trivia

behind the sunglasses you wore your tired eyes; reflections of sparrows mated vehemently across the space of fresh minted sunshine. the wetly-thawed earth was fragrant with emerald moss. starlings chirped darkly, looking for morning worms under the din of the city. i saw you sitting alone, at a crowded bus-stop. the traffic went by unrestrained…

the cactus plant blossoms gloriously

for another year we two have been separated by a common heaven. for all this time, i’ve been writing letters to you in my head.  i miss you. and this is a cactus that decided to blossom on the window-sill. apparently, it likes it there. sometimes, i meet you in my dreams, and we do…

padziedi, zeme

padziedi, zeme, par baltu smilgu zaļajā mežā, par zelta lapu apaļā liepā; padziedi māti viņajā pusē, zaļajā zemē, zeltajā domā, klusums kur veļas, mākoņos aizķerts

the blackbird sings night competing*

a long whistle, a whistle, a green turn to the right, peach upon blue, tweet, chatter, breathe in the freshly cut mint, a hint of basil, orange setting, apple trees ripe for starlings, stars not emerging from dusk, make another jump into the wild-rose fragrance, dance in the twilight, watch the moon go semi-round, eyes…

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?

the ultimate test*

death is the ultimate test – it is irreversible, a one-way-only gate, a membrane that filters you out and then returns to its stillness. death is both never and near, certain and so unknown that those who live the illusion of total control spend their days in fear. the ultimate test, where the win or the…

kad mēness vairs neslēpjas aiz mākoņiem, jo naktīs līst

tu esi lietū, kad lapas čaukst, kad mākoņos ietinies, rudens vēl tikai silda plaukstas mēnesnīcās un kļavu zaļumā; tavi soļi zibšņos un lāsēs, un rīboņas pilnā skrējienā, pāragros putnu kāšos, kas ielavās sala neskartās debesīs; tu esi lietū, un smilšu graudos pie tavu kurpju zolēm

different lucidity

they say – and i have seen it actually – there is a moment of lucidity before the final departure. the whole of today is torn by flashbacks. of pictures of sudden bursts of coherence and actual joy when my mother spoke like she was better. of the little flutter of hope. and then, the…

possessive modality

my memories. of her last days. my body remembers uncontrollably. these are my possessions, my riches, my hoard: my pain and my love for her. i wish i had found the courage to tell her, to verbalise my love and care, to make them known with words also. the unsaid festers and burns, and can be disposed…

multilevel forgetfulness

on the borders of sleep, between what is and what will never be, or maybe, between what was and what only seemed, she steps in. grey, and a little bent over her walking stick, she hovers at the margins of perception, and i know her, always have known. she is my mother. or what i…

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

the small places we come from

wind scoops handfuls of coloured leaves and carries them up towards the pure indigo of the maple-lit autumn; they glow in lamplight, as the quarter-moon cuts a triangular window across the clouds, and then remain somewhere there, big stones in the endless river of sky. the small places we come from, little more than so…

indigo

the feather clouds all spread out like fingers to keep the indigo sky from falling to pieces we enter the little stars of scilla, ink on green all my steps, all your steps coloured a time by the rudimentary snowdrifts, liverleaf anxious to look, to be seen all in blues of breaking they come in…

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…

wind in the reeds, or is it reeds in the wind

wind makes music by ages old recipe, and i read her shadow, standing between the light and the blackness, within fire, and not outside the permafrost, shadow, written of half-recollected chunks of what my blood has been way back when i was no more. wind cuts the reeds in palpable swaths and they crackle into…

fourteen – persistence

at the end of the last film made by Tarkovsky, the sacrifice, there is a  little boy who carries water to a dead tree, because his father has told him a story about a dead tree coming to life if watered daily. now his father is gone, and the boy continues alone. and then he is resting…

layered non-sleep with elements of transcendence

the scarce clouds obscuring the moon bleed the finest grade snow. and the sleepless eye watches diamond dust settle over a nightly world of asphalt, brick and fallen leaves. the golden and the white become confused, and the silvery light cuts wide shafts against the rising mist; the dead walk through the present, carrying their…

the unwritten

i thought about writing a long and maybe poetic post about my mother playing tetris. she was perfect at it. but i will not. because it would be too long and too poetic, and what is inside me is all raw and sore, and not poetic at all. she played tetris like a world champion…

flying with silences

i look to the night moth when the wind waits patiently in the susurrus of leaves to borrow the silence of wings that carries me back and onwards, into the sigh of memories, moments, remembrances, shared shards of a life and experience that are lost irreversibly. under the cover of midnight green i will put…

burning photos

a flick, and another memory lights up, and is elevated in smoke; was it necessary, upon a second thought, was that moment a pearl beyond comparison? ordinary moments, strung on a fishing-wire, like so many glass beads, fun to behold, fun to make patterns, and so ethnic, no high art would ever confess being near;…

through the sun and back again

in the rays of the pale sun under the white sky, a droplet of melting snow is a rainbow semaphore, signalling the brevity of time and time alone, to be remembered; a collection of shards of reminiscences inhabiting the world of now, and ever so astray; [it is] a vivacious reminder that all the white…