Dissident Websites
Home ===== Reviews ===== Feedback ===== About =====-Blog

Dissident Editions Logo

MEASURING MY FACE


poems from Lithuania by

Eugenijus Ališanka & Sigitas Parulskis

 


POETRY

poems of the month

fish

vagabondage

measuring my face

ostracism

old clothes

modern iranian poems

my hero

face at the bottom of the world

perhaps (maybe)

the diogenes sequence

where to store furs

i am and am not:
      fragments of rumi

destiny and destination

the zen of no-enlightenment

the iraqi monologues

already backwards

a light in ruins

separate amputations

the sexy jihad

awaiting the barbarians

the smell of possibilities

ultimate leaves

rejoice in the dog

post-millennium maggot

the book of nothing

confession from belgrade

dispatches from the war against the world

albanian poems

french poems in honour of jean genet

the hells going on

the joy of suicide

book disease

foreground trouble

the transcendental hotel

cinema of the blind

lament of the earth mother

uranian poems

haikai by okami

haikai on the edge

black hole of your heart

jung's motel

leda and the swan

gloss on rilke's ninth duino elegy

jewels and shit:
poems by rimbaud

villon's dialogue with his heart

vasko popa: a shepherd of wolves ?

the rubáiyát of
omar khayyám

genrikh sapgir:
an ironic mystic

the love of pierre de ronsard

imagepoem

the rich man and the leper

disgusting

art, truth and bafflement

 

TRANSLATIONS

 

BETWEEN POETRY AND PROSE

the maxims of michel de montaigne

400
revolutionary maxims

nice men and
suicide of an alien

anti-fairy tales

the most terrible event in history

 

SHORT STORIES

godpieces

the three bears

three albanian tales

odorous underwear

a little creation story

 

ESSAYS & MEMOIRS

a curious and peculiar
kind of queer

the ivory palace

helen's tower

schopenhauer for muthafuckas

are doctors autistic ?

never a pygmy

against money

did franco die ?

'original sin' followed by
crippled consciousness

a gay man's guide to soft-willy sex

the holosensual alternative

tiger wine

the death of poetry

the absinthe drinker

with mrs dalloway in ukraine

love  and  hell

running on emptiness

a holocaust near you

happiness

londons of the mind &
dealing death to the caspian

genocide

a muezzin from the tower of darkness

kegan and kagan

a holy dog and a
dog-headed saint

an albanian ikon

being or television

satan in the groin

womb of half-fogged mirrors

tourism and terrorism

diogenes
the dog from sinope

shoplifting

this sorry scheme of things

the bektashi dervishes

combatting normality

fools for nothingness:
atheists & saints

death of a bestseller

vacuum of desire: a homo-erotic correspondence

a note on beards

translation and the oulipo

 

PHOTOGRAPHS

prelude

 

Nuadú, God of War

field guide to megalithic ireland

megalith of the month

houses for the dead

ireland and the phallic continuum

irish cross-pillars

irish sweathouses

the sheela-na-gig conundrum

french megaliths

 

'western values'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

1.

Biography

Eugenijus Ališanka

translated by Almina Kaselis and Anthony Weir

 

IDENTITY CRISIS

who would I be if I weren't
as I am now a man
of unknown faith my head out on its own
and god too and language patched from languages
say I were a long-haul truck driver
what would I eat what would I think
where would I sleep and with whom
the scenery would pass by I wouldn't shave
I would wash my oily hands in a stream or snowdrift
like a real man
I'd be a staunch upholder of patriarchal polygyny
even if just for one night
I would read Motor Racing Weekly
I'd have no dreams no tricks of the unconscious
no refined whinings on the meaning of existence
I would owe nothing to anyone
and no-one would owe me anything
I'd drive through life and Europe
all brawn and blag and bristle
in my transcontinental trailer
and you could go and whistle

 

 

