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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
Paris then was a place
Where new ideas were
Brewing in the intellectual
And art communities
And new ones were
Emerging everyday
Some brilliant some not
Time will make it clear
What is what
But then it was an exciting
Paris of the time of Artaud
Andre Breton the leader of surrealist
The movement became a communist
He got lost in the world of confusion
Recycling old ideas of revolution
Remastered in the writings of Marx
in to new world to be born in fusion
Of paradise on the earth emerging
From the corpses of the old civilization
Saluting new born red nation
A plaque devouring Europe’s
Exhausted soul and body
Antonin Artaud did not like this
He cut off umbilical cord
With bleeding surrealism
That he used to belong to
And chose a different path
Traveled much less
Leading away from the mess
That world was immersed
Deeply in those confusing days
In Europe of terrible change
He went to Mexico instead
And encountered a shamanic world
He experienced unbelievable things
And when he came back to Paris
He was not sure if it happened for real
Or was it only his vivid dream
He was taught a peyote dance
By a shaman with a bird’s glance
And dark face with high cheeks
Smiling at him all the time
His name was Don Juan
He taught Artaud to fly
Up high in the midnight sky
Like a black soaring crow
See the world from above
Spread wide in brilliant
Shiny starry moonlight
He was sitting in a dark cave
Surrounded by a local tribe
A magical pipe was passed by
And white smoke sealed his eyes
He saw images and dark shapes
Dancing around him in shades
With hands raised up to the sky
They were chanting magical words
That he could not understand
But he felt a pull in his heart
And saw a line being drawn
Of a new sharp design
That he had never seen before
It was pulling him out of
His vivid lucid dreams and
Pushing away melancholic
Hold of the demon inside
Coyote devouring him alive
He felt light and elevated
Dancing around a bright fire
He saw stars falling from the sky
And showering his naked soul
That was hung on the old tree
Next to the water pool
He saw women soaking it
Like a dirty laundry in the creek
Then rinsing in waters deep
And hanging it to be bleached
In the bright full moonlight
And dried by the North winds
In the hot sun the next day at noon
Then suddenly he realized
He was wide awake for a while
Holding his soul in his hands
It smelled like sun and wind
And looked fresh and alive
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
Endless sunflower field
Rhythmically swaying in the wind
Like lazy ocean wave stretches
To the distant line of horizon
Touching the edge of the sky
Melting into hot noon brilliance
Boiling all shades of yellow into
One burning brightness of sun
He walks fast towards the east
Then abruptly stops gazing at the sky
Licking his lips dried in the wind
His breath echoing the rhythm
Of sonorous palpitating heart
Then his eyes move to the south
He turns and runs towards the sun
As fast and as far as he possibly can
Till he falls on the ground breathless
Embracing green grass at the edge
Of a long narrow curved shaded path
He lays there staring at the space
Yellow sunflowers sway slowly
in front of his burning dry eyes
Color yellow sinks into the depth
Of his bluish eyes and transforms
Into deep green reflecting the sky
The color of pain deep down inside
He sees the bright sky going dark
In one instant becoming a violent
Turbulent cluster of stormy clouds
Have been chased toward the north
By the winds of the distant south
He sees myriads shining stars falling
Like a cool refreshing long waited rain
Covering his aching body with a cloud
Of relief that lifts the nagging pain
That burned his soul from inside
He lays in the middle of endless
Sunflower fields somewhere
At the very edge of the universe
Long day and torturous night
Till he wakes up and sees again
The sunflower heads swaying
High above in the sky for another
Hot hazy non ending day
He gets up and walks towards
The hey stacks neatly assembled
In cozy clusters that create long
Shadows of gentle evening sunrays
Women figures moving slowly with
Sad eye pools framed by tired faces
He sees the road with cypresses
Overshadowed by slowly emerging
Moon light shining on the right side
Zillions of stars spinning on the left
In a distance he sees long fields of
Dancing irises in whirlwind of purple
Intoxicating scent of fresh blooms
Reaches his nostrils and enters his brain
