VYTAUTAS STULPINAS

Poet, Telšiai

AN INSCRIPTION, UNEQUAL TO AN INSCRIPTION

There were no windows facing north in my childhood home. The dusty, rutted road gleamed white and bent around the great summer secret—the Stulpinas village chapel. Father would collect tiny shards of glass and, brushing off the earth, carry them in his palm beneath the chestnuts, into a broad black barrel. There were no windows facing north in my childhood home—the light of moments glided pleasantly and quietly, as if through scattered keyboards. The entryway door would be opened by the rustling of aged lilacs, bearing the rustle of mummified clusters together with an abundance of birds’ reed-pipe songs. In the clusters’ sternness, you could hear a dog barking at the gate. By the way, not only that. In midsummer’s heat, a bucket would plunge into the well, as if into another world. By the way, not only it. Drowsy, tormented by winds, its top torn off by a hurricane, the wild pear tree still casts a shadow across the plains of memory, walking through the fields with me, together with the chapel’s sunny window—a shadow and a reflection that I carried and still carry

Insights / Insights

321

VYTAUTAS STULPINAS

like a backpack full of slate tablets. On one of them, sharply incised, is an inscription, unequal to an inscription: “There were no windows facing north in my childhood home.”

PASSION OF GRŪSTĖ

The meadows are bristling with completely dried-out rakes. The people of the backwater have fallen silent, the animals are restless—buckets lie turned on their sides. After unbearable heat comes an hour of hurried respite: noon has extended its plump elbow. What you will find is already happening: men of the same tribe are laying mats on the grass of Grūstė’s sandy ground. Graceful, impeccably composed women of the tribe, with the attentive gazes of old settlers, draw a holiday feast from the nets and, shyly turning away as though trying to conceal their relief beside the festive cloth, quietly scold the children. Ah… Wait, come closer, ruffled starling, I will interrupt this short story; come, cling a little, help me measure, I say, across the strait, like some hunchbacked tailor, the old sorrow of the family, and with what else—with a coiling waxed tape measure, which will soon merge into the passion of Grūstė. Look, sparrow, patiently, attentively, do not miss the slightest detail, where the forest thicket lies farther on and the hour when a cloud drifts like a transparent feather.

322

Acta Linguistica Lithuanica LXXXV

Vytautas Stulpinas—the poet of the static flow

METAPHOR

Is it not on the harbor quay that they are playing a cycle written for soprano and pianola? No, I never thought that I would have to set sail again like a cabin boy on the tiniest raft, that after months, years, I would meet Metaphor beside the fish shop—long-necked and graceful, wearing a cape, the wind tossing Sunday’s hollow felt hat.

BEFORE THE SOLAR ECLIPSE

Ants circulate along a gravelly corridor between rooms. The flea-market square rises from the dead. Cornered by the militiaman, shrieking female speculators dart about in the bleak enclosure, tossing pieces of yeast upward, whose yellowish swarm gradually obscures the sun. The crushed grumbler cart and the astrologers’ trailer turn toward the chapel tower jutting out of mighty ash trees. The novelist pities the solitary stone pavement, and that is all—lonely, sad, and empty. Pathetics, pomp, and pathos spread in waves. Standing by the directorate of darkness, the siskin buttons up a split in the sky, shamelessly gawks at women in trousers, and beats the earth with an umbrella. The novella too is caught, having burst forth before the solar eclipse. What can one say about the novelist.

Insights / Insights

323

VYTAUTAS STULPINAS

FIRST-GRADER

Once I was rich on Simas Daukantas Street. I had a bundle of splinters; I was studying in first grade. A bundle of splinters! I smoothed candy wrappers like millet, and I would ski to visit people. A bundle of splinters! Yes, I was rich when I was learning to count: addition—subtraction, multiplication—division. Where are the bundle of splinters and the teacup tied to the briefcase handle? Yes, I was learning to count—how literate I must have been.

A WEEK-OLD LIGHT

I long for the forest road, for the leaves covered in green ink, for the word following close behind. I agree to turn into a wardrobe of rags; I would rather become a cold plate, a fruitless bowl, if this is deception. A week-old light for the hermit of the summerhouse. Goodness of a tart taste

324

Acta Linguistica Lithuanica LXXXV

Vytautas Stulpinas—the poet of the static flow

pricks the palate. Beloved, much depends on another time. It is not enough to travel along a sullen shore, along a forest path. The curve of the first trees is almost unknown; waves beat incessantly against the boat, its planks sprung apart. You tickle the aging thin places with a little whip of words.

A FOLD FOR THE HOMELAND

I would not want to be anywhere else this evening. Anywhere else. Only here. Water glinted in the hollow on the hill. The whirlwind searches the slopes for somewhere to whirl into. The city and the lake, and the sung-about island, grow more autumnal by the day. A calm and quiet sadness descends the railing. I would not want to be anywhere else this evening and grow weary of pale reflections. The whirlwind tears at these local hills. What are you doing, bumblebee soul, what rafters lie within your horizon? A slow, solitary dance, played on an elongated leaf—who for and for what?

Insights / Insights

325