LITUANUS
LITHUANIAN QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
Volume 47, No. 2 - Summer 2001
Editor of this issue: Violeta Kelertas ISSN 0024-5089
Copyright © 2001 LITUANUS Foundation, Inc. |
VILNIUS APPROACHES
ALINA NEVADA DIEBOLD*
And it smells
like fresh blue and yellow bouquets
in knotty twisted hands
on streets with too much amber
all is gray
but the gray offers gold
golden wood
golden straw
golden hair of beautiful boys
with tight pants
who don't spit on streets
but walk drunkenly through Old Town
beer and cigarettes on their breaths
folk songs in their throats
And it
is going to rain again
descend upon blue and yellow bouquets
and knotty twisted hands
soak pale petals
pale skin
and pale teeth tearing at plates of pale pork
And the boys are out again
this time with girls
shortly cropped
tank topped
whistling late night Vilnius blues
in unchic shoes s
tepping over gutters filled with
piss
rain
beer
and blue and yellow bouquets
And it stays
the sun reflecting off
tables of amber
rubbing off on linen sweaters
and glass smashed to the ground
like a man who needs to sleep
and dream
And it seems
like the stars could only glow whiter here
and the air could always stand the thickness of the smoke
Houses massaged by the shoulders of kissing lovers are
clean
and so are the singing boys watching the sky grow blue
as they race the birds home
And the women with knotted twisted hands
holding bouquets come out
2000
THE WOMAN BEFORE ME
She was a lover of horses
Bay, sorrel, dun
Feet in the grass callused, toes wet squirming in dew
Tongue dipped in milk, cheeks in freckled light
She was a lover of horses
Maker of ships of driftwood sailing off to where it's lonely
Writer on birch
Taster of honey on warm cucumber slices
She was a lover of horses
Hair like vines, tangled like mine
Hands wide, life line long
Nails scraped through earth, eyes afraid of burning things
She was a lover of horses
And a love of one man
Bare stomach kisses mounted to wrists
His poetry curled around her fingers like air
She was a lover of horses
A carrier of tombstones
A warrior of rain
A rememberer of poetry soon buried with violets beneath her
She was a lover of horses
Necklaces hanging with amber to her breasts
Champagne painted upon her lips
Cigarettes between her fingers, a farewell to poems
She was a lover of horses
A teller of stories, a baker of gingerbread
A warm scent on wilted skin
A gatherer of mushrooms, fingers in my hair
She was a lover of horses
Shuffling steps down long halls
Six kisses on each cheek
White hair like feathers wrapped in silk
She was a lover of horses
A love of one man
A love of mine
A rememberer of poetry soon buried with violets
2000
WHEN SHE CAME
She was with hollow eyes
Unseeing things, they were
Pits in the dark, swallowing sight
She was in the black
A carrier of night
With hands that smelled of shifted earth
And none beneath her nails
She blew the fires from the wick
And left only wax to melt
She cried
"Capture the forest
And bury the poems with the roots
Let them write with ice and paint with blood upon the snow"
An arm was found at the edge of a river
She kept it in her coat
It grew old and heavy
Still she kept it in her coat
"Unplug the radio
Let them sing with soil in their mouths"
She screamed
She kept the arm within her coat even as it pulsed and
breathed
Like carrots she pulled the crosses from the hills
Like yellow seeds she tossed old hymns
She was with hollow eyes
And lips she painted red
"Have them kiss me, I wish to feel their tongues
Watch how they'll be fed"
With hands that smelled of shifted earth
She collected lullabies
In bags that smelled of summers lost
And forgotten thrusts and sighs
"Steal their books
Put a match on beloved pages" she ordered
Voice is not quiet
When thoughts speak so loud
Yellow grain broken
Green forests captured
Red blood painted in the snow
She with hollow eyes sleeps well, an arm rotting by her side
Russian occupation of Lithuania 1940-1991
2000
POEM OF AMSTERDAM
Sing me your song 101st and Amsterdam
On my long walk home
Tell me of your sidewalk cracks
Meat patties
And tight black skirts
Show me your rhythm
The flick of your wrist with the roll of your dice
Your merengue twists and coconut ice
Show me, Amsterdam
The way your Maria paints her lips
I love the red she wears like heat
The battered bruised gray of your free flowing streets
The beer and sweat on my front steps
The way you lick your teeth and sigh
When smooth flowing hips go swaying by
Give me a taste, Amsterdam
Your corners rot and crumble away
Your street turns, shifts in daze
Your music injects an energy craze
Show me, Amsterdam
The way you break your glass and sell your sugarcane
How about a bite of your meat?
