Bez vietas un briežiem*

Mīļā, šodien ir pumpuri pušu, un žubītes burbuļo neapklusušas. Mīļā, jasmnīns zied trausls un krēmīgs, un liepas piebalso neizlēmīgi. Mīļā, saule jau stāv tik tuvu, un zeme auksta neapturami. Strazdi bērnus jau palaiž tautās, un vārnēni zālājā nenopļautā; Un smiltis skrien naksnīgā vējā, pār atmiņām skrien nepaspējami. Mīļā, ir atkal debesis pārplīsušas, un man tevis […]

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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 […]

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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

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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 […]

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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 […]

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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 […]

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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 […]

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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

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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 […]

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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 […]

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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 […]

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upon seeing a reflection in the calm waters under a bridge, and the said reflection having no original

es tevi redzu atspulgā zem tilta starp nobirušām rudens lapām stāvi un ūdens rāms un saule zāli silda pa vidu sīkvējam kas dzeloņplūmēs apklust tik kaili zari skatam nav kur palikt vien debesīs ar gāju putniem palot es tevi redzu atspulgā zem tilta tu mani elpo sen jau nomirušo

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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 […]

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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 […]

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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 […]

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