GVIDAS LATAKAS

Kaunas Center of Ethnic Culture

Kaunas Antanas Martinaitis School of Art

DOI: https://doi.org/10.35321/al182-10

EILĖRAŠČIAI IŠ MEISTARNĖS

GVIDAS LATAKAS

The Tribe

The height of the sky the breadth of the sea

I see—and you belong to one of the ancient tribes, lean on ancient words like on shinbones instead of iron

the sprouting of the sky the nettling of the sea the vanishing of the sky the glimmering of the sea the covering of the sky the dying of the sea we shall long as before, my son, for the hemp

Auliai

The Gavėnai come wading auliai—bony men through the snowdrifts from Kurzemė, curling like grass snakes; a darkened drum on a hollowed-out oak-trunk drum

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from the hide of a giant bear—the three of them barely lift themselves onto the horns of the seat, themselves also wrapped and bundled in furs; the women would say the spikes on their heads are tied from willow and ribbons given by broom-girls; they play pipes made of goatskins, squealing and roaring; others of them drive the girls away, corner and catch them—when the girls squeal, they all tumble together into snowdrifts—guard the pipes—you’ll split the bag, you rascals

Once in Kurzemė

I reckon—the action will unfold in the paradise beloved of all—in Dresden

North of us, you splendid idler, you splendid little idler, something happened that didn’t happen; what your ears, accustomed to other songs, will hear—the people of Kurzemė, of another faith, another flow, their speech—like the wounded, like a falcon wounded in a storm, a blue falcon; many Crusader words they have heard there, Russian words spoken as though by brothers, but one cannot understand, and so they would go to Latvia to earn money—cut hay

they paid in roubles cidabro, so I went with them too—I took my cousin Trečiokas along because he begged very much

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Poems from the workshop

so we enter the cottage at dusk and there—a wake—a poor wretch lies alone, light blazing as at a wedding, candle sparks spinning; the table breaks under the load of food; I sit alone and gobble it down (where did my half-grown boy disappear to—I can’t remember, perhaps he stayed pacing in the entryway, stiff with fear); oh, I didn’t say—among Latvians it is customary to rejoice that a person has departed to the heavens; they say—look, he has left this vale of tears first—the bodies we have are only temporary clothing; candy wrappers, cleverly folded, fly around the room, lost here through the mists

I had barely fortified myself—I’ll wait, I say politely, for the hosts—I’ll keep watch; only a black cat darts through the door; the poor wretch in his coffin sneaks about—and, sitting there and speaking to me—you’ve eaten, but I haven’t eaten—let’s go have a little bout; are you ready?—as I remember it now—I say—I’m ready at all times, I’m always ready, and it cannot be otherwise

The Iron Bone

Iron bone, bone into iron, iron—bone—bowl

the Prussians choose death, order their youngsters to hammer out words, to learn to babble in the language of foreign newcomers guten morgen štarben geboren

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to love the stepmother more than the ragged mother, to cling to the stepmother; which is harder—iron or bone? bone into iron? iron—bone—bowl

Midwinter

At their place in Vilkija, the woodpecker is not a woodpecker but a chisel-bird; it sits in a twig cage and occasionally has a drink

it probably drinks; no one notices how the little dram disappears, then refills it in equal measure with the men—the men there are harsh and bearded; it is not even clear what belongs to what, the beard to the face or the face merely an appendage to a growth of spines

gold seekers, gold seekers, in winter can anything more be found when everything around is silver? out of nowhere—a dead wolf in the sleigh

one starts arguing that it is some kind of woodpecker—what woodpecker are you talking about, can’t you see—it’s a chisel-bird, end of story; it chops the doubter down in one stroke—I nudge him—there’s no more drink; a new bearded man enters the tavern

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Poems from the workshop

oh—and you have a chisel-bird too!—he marvels; I am completely hunched over among them, and swallows are not swallows either but skregždės, not snow but gruel

to find oneself in midwinter among wolves; a carriage by the door, a frightened horse, a wolf’s skin in the sleigh, a sleigh without a driver

Juškas’ hut is right here; there, smoke and beard too, but cidabro white; straw gardens, up there by the ceiling it spins—God willing—I’ll make it there

Medal for Antanas Juška, 200, 11×9 cm, bronze, cast, 2019, author Gvidas Latakas

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GVIDAS LATAKAS – POET FROM THE WORKSHOP

Painter and jeweller Gvidas Latakas is one of the most distinctive artists, writing poetry since his youth. Three books of poems have been published: “Until the Crows Hatch,” “Non-Calendar Saints,” and “Lokenos.” All his books have received awards. In Gvidas Latakas’s poems, perspectives constantly shift, and the elements move with primal force: art assists poetry, poetry assists art. Language matters to him; it is rich and approaches the spoken language. Biblical and historical figures, as well as characters from legends, myths, and tales, travel from poem to poem. The past is experienced through testimonies and archetypal relics that seem to come alive. The present flickers episodically, as if accidentally entering the stories. The poet’s works resemble a budinkas, a palocis, built, as he himself puts it, from sturdy braces. Lush narratives roll on, vigorous and healthy in circulation. Forgotten Samogitian words unexpectedly emerge from vital, witty, inwardly cheerful comparisons, bearing witness to memory and lived existence. Gvidas Latakas does not look to literary fashions, but he does not shy away from “new oldnesses.” The person in his poems believes that not all the saints of heaven flaunt themselves in our calendars, but live among us, eating and drinking and doing their own work. On the other hand, this person pauses in a particular way: “I believe in crafts; may they be honoured throughout the ages.”

Vytautas Stulpinas

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