upon the event of death of Terry Pratchett

death is efficient. what else shall i say – it is efficient to the last minute detail. which makes it … deadly, i guess. or welcome, if one knows of its coming, and knows its purpose – to release the living from the burden of life. Terry Pratchett is among my favourite authors, together with…

that bit about where we keep our dead loved ones

watching films and people use gravestones (graves) as the point of focus (or reference) of talking to their loved ones who have passed on, i wonder: why go to the places of decomposed bodies to talk to one’s loved… do not people carry them inside themselves, always, ever?

comparatively

even when death is but passing, it towers and looms over the traveller home; the things important on the linear path get brushed under the quiet rock, the immense carpet made by transcendent hands; death is but passing – you know it, and i, and yet we stay

kad dzirkstele aizlec

turpat pie celiņa, it kā aizmidzis, zālīti apsedzies, kaķīts atlaidies; pelēka vilniņa, viss melnās strīpiņās, dzeltena pakakle, pusviru actiņas- guļ kā tāds plausītis. zīlīte atnāca, zvirbulīts pieleca, ne ķepa nekustas; tepat viņš staigāja, draudziņu meklēja, murrāt murrāja, cilvēku gaidīja; rītiņa agrumā apstājās sirsniņa, mauriņa lizdiņā, kaķentiņš aizmiga.

it was long ago about now, and is one more story

the roads had all gone muddy, and the trees were far from budding. it was late april in the 1980s, and as it happens in our family, another funeral could not proceed with dignity. because the lorry that had the coffin just got stuck in the mud and nothing would move it. and all the…

funeral coffee

the kitchen is ever dark, and cold, and cave-like, and sombre. starting the fire, on gas or in the cooking range. the quiet determinism of those present in the house for the morning. the smell of sadness, the unspoken collectiveness of all people waiting. the setting-up of the pots, the pouring of water, the measuring…

exp +360

and again. for the past nights, i have been dreaming of losing her again. or not losing. it all is so confusing. my rational mind tells me- all that could have been lost, has been [lost], and there is nothing, nothing at all to be done about it. my body memory, morphic memory, tells me that something…

pilnmēness/ pustrijos naktī// joprojām nav iespējams gulēt

skumju putns izplešas vējā un tumšmelnām spalvām ieķeŗas mākoņu malās. viņš plīvo starp zemi un debesīm, starp to, kas varēja būt, un to, kas nenotika. viņa kājas iejūk vīnogu zaros aiz loga, un viņa sirds sitas stiklos, klusumā, pārtraukta. sarāvies kamolā, skumju putns tup uz palodzes, un ir krietni pāri pusnaktij; viņa acis aizsedz mēnesi,…

nekas nav pazaudēts

uzdāvini man sapni. pilnu ar … madarām; ar tikko paspētu skolas zvanu, ar ozona molekulām mazliet ieplēstā kolbā. uzdāvini man sapni. kur nav ilgu iesildīšanas; nav neatveŗamu durvju un zirnekļa tīklu pār vecām kartēm. uzdāvini man sapni. pilnu ar … ķiploku receptēm; ar gandrīz negaisa mākoņiem, ar asfalta smaržu zem raibi rūtainām riepām. sapni kā…

et lux perpetua

the annual ‘lux perpetua’, etc etc post. i can forget. no problem with forgetting. but my body does not. the annual dissonance. clench the teeth, cook something complicated like chicken tikka masala (in this country one has to spend hours hunting the ingredients), clench the teeth, hide. the dead walk in my dreams, and i…

bet varbūt arī tā

Re, vēja nav, un kociņš neviens nekustas, Un laikam neplūst arī gruntsūdeņi. Un melnās svītras nodzēstas no tāss. Un sausā eglē apklusuši dzeņi. Bez vēja tavi mati klusi guļ. Un nešūpojas aste cielaviņai. Un brūnā māla bļodā māte sviestu kuļ. Bet debesīs. Un nav ko prasīt viņai, Jo debesīs. Un neviens kociņš nekustas. Gar manām…

she who took me into this world

she was. those words taste strangely. she is my mother, regardless of her status with life or death. do i have words for her? do i have memories? on the scale of one to ten, as a mother, she was about 5. on the same scale as a friend, she gets 12 minimum. but i…

predictably but too soon

min moðor forðferde. i think it was the best for the given circumstances, she died like the active person she was. in action. for which i admire her. and also. i think the this was the best variant of all the possible variants. this is what she wanted, how she wanted to go. fast. neat.…

avalanche

one of our cats (the one in the pic, where he sleeps on the laundry, as was his custom) got killed by falling snow and ice from the rooftop. now the farm is un-catted, cat-less, bereft of a noble hunter.

briefly in memoriam

when your teachers die, when the greater ones move on, forðfaraþ, what is left in the world? the breach in the net of the world is patched up by us, the lesser ones, the followers, the disciples. we are not carried by the net. now we are the net, and must carry others. this is…

Formal patterns on a journey

We thank you for giving […] to us, […] family and friends, to know and to love as a companion on our earthly pilgrimage (BCP, Burial of the Dead, Rite II) To know is to love. To love, is to know. In the process of our journey here on earth, we meet strangers. In the…

Memories, shadows… hounds, haunts

I remember my dog. He was… let’s say, of German Shepherd ancestry. Which means he was big, greyish-yellowish-something with a black saddle and face. And two large soft ears that stood upright in question and in answer. We were loyal to each other. He could hear my whistling a mile away, when I whistled the…

The day of maybe has come

This is for you, little kid. I, the eardstapa, will sing your song of death. Because I could not mourn you then and there, I will mourn you here and now. Drink another beer, whichever place that is you are currently gone to, drink and have fun. Grass Still green. Leaves Still brilliant. Sun So…

I am having an ecclipse

“Poetovi zatmenya/ ne predugadani kalendaryom” (M. Tsvetayeva) [Poet eclipses// are nor foreseen in calendars] —- —- —- —- —- —- A touch of moondust The dogs howl death away The last bullet fired. — — — My words are unknown to the majority winds up the sky-path — — — Hey, you. The steps Leading…