metaphysically speaking

this is a fictional place it does not exist in the real world, no you have to enter through platform Imagination, 3/4 of unreality. walk right at the border between what you see and what is, close your unbelief firmly and step into adventure 5/4 within your heart. and now, open up to the light […]

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in and out, and in, and out

the little pointy bits up and down, and in lunes the edge at the correct angle ground to perfection. a touch is all it takes your fingers dug into the sand under it it stung, dying, unconscious that it was seen, by the sea. for all it’s worth a jellyfish unaware of its own passing. […]

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This year in posts

as the custom is, here i’ll post the title and first two sentences of the blog posts over this year (2018). let’s see how that goes. January TRANSLATING VERTICALITY I am Vertical by Sylvia Plath Es stāvu uz augšu But I would rather be horizontal. Bet ļoti gribas būt šķērsām. February CHOICES tea or coffe? […]

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Es aizeju jums vietu sataisīt

Tiem, kas lasa tikai latviski, šeit iekopēju uzrunu, ko teicu, tēvu mūžībā pavadot. Mana Tēva namā ir daudz mājokļu, saka Jēzus. Un es aizeju jums vietu sataisīt. (Jņ. 14) Pirms vēl pasaule bija, ir Vārds.  Dievišķais Darbības vārds, caur kuŗu, no kuŗa un uz kuŗu viss ir radīts. Meži ap mums, ezeri, jūŗas, mākoņi un […]

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the days will grow longer

the trees wore white like brides of the hoarfrost, standing tall under the veil of the pale cloud-intoned sky. not only the pines, birches and maples, and lindens, and aspens, even the spruces had dressed their hands in white spikes to pierce the shorter days of the year. an unobtrusive sun peeked over the treeline […]

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(untitled) or mute

As I took my father’s hand in mine, I was stricken how similar the hands were. His hand, rough from work, and scarred, and damaged by the explosives after the war, when he was too inquisitive. My hands, scarred, a little rough and fingerless from being too inquisitive 29 years later. There was a large […]

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into that good night

tō niht mīn fadir for-ferðe. God is merciful. yesterday i thought of Dylan Thomas’ Do not go gentle into that good night: how true to the wind that poem sailed. And now, to the funeral arrangements.

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adeste, be present

God waits. In His world the time is. In our world, the time flows. His is the tide, and ours, the time. The ancient is tomorrow. God waits for the perfect moment in our rivers of time, to sink in his fishing line. God waits alongside our imperfect flows of time for the perfect ripple […]

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zvirbuļu koŗi

tāpēc, ka bija balts, vārnas saēdās sāli; no vadiem pelēki skaitījās zvirbuļu koŗi. neaiztiec balto, nevajag — kaut kā sanāca noklusēt; vārnas salēca aplītī, aizrautīgi ķērkdamas. gaisā pajuka mākoņi: baloži ieradās miglā, apkārt drudžaini kasījās, nesaprata, ka nomirs. agrāk vai vēlāk, nāc putnus barot vai baidīt — pēdas sniegā un spārnu raksti tiem apkārt ieliks […]

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more memories

this is a time of memories. most of the memories, however, are not. well, they aren’t something i remember. now i m waiting for my brother to call me and tell me of the condition of my father. my father has refused to go to any hospital. he is also not so well. i will […]

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clatter

when you slipped,  the roof went off unpredictably leaving a large chunk uncovered. your trousers ripped, letting in the cold, wet whiteness which wanted to freeze, too. what a soundless feat — the mist twirled hungrily, ready to swallow you whole. the ground was quicker. it took you in with a thud and there, bushy-tailed, […]

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dust

Like diamonds, you Threw ice crystals in the air For the sun to illuminate And play with rainbows. I stopped in my tracks, Unknowing, out of breath, Blinded. Your wind ran wild Making the twigs and branches Shed small icicles all over And the ground turned frosty. I blinked, it was a first Love uncovered, […]

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inversijas

Uzraksti mani otrādi  Ar krītu uz pelēkas tāfeles Dienā kad avoti kurina Miglu bezlapu ielejās Spoguļrakstā ievelc Visas diakritiskās zīmes Kamēr vārnas ķērkuļo Zarus ligzdās pīdamas Visu pilnīgi ačgārni Saber kā papīra turzā Dienā, kad gulbji aizlido Sniegu nākotnē brēkdami Lai turzas saturu sakratot Pēkšņi izmainās sintakse Kamēr strazdi kladzina Tumsā kašķīgi skriedami Uzraksti mani […]

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green peppered with white

the clouds shook, the green hair of the sod got peppered with white, — and then only the tips, green over grey, stiff in the breeze, unmoving. the knife in my hands, sticky with what oranges produce, the sharp spray in my nostrils, stopping, for a moment, what revolves in the dark. i open mīn […]

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Malduguns

Kad debesu svins miltos pārtop, Kad domas slīd, slepeni kāšos kārdamās, un aizplēn nenosauktas — Egles un vientuļi vītoli pastiepj mūžīgu zaļumu iepretim blāvu mākoņu atspulgiem. Vēl solis. Veļi veļas kamolos, kopus nes sniega putekļos tumšu zemeņu smaržu (ak, piedegušās vasaras). Nāc, teci kā malduguns atmiņu purvājos, visus akačos aizvildams, kamēr debesu dzirnas maļ, maļ, […]

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not raining too much

tremor. black fingers extend from hands broken at the end of dark arms, limbs, crowded by fallen leaves, unattached, doomed to flopping along as the wind sings, threshing the empty floors. again. beat black fingers from broken hands against the dark limbs outstretched onto the pale mists sheathing silent moonrays. Once more. faintly grow into […]

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mēnessdārzs

tulznainām rokām, miglu locīdams, šonakt mēness iestāda dārzu. koku kailumam, rudens gājumam tumsā dzied mākoņu skrējiens. švīku švīkādams, lapas mētādams, šonakt vējš pagalmos bizo. ledus kristālos, sīki kaisītos, pelēka gaisma vizuļo. nobristām kājām, tīti dūmakā, veļi šonakt atceļu meklē. sveci iededzis, uguni piesedzis, atveŗu sirdi par dakti. šonakt mēness iestāda dārzu, šonakt vējš pagalmos bizo, […]

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irreverently

that one thing for certain — all in existence stands firm against passing — like buttercups in the middle of streams transient, fragile, willing to do what it takes to survive. little yellow-headed stalks breaking the running crystal, etching the neverending V for Vita brevis est, for victory, for the day when silence burns sunlight. […]

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before coffee

bacon and eggs on the table I stare at all the forks and the knives None fits. the radio blares through from whatever neighbours cook All Russian. enmugged coffee vapes at me promising clarity, haven, and tells Strong smell. someone bangs their door early out in the morning mists Sun’s head.

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maranatha

Adverbum sum, my love, an adverb, modified by countless acts of being seen, and truth, and those who walked the path before me. Made right by the verb, I exist, to be — not taken seriously unless the action is performed in your perception. Ad te sum, my love, you breathe my life, sparkling, sprinkling, […]

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