He feels refreshingly clean like a laundry
That just have been washed in the rain
He opens a weathered wooden door
To the night Caffe with orange walls
With yellow bright lit pristine floors
Brimful glass of aperitive in his hand
Stops the time in his exhausted mind
Like a restless soul lost in his own
Confusing unrecognizable world
He moves through the space and time
Till he reaches eternity gates
That halts him and evokes in him
Deep grizzly transcendental fear
He sits there on a little wooden chair
In a cosmic desert all by himself
Immersed in silence and sharp pain
Tortured by anxiety that never ends
Then he jumps and runs the other way
Without opening the eternity door
That he was tempted to sway
He runs through yellow landscape
With tall cypresses marking the path
Crossing blooming fields of Arles
Yellow color catches him and swallows
Then he finds with his eye’s blue fields
Of olive trees that bring a relief
But it doesn’t last long enough
Sorrow in a shape of a naked woman
Embraces him and holds him tight
With her bare strong yet gentle hands
Caressing his cheeks and comforting him
Till thick darkness of night sucks
His exhausted body into a deep
Coma like dreamless sleep
By the morning when darkness
Dissipates he sees wheat fields
And a sky covered with flocks
Of pitch-black cowing crows
Fast moving towards him
He jumps out of the bed and runs
Through the morning fields
Basking in bright warm sun
Passing peasants raking hay
Who stare at him like they
Just have seen a ghost
Passing visions blurs in his head
The window to dimly lit room
Wooden table and peasants eating
Plain meager potatoes soup
Yellow sunsets at Montmajour
Vast landscape going from bright
To muted dark with blue undertones
Long rows of tall cypress trees
Sunflowers laughing at him
Prostitute caressing his dry lips
With white long delicate fingertips
Pain that doesn’t go away
But stays inside and lingers
A knife with sharp blades
All mixes into fast changing
Kaleidoscope of images
In his feverish exhausted
Suffering mind
Then he passes out and wakes up
In a pool of sticky cold blood
Sharp pain cuts his head in a half
Bewildered he is staring at the mirror
Reflecting his wide open glassy eyes
He screams but he doesn't hear
His own voice splitting the space
And he can’t remember
Anything else
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2020
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
It was September
Of one thousand
Nine hundred seven
The end of summer
With apples lying thickly
Under the apple trees
And the smell of Autumn
Covering the grass
Filled with ripe yellow
And orange squash
He was born in a little
Wooden house that night
At the very edge
Of a very small village
At the rail tracks
Where lonely train
Run once a day
Every other Sunday
Then one rainy Autumn day
He caught a Paris train
And ended up on the stage
With Jean-Louis Barrault
Who was taming a wild horse
In As I Lay Dying famous
Performance that stunned
The artistic community
Of avant-garde France
And Théâtre de l'Atelier
Became an icon of the time
After the show was over
They all got drunk with ideas
That were brewing up in the air
They disagreed about many things
And all had different images
Of what future is about to bring
Fiery proving his own point
Marcel Marceau broke a fight
Protecting the mime rights
On the modern theater stage
Under Mullen Rouge cabaret lights
Where fancy elusive prostitutes
Stepped down from the paintings
Of dreamy Toulouse Lautrec
Who was leaning at the wall
At white clothed table very small
In a corner next to open doors
Women with blood red lips
On whitish anorexic faces
Whispered little dirty things
In slutty enticing voices
Into enchanted artists ears
They danced around the tables
In blurred light with their eyes
Framed with dark eye shadows
Like deep pools of water shut wide
On the other side in a dim light
He saw a man sitting at the window
Who looked like Antonin Artaud
With pale face suspended in frenzy
Whispering with bloodless lips
And eyes locked in a distant gaze
Mystical words of a secret prayer
To his own God whom he called
Magical cruel double theater cage
Later he slept in a room
With Madeleine Renaud
Future wife of J L Barrault
Which they shared in the attic
Of a historical stone building
On the Augustine street corner
With trams running non stop
All night along till the morning
Waking up exhausted artists from
The marathon of intellectual orgies
After the premier of Volpone
J L Barrault was still dancing
In the dark narrow corner
With pale shadowy horses
