TOMAS V EN C LOVA
nick names from fables. An unfamili ar group stomped its feet
in th e glade. The commander, wh om he had seen somewhere before
in th e unfini shed war, sa id th e passwo rd. All eviated,
hi s companio ns di sappeared in the dugout, but he lagged behind. Hi s boot
slipped o n th e mossy tussoc k by th e stream , and th e blow,
mi ssing th e ba ck o f hi s hea d, landed in hi s elbow. Grabbing
hi s ho lster in a ru sh, he was able to feel
th e mu scles in hi s kn eeling leg tense; he saw th e bla ck aperture
befo re hi s eyes J nd g rasped : well , th at guy is qui cker.
I. . .
J
115
Tomas Venclova :
The next poem is abo ut th e ho use o f my childhood in
Kaunas, whi ch I recentl y visited. Of course, it belongs to someone else
now. " A View o·om an All ey."
Where gooseberries used to grow, new landlo rds have turn ed up the soil.
T he courtya rd is tightly sca led fi·om th e street's ches tnut trees
by a dark blui sh double fence. All dimensio ns have shrunk ,
except fo r time. There was mo re space here th an childhood alo ne ca n
explain.
Squintin g, yo u can still climb the di ssolved staircase
up to th e atti c, where th e fl oor still squ ea ks un der yo ur cousin's steps.
For
101lg;>
He asked us th en .
Ollly.fc>r olle
1I(r;11f
(but that happened later).
O n th e first flo o r a Illass o f mirro r turn ed to sto ne, easil y meshin g
th e hoa rfi·os t o f a fa raway storm , th e crown of a plum tree, a flask
ri ch with dense sce nts. These earl y insomnias: th e chime
thro ugh th e wall , helping us understand that everythin g passes,
but no t soo n; th at time depe nds o n speec h,
th at th e worst case sce nari o turns o ut a littl e less
than what we ca n bear. A heaven o f photog raphs behind th e door.
In o ne I make out a shadow with a g lass o f cherry juice
and a dog. These snapsho ts still live somewhere,
altho ugh few peo ple today would be abl e to fi gure th em o ut.
Th e dog is buried in th e co rn er o f th e
ki
tchen garden
(now I ca nn o t see th e pla ce behind th e do uble fe nce)
and the shadow , pressing th e glass to hi s mouth , still glides
o n th e surface of o bj ec ts, nex t to th e ribbed wa llpaper,
th e des ti tute greenery, the Ii ttered yea rs, whi ch belong
no t to him , no r to th e new landlo rds, a littl e mo re rea l than he.
N o o ne kn ows w hat matches thi s dead space,
thi s empty cell in th e net of all eys:
indifference or pain ;> Strangely, th ey coincid e.
