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Online work by Alisanka At bn.com:Eugenijus Alisanka

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An essay by Laima Sruoginis

Eugenijus Alisanka Eugenijus Alisanka


Translated by Shawn Kerry KeysKerry Shawn Keys


from the case of bones

for six hundred years the bones ached in the middle ages they were stretched
according to the Gothic canons of beauty during the Renaissance soldiers
whipped them on pillars with lashes of ox-leather in the era of Classicism
the architects put into practice the rule of the golden section for some reason
called the bed of Procrustes in Soviet times during the First World War dogs
dragged them from one line of the front to another during the Second World
War soap was rendered from them in postwar times each small bone was stripped
there where it was even diffrcult to piss in the cold as well as here at Cathedral
Square buzzing with flies in the century's last decade one could see mechanisms
crushing bones but more often arthritis and radiculitis bent them but as pseudo-
eugenijus writes in the year two-thousand bones will disappear and the earth
                                          will ascend into the new eon of a new boneless god


the rats

threadbare sky thrusting a finger through it the light cracks
even bones there are rarefied barely holding history
barely an upright carriage the rain through july
through all ages the same karma to watch the sky
with a rat's eyes this generation of grey corpuscles
stale air in the city's archives while they would gnaw out
the tunnel to the next life rats' eyes overgrown the women
dried up no game one-way traffic to the end
of winter until the snow on crosses on hinges
on the grey corpuscle non-euclidic time the kitchens
the lamp of soviet times the non-cartesian mind a few
crumbs left dumb it used to jump with its grey tail
over the forests of the belmont hills of rokantiskes cemetery
not touching the dead as much as i remember nothing
as much as i forget it was under the kitchen under the applewine
under ashes of prima rats and only rats gnawing the dictionary only that


essay on lithuanian literature

less and less am I able to answer the question why I write
sometimes it seems: in order to write
sometimes I see the light
less and less the interest in poetry (not to mention prose)
sometimes it seems: I read in order to forget
sometimes it seems: I am behind this involuntary play of words
more and more I force myself to be with lithuanian poets
sometimes the poets are hearty and tortuous like in russian poetry
sometimes drunken and aggressive like in rap
sometimes barely there like me
more modestly I think about lithuanian poetry
sometimes I remember only a few names: vytautas alfonsas sigitas
sometimes I say: poetry can teach art not life
sometimes I ask: does life care for poetry like celan
sometimes I am silent: this ignorance will bring trouble upon me