In his deep sleepwalking haze
When morning broke up
Through narrow windows
And light was gliding through
The cosmic artsy scenery
Of cosmopolitan Paris streets
One-day Picasso showed up at the door
Of the little room on the top floor
Where the roof was serving as ceilings
In his pocket he had a bottle of aperitif
And the party went on till next morning
When he inspired started Guernica drawing
On the walls of the attic with his fingers
Dipped in blood reaching the arched ceiling
A beautiful but suffering weeping woman
Emerged in the dark shades of the beams
Screaming about sadness of human being
In the world that lost its own Identity
For imaginary empty cruel things
Jean Cocteau brought a bizarre spirit
Of avant-garde into the community
Of a little world of artistic attic
That was tremendously affected
By the ideas of surrealism in his movies
Filled with mystical images of dark spirits
Elaborated shapes sounds and forms
Never seen on the screen before
Love struggle death and rebirth
Of The Blood of the Poet that is
A part of a divine sacrifice
And the modern world’s price
For being authentic and alive
The next day he went to a market place
With beautiful actress Marcelle who was
Maestro Charles Dullins’ beloved wife
He wanted to learn the lessons of life
And to get a reality check of street wise
Also to ask for an intelligent advice
How not to get lost and find a way
To freedom and not to scream or cry
In all this spectacular confusing mess
Of imagery and novel lavish ideas
He chose Charles Dullin as his teacher
And Théâtre de l'Atelier became his home
And his rigorous training ground
For long strenuous four years
That flew by as fast as one day
He was taught to master the secrets
Of sacred stage that is to become
A new religion of the future to come
On the grounds of Intellectual belief
That there is hidden true meaning
Of every living human being
In the world that lost its ability
To be fair and true to itself
He spent days and sleepless nights
Learning behind the closed curtains
The hard lessons of the theater art
Taught by skillful masters of the craft
The signs of the time were brought to life
In that dimly lit space of a closed stage
And lit with bright light to emphasize
The importance of the sacred stage
And the future was to be defined
Of many aspects of the art of theater
That was conceived in that place
Into the craft he was ordained
To be perfected to absolute space
And time limits expanded and defined
In a new creative enchanting way
He pledged to be true to the cause
To protect the dignity of human being
To fight for the freedom of art
To become a new century's religion
Deep impressions of Paris artistic life
Etched in his brain in a new pattern
That he saw in the back of his mind
He knew he had to find his own way
To bring this pattern to life one day
He was searching for fertile ground
In Paris and all over around
But couldn't’t find the right stage
Till one rainy day he took a train
Back to where from he came
He opened a new chapter in his life's
Book that he was about to write
In images on Lithuanian theater stage
He brought spirits of masters to life
Off all times in to this little country’s
Tragic life that was about to unfold
In the shadows of the second world war
Brewing in the guts of European core
That was wide opening the doors
For dark evil unpredictable force
To come and change the world
in a way that will never be the same
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
Heavy storm was sweeping dark Paris streets
Lit with dim lights that dreary November night
With ghostly shadows lurking in the corners
Cold wind dancing with dirty wet leaves fallen
In the water pools in the middle of the street
It has been raining already for three weeks
Everybody was getting impatient and
Anxiously praying for a long waited relief
Behind the closed doors of Theater de I’Atelier
Filled with mythical spirits of Champs-Elysees
That gloomy night a magic was about to happen
The stage was sunken in the darkness yet
While audience quietly was taking seats
An imaginary world was opening behind
The heavy black curtain that was hiding
The secrets of magic of the theater
And was slowly rising to the ceiling
The center stage circle was bright lit
With dark corners filled with imaginary
Shady creatures crawling slowly towards
The center like moths attracted to the light
It felt like a fiesta of the creatures of the night
Unexpectedly stunning confused audience
White horse emerged from the darkness
Like a fool moon sliding over the edge
