#asterulaikaa

(Untitled painting by Livonian Latvian painter Jāņ Bēļța (1893-1946). Only about 18 of his paintings are currently known)

Silver Grave

I wade in the wavy silver shallows, Pearls and amber roll beneath my feet, I squeeze the very silver with my toes.

I wade further into the silver floodplains How cool the silver is, how gentle it feels! The silver already now reaches my knees!

And higher it climbs around my limbs Now silvery ivy twisting Around my pale thigh-columns it winds.

Up to my burning chest From my hips is a pillar Blanketed now in silver waves.

Already my red blood like icy frost Turns to silver, flowing through my flesh My heart thumping like a silversmith's hammer.

The silver rides higher, splashes thrown, It closes my eyelids Sprinkling eyelashes with silver.

I am swayed by the silver lullaby - Lifted up on the water’s surface Only the two gulls of my palms. -

Soon they too will be swallowed up And a white waterlily alone Will grow on my silver grave.

- Aspazija (1865-1943) (From her collection:  In The Time Of Asters - Autumn Poems, 1928)

My translation from the Latvian; see Keep Reading for the Latvian original.

War Caryatids, by Džemma Skulme (1925-2019), Latvian painter.

Adonis is dead!

Nymphs sadly bow heads on shoulders Like shivering pigeons Letting their long green hair hang down, Fountains gasp, And tearful leaves murmur in the trees: They refuse to green-up anymore And toss downwards brown onto waves. Amongst the reeds the mermaids wring their pale hands: “Adonis is dead!”

And with the pale sun and moon - With the gods they left, as did the rest. - Pan’s silver flute sounds in our forests no more, No whooping bacchanal bands dance any longer, Sad Bacchus sleeps amidst the overturned wind cups The sweet juice gives way to salty tears No more he rides a panther-pulled chariot The broken ivy reins, lie limp on the ground: “Adonis is dead!”

Climbing cold up from the earth is Pluto’s breath:
 Withering all, that blooms and buds in sunlight, Black cypresses, like smoke turned into vegetation, Pointed columns against the blue of the sky, A mourning choir gathered at the divine tomb: “Adonis is dead!”

Laid underground lying
 On black tables is Adonis His white flesh glows Cut to pieces in golden bowls Steaming life-blood poured in crystal dishes Mounds of pomegranates alongside Invite tardy guests to the subterranean banquet: “Adonis is dead!”

The ruler of the underworld is a glutton, Eating the offered body, The icy lips are not warmed, in drinking the warm blood, The bitter cry sounds around the world: “Adonis is dead!”

- Aspazija (From her collection:  In The Time Of Asters - Autumn Poems, 1928)

(my translation from the Latvian - see read more for the Latvian original)

Painting: The Sky in the Sea, Belongs to Me, by Aigars Rinkulis (1970-2013)

The Violet “Ave”

The sea surface lies heavy, like molten tin… Then suddenly it shows itself sun-crowned: In flaming glory the sun sets westwards Searching amongst cool waves for its grave Bit by bit disappearing as it treads the red dunes, Leaving the earth behind to its darkness and pain, Here now it disappears, - but the waves before it, take its life And they shine, and shimmer, and mirror, and slide and splash; The grey coast of even stoney hues Bursts into branching flashes like a ruler’s crown And sounds, flowing from afar on the waves, Sweet melodies, breaking in anguish:

“The sun was gold, Now sallow, deathly old,- There were path of light, Now linen and night, - There was burst of beams, Now the darkness teems, - Fading, light fading! Fear and vapours - dismaying!”

Bells toll with heavy tongues clanging, Winds cry on the shivering zither strings, All the little fish tremble.* And cry along. The mermaids’ pearly jewellery appears, Sapphires and emeralds all cast out. A mirror falls out of the moon’s hand Floating on the waves, splintered in pieces. Tears rain from the stars: “Is the sun dying?” But louder and louder comes the reply, The violet “Ave”: “It is not death! It is not death!”

- Aspazija (1865-1943) (From her collection:  In The Time Of Asters - Autumn Poems, 1928)

My translation from the Latvian; see read more for the Latvian original.

Farm Workers, Edgars Iltners (1925 – 1983)  Soviet-Latvian painter

Pan’s Bed

Between the last roses and the first mint, Between July’s bird chorus and November’s storms Fleeting Time has burned up the cult of Pan. So between the golden sunny days And the threatening stormy walls Pan sleeps in his gold and purple bed.

Though Pluto sends him Persephone With flax flowers, and narcissus in hand, Bacchus offers the cup with vine-leaf crown And sheaves and fruits, encircling round; Still the cups foam with divine fuel, Still the flow of plenty masks the rustle of destruction.

Is Autumn loss or gain? The seed of life? Or nearing of annihilation? Do we again feel chilled, turned to tin? No! - Autumn is more than just pain, He is both the culmination of Summer, And in death, wears the wreath of May.

- Aspazija (From her collection:  In The Time Of Asters - Autumn Poems, 1928)

My translation from the Latvian. Read more for the Latvian original. Even if you can’t read Latvian it is worth looking, just so that you can see the strong rhyming she used here - alas, sacrificed in the translation.

The Mill, Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669)

In Rembrandt’s Light

Sunset stretches round the earth as a golden bow; Little by little the day’s paintings fade, Green-shimmer and purple-glow: Night draws over its velvet hand.

In violet vapours the Universe sinks, Milk and opal dashed across the water, Pink-streaked clouds fill the sky Meandering like rose-petals dissolving.

Sharp darkness take the colours of all, Harsh mountains down to the soft valleys, Bitter life drinks from sweet poetry, Hearts again become sisters of the stars.

- Aspazija (From her collection:  In The Time Of Asters - Autumn Poems, 1928)

My translation from the Latvian; see read more for the Latvian original.