TAPATYĖS KRIZE

kuo būčiau jeigu būčiau iš tiesų
ne taip kaip dabar žmogus
nežinia kokio tikėjimo galva sau
dievas sau liežuvis iš kalbos lopinių
būčiau tolimųjų reisų vairuotojas
bet ką valgyčiau bet ką galvočiau
bet kur miegočiau su bet kuo
pro šali; plauktų vaizdai nesiskųsčiau
upely ar sniego pusny pasitrinčiau
tepaluotas rankas jokių feminizmų
patriarchalinės daugpatystės šalininkas
tebūnie ir vienai nakčiai
skaityčiau keturis ratus
jokių sapnų jokių pasąmonės išsišokimų
inteligentiškų dejonių apie būties prasmę
niekam nelikčiau skolingas ir man niekas
pervažiuočiau per gyvenimą europą treileriu
ir pašvilpkit

 

 

PRO MEMORIA

Before I eat I wash my hands
I take my hat off before entering a church
even if I have no connection with
the pious guy who passed away the other day
I am a murderer: seven mice
unnumbered flies and mosquitoes
a whole herd
slaughtered and quartered
for my modest dinner-portions
over thirty-seven years
I am a simple seeker after truth
I have learned without wanting
to kill flowers
and bring them back to life

I was looking for you
before my fingers lividly
found someone else's sticky blood
thanks for the last supper
I remember it vividly

 

 

PRO MEMORIA

prieš valg į nusiplaunu rankas
bažnyčioj nusiimu kepurę
netgi tuomet kai nepažįstu
dievo tėvo mirusio vakar žmogaus
esu žudikas dar pasaulio neišvydusios
septynios pelės uodai musės j ū tūkstančiai
galvijai be galv ū ketvirčiuoti
kuklios porcijos trisdešimt septynerius
metus nuosaikus teisyb ės ieškotojas
įvald ęs g ėliųžudymo ir reanimacijos
men ą kur dar nesu

ieškoj ęs tavęs kur mano prievartos
pirštai nepatyrė kito kraujo glitumo
ačiūuž paskutin ę vakarienę
prieš akis dar visa atmintis

 

 

THE ANATOMY OF HEARING

I always hear the shimmering of blood
somewhere under the notch of the temple
and a tingle from the middle of the skull
unlike the voices of the living
a knot deep in the throat
a tangle of primeval fear
and intimation of another life
a trembling in the belly since
sexual maturity as if I were a beast
bringing life and shame at the same time
cramps behind the knees while standing
in the altai mountains of siberia as if at the right
hand of god a light numbness of being
when I find in a poem
a line that wasn't written

 

Lithuanian Text

 

KLAUSOS ANATOMIJA

visad girdžiu kraujo tvilksėjimą
kažkur po smilkinio dauba
ir su gyvųjų balsais nesutaikomą
spengsmą iš kaukolės centro
užveržtą mazgą galugerkly
rezginį pirmykštės baimės
ir kito gyvenimo nuojautos
virpesį papilvėj nuo brendimo
pradžios tarsi būčiau gyvybę
duodantis ir garbę atimantis žvėris
traukulius pakinkliuos stovėdamas
altajaus kalnuos tarsi dievui
iš dešinės lengvą tirpenimą paduos
kai aptinku eilėrašty
neparašytą eilutę

 


 

2.

Biography

Sigitas Parulskis

translated by Anthony Weir

 

THE MORNING PIERCED

Shovelling ashes
and chunks of clinker
from the fireplace

I found a bloody nail

whose suffering
warmed me
through the centuries

It's cold outside

 

Lithuanian Text

 

PERVERTAS RYTAS

kasdamas iš krosnies pelenus
sukrešėjusius šlako gurvuolius
radau kruvinaą viniį

šitiek amžių šildausi
tavo kančia

šalta

 

 