Of a heavy cloud in the center of the stage
Stopping for a moment glancing shyly
Then jumping over the edge of precipice
The horse hit the ground with his hoof
Terrifying sound left his wet snout
He leaped and flew towards horizon
That was emerging on the backstage
With dark heavy curtains rising
And opening the view in front of
Audience suspended in disbelief
Of endless prairie going forever
Touching the edge of the sky
And extending itself like a lazy
Snake towards the milky way
Stunned audience gasped
A quiet moment passed by
And then a young man appeared
In the middle of a vast lit stage
Sitting on a horse and smiling
In a victorious way like someone
Who just tamed a wild mustang
Just like he was trying to tame his pain
For all those long unbearable days
While his mother was lying in bed
At a small window to the backyard
And watching a coffin to be made
For her from a raw three trunk
That smelled like wind and the sun
She knew she was slowly dying
And quietly waited till preparations
Are made so the moment of death
Can come over like a welcome guest
And take away her lonely aching soul
Which used to be like a white mustang
That was dreaming of being free and wild
Running green fields and chasing clouds
But was tamed by the hardships of life
And was reduced to a battered drought
By everyday heavy exhausting load
She was getting weaker every day
Every night that was passing by
Took her strength bit by bit
But her spirit was not dead yet
She made an extreme effort
To stand and walked slowly outside
To see the moon and the sky
Filled with stars and a big dipper
Friendly smiled into her eyes
Her white long hair was flying
In harsh cold wind that night
Like a spider cobwebs spread wide
Touched the nose of a white horse
He made a quiet sniffing sound
When she leaned on him and died
She was holding horse with her arms
Her empty eyes were staring at the sky
Young man sitting on the horses’ back
Grabbed her swiftly and pulled up
Like a light body of a sleeping child
On a bare wooden floor of the plain stage
Hypnotized enchanted audience saw
A young man holding an old woman
In his arms on the back of a white horse
Who was crossing the universe towards
Shining bright twinkling star North
He was flying far away from the sorrow
To the light that lifts the hollowness
Of the arduous earthly life
It was a single mime on a plain stage
But his movements gestures and face
Created artistic full blooded alive
Image of Love Hope and Escape
Audience saw a trinity on the stage
In a few different kaleidoscopic
Dynamic emerging and fleeting ways
Brought to life by a willpower of a man
Who squarely believed in the magic of stage
A year ago he was in a creative daze
In the middle of night on the stage
Taming a wild horse till exhausted
He fell down on a bare cold floor
Slipping in a deep like death sleep
He was walking in a prairie filled with
Tall wild grass reaching the clouds
He got lost and his heart was beating loud
Then he saw an old woman who was lying
On a dry grass floor at the water pool
With long white hair spread wide
With empty eyes staring at the sky
She looked at him and died
A young man her beloved son was
Feverishly trying to hold indomitable
Horse with his young strong hands
So he can take his pain away
And he would not have to feel
The loss and to think about
The dialectics of death and life
He saw a horse a man and a woman
In his vision that night very late
Almost in the morning when sunrise
Was coming through the window
And the horse was hopping away
In to the opening gap of the
Bleeding red morning sky
Melting into distant disappearing
Constellation of milky way
When he opened his eyes
He was deeply shaken by the image
He saw in his dream last night
Which expressed the essence
Of sorrow despair pain and loss
The image of a man woman and a horse
So he knew he had to try
To tell the story on the stage
The way he saw it in his daze
The audience was very quiet
When the stage curtain fell down
Announcing the end of the show
On the bare stage on the plain floor
Magical world that opened the doors
Into delicate realm of shapes and forms
Had a strange effect just like a raging storm
That was gone by the time of the end
Bringing unexpected agonizing relief
That Aristotle called the effect of catharsis
Or the purge of a suffering wounded soul
That couldn't find peace in the real world
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
Georg Cantor. Chasing infinity. I must!
He was a very lonely man
Tortured by desire to understand
The