and sighs.

After a year I’ll defrost them

And sell.


That’s a feather of a skylark

Dropped out while defending the little ones.

Maybe you’ll revive it?


Half of childhood’s plantain

I present to you –

You didn’t save it.


Came running, flying to observe

Solar Eclipse –

Spiritually enlightened.


In your path

My timid feet –

Neither dying,

Nor ready to be born.


Thousands are trying to paint


Hustle, scream

And the bush fades away.


Fenced lakes,

Fenced air.

But to fence the thought

Are not able yet.


Inconvenient muddy poets.

In presidiums aren’t waiting for them –

There’s a risk of a short circuit.


Purple dahlias

In Utena, Maironis street

Are shaking with the homeland’s excitement.

But not as transparently.


Going towards the sunflower

Fragile and painful.

We feel the pillar –

It was more difficult to Van Gogh.


Before the bodies touched

The spirit burnt out –

We got confused.



Clouds tremble

For our downs.


Birch tops

Sadly accompanied a man


From his own mountain.


In the whole wagon –

Only poets.

Discuss, drink wine.

And what poetry is doing?

We do not know  - it disappeared somewhere.


To look enough to Alausas –

That eyes

Till the next summer

Would have what to live with.


Writes a good poem

And thinks about the royalty.

Is this impossibility?


Among those wasting and collecting

Among playing and suffering

Among those who are silent and grumble

We’re trying to interfere.


In the feast of being

Solitary are hiding there

Where shadows and colours

Do not concern anyone.


To look long to the cloud

Is also immoral,

Because others

Miss it too.


Mother concentrates, crosses herself.

Whisper of Rose –

Another face, another time.

Didn’t trasmit this skill

Or I didn’t take.

Just where is that wish

To whisper the world from?


Daddy, when you die,

I’ll buy you – a chid already.

Later – you buy me.

And we’ll be always together.

Is my idea clever?


We’re trying to reconcile

The incompatible things.

So we scoot


To stars and people.


Is it truth that

The same star

Is important to two people

Who cannot be together?


On your roof

My sigh is skiing



Marginal situation:

Didn’t know yet

That it’s hardly possible to preserve

The time of spirit glow.


Goes a poet on foot

With robin, trees, heaven.

Cars passies by

Completely alone.


Darted with exclamations marks.

Raised questions

Until we stayed near the silence’s waterhole –

Near multipoint.


If I accidentaly meet

The surprise from my childhood, -

I wouldn’t recognize, deny, feel ashamed.

And it would get surprised again.


This year nothing has happened

Except ant’s trip

On Sunday morning

Through the white leaf

Towards the crumb.



To torture themselves and others.

In order to accuse the world

With cruelty.


Sadness of many:

To the Noah’s ship

They wouldn’t be taken.


If I am you,

If you are me,

So rose will not bloom out

Because of our heat.


In the most serious conference

The most serious speeches.

But to illuminate people’ faces

Sun is not able.


On Saturday

Looking into the cloud

I sent you a warm word.

The cold rain started.


This year, as last year,

In autumn’s arable I met

Salomeja’s like chamomile.

Was ready

To bloom like wormwood.


When I stayed lonelier than loneliness,

I felt

How robin burns.


Eternal metamorphosis:

In youth

We frantically increase

Volume of music sets,

Later we turn them off

And listen to

Whisper of clouds.


In childhood I wade through the snow.

I lose overshoe.

Look for, don’t find and cry.

In the old age I came back to the same outskirts,

Looked for, didn’t find

And cried.


To son and daughter:

Looking into Utenele

I see your melting gaze in Vilnius;

Yes, yes.

This moment you are being sad together with the little sparrow

In Pilies street.


My thought

Is going too fast –

Body is not able

To catch it.


Planted an apple tree.

I’ll invite starling, butterfly, bee

We’ll sit silently in the evening,

Stroke the fragile strain.

It will take root.

Of course it will.


But your words

Said to the Holy

Fifty years ago

Did not disappear.

We just need modern technology

To reproduce them.


Will it appear anyone

Wanting to see them?


I am reliably protected

By the orange cup

That remembers your hands.


Linen tablecloth:

We uproot the flax

And talk to mother.

The feeling of tragedy.


Finds metaphor,

Later from the bag

Pulls out synecdoche.

Litotes missing.

How to make it?

At last, at last!

Sits in front of the window

And looks into his poem.

But it’s not moving, even does not blink.


Not tragic figure,

Not tragic.

But why is it so difficult

To start a day.

When irritably

Alarm clock yelps?


Regular names

Regular sighs

Steps regular –

Virtual girl.


Night blossomed

With moonlight and stars.

Blinking way

Before the hill

Whispered to the one who was riding:

“Maybe all that comedy

Here to finish?”


Worked half day –

Decorated word.

That wouldn’t be spitted

By digital technologies.



Modified food.

Modified poems.

Modified lives.

Will we have exceptions?


Paradox of existence:

Hamlets of Vladimir and Andrius

Wouldn’t recognize each other, wouldn’t understand each other.

But Ophelia is the same.


I sit at the balcony and see

How Zemaite is hurrying,

How spin Donelaitis wheels,

I hear

How sighs Aputis’ open space in the forest.

Translation: Asta E.