THE GENESIS OF TEETH

Father, like God, comes
through the fields, Son, he says
let's shoe the Earth,

We shod and shod,
blood flowed, we wiped sweat
we sowed beans

A tree grew and grew
into wood, Oh and on that tree
sat Mother

Father plucked Mother
from the tree and
lifted me up into it

The earth rose up
angrily it kicked the child
and the tree snapped

Father shouts out like God
The Tree Has Fallen, Mother
comforts the tree

Mother ran and ran away
Father dragged the tree off
through the empty fields

I sit on the horse-shoeing stump
my teeth fall out
I'll sow my teeth

 

click for text Lithuanian Text in Lithuanian

 

A PERSONAL CHRONICLE

'Everyone is dead.' - César Vallejo

Julius the cowman - dead,
gored by bullocks - drunk,
animals don't like people who break out of the pen.
Daktariūnas - dead, they called him Cumulonimbus,
because, after lighting the stove, he'd be completely black.
Vytautas Norkuūnas - dead, he lived alone - he wore
rubber boots winter and summer.

Lame Liudvikas Trumpa - dead, didn't want to get drafted,
banged a nail into his foot.
Valerka - dead, killed on his motorbike,
you can still see his footmarks on the telephone pole.
My cousin Vidas - dead, he liked fishing, when they buried him
at potato-planting time, two swans glided across the lake.
The weightlifter Valdas - dead, he used to ride freight trains -
he fell beneath the wheels.
My friend's son - dead, he was born dead.
The son of God- dead, he was born dead, too.
Then there are the dead whom I never knew,
never greeted or ever even suspected of living,
and then homes and holy places - dead,
seeds and their fruits, also dead,
books, prayers, compassion - dead
and forgiveness for oneself - dead
everything important - dead
nothing remains.

 

click for text Lithuanian Text in Lithuanian

 

ICE AGE

We were cutting logs together
planks from the demolished byre
thick blocks of books
page by page splinters shredded
bark my uncle at the saw
saint anthony, father and myself
merely making ourselves useful
it was snowing left and right
soggy mittens clouds of sawdust
we filled the shed mother came out
saint anne came down from heaven
and said I'll take just a splinter
for kindling saint anthony said
take several you can see how much
we have cut I see mother laughed
uncle laughed the holy father laughed
the saw was struck dumb the cattle
lowed the lake stopped lapping
as we ascended into heaven

 

click for text Lithuanian Text in Lithuanian

 

HEAVEN'S DOORS ARE PAINTED

Father, O Father fancied building
a more comfortable toilet
past the corner of the barn near the woodshed,
with doors facing the lake
When he had cobbled the seat together Father said,
Mother come and see if it fits you
It's just right it's perfect for me but my dears,
does it fit you ? Mother asked and Father laughed
maybe it's still too splintery
that'll give you something to do!
It's horribly draughty Sister screeched
it cuts into your spine like a saw
Maybe the essential hole is a bit too narrow
maybe we should cut it a few fingers wider
Maybe we should Father agrees
and I'll sand it too he says
it'll be smooth as a tabletop

Father O Father built a little house
with scented boards and painted doors
When he was finished Father smiled
down on his knees before the
great big beautiful world

 

click for text Lithuanian Text in Lithuanian

 

MEASURING MY FACE

translated by Laima Sruoginis

 

my suit is fine
and comfortable
made of good wool my

my God has a cosy home
my father
does not have a home my

my voice sounds
firm my footsteps
account for
each and every second

my cheek is calm
even the fist hacked
into the gateway suits me

my father does not have
an axe my axe
is in my face

my woman is nicely
dressed my woman
is a handful in my heart my

my God has
a mother my
father does not have a mother my

good manners do not suit my
suffering my face
needs to be pleasant
calm noble

my God's face is young
attractive my
father's face is old
decrepit my

my face has a tooth knocked out
and an eye and a tongue what
do I need such a face for
I pay up quickly

my face needs
to look like me I
do not look like my face

my God does not have
my face
Father has my face
I don't

 

Lithuanian text Lithuanian Text not available!

 

for something completely different, read a long poem
from Latvia >

 

Dissident Translations

 

more Lithuanian poems translated on another website >

 

<previous page
top of page
įviršu