J love you, poets of 101st
The way you wink and wear your hats
Take long swigs from paper bags
Give me your song
Let your car alarms bing
Door bells ring
Happy men sing
Amsterdam
I'm in love with your
Sticky, green bottles of Coco Rico
Your red bodega signs
Your shift
Your way
The lyrics of your song
Your sensual sway
2000
A SCENT OF CHLOE
It was her room, my mommy's, my mamyte's, snug off to the side, a wall of shelves hurriedly stuffed with tambourines and bongo drums, blue wigs, diamond studded leather jackets and red tiger striped tights which bulged at my knees even when I rolled them over and over tucked beneath my tutu. It was her room haunted by the scent of Chloe Perfume, aerosol hairspray and Benson & Hedges Cigarettes. The room was fanciful with the piles of the legendary Rastafarian records and flame colored stiletto heels. Most of the time when I sat in that room, I snuck on baby blue eye shadow with a powder puff that made my eyes close. Or I slept cuddled up with a bunny blanket on the huge trunk just beneath the dressing table. But this time, this time, when I was four years old, being here was something special. Mamyte wasn't in the studio rehearsing or off in Jamaica. Mamyte was in her room with me, her little girl, brushing my hair, my hair not dyed red, purple or blond, but my natural amber colored hair that matched my eyes and fell thin and slippery just over my knobby shoulders. Mamyte was using her brush, the hard yellow brush that hurt my scalp and was made for fire engine red, spiky hair, her hair. Still, even though it hurt, I loved it, the way her fingers caressed my hair after the brush bumped along. "Papa is taking you to dinner, Nevada," she said, "so I have to braid your hair into two buns instead of spiking it up the way I like it. Papa loves it when you look like one of those Black Forest German children." I nodded, my pouty lips pushed together as I stared at my reflection. I stared while my mother created, pinning and braiding, making sure the part was nice and even. "You look pretty/' she said when she was finished. But even then I didn't know how to respond to compliments. I just winced and looked away as usual, thinking I looked like something was weird or wrong with me. She pulled away, but I clung to her Trash and Vaudeville mini skirt. "Stay. Stay. I just have one question," I shouted. "What, Nevada? What do you need to know right now?" I looked in the mirror and smelled her Chloe. I didn't want her to leave and close up her room. Think of a question, any question so I can be in here a little while longer', I thought. "Mamyte. Who's this man? I like his hair." I pointed to a large, round pin on the collar of one of the leather jackets hanging up in the closet. "Oh! That's Bob Marley, the greatest reggae artist of all time. But he's not here, anymore, baby Nevada. He died of a brain tumor." DIED. Bob Marley. DEAD DEAD DEAD. Why, I'm not precisely sure today, but at that moment I understood what that word meant and how much it hurt to lose someone. Mamyte loved this man, Bob Marley, and he was dead. I looked in the mirror at my face and saw a tiny German-Lithuanian girl with braided hair in buns and a button nose, hazel eyes flooding uncontrollably with tears. This meant I could die, too. One day I would be gone like Bob Marley, no longer able to run my fingers curiously through the blue wigs, try on stiletto heels, brush my eyes with the powder puff or smell the Chloe. If I were gone, I would never again feel the thump thump caress of my mamyte brushing my hair. But, at that moment, I felt her arms—her arms, which closed protectively around me and I remember, although I was scared, terrified, with my new understanding of death. In a second, I was fine. My mamyte's arms were around me and I was going to stay there locked between them as long as I possibly could.
1998
Alina Nevada Diebold is 17, lives in Manhattan, and is the great granddaughter of the Lithuanian classic Balys Sruoga (1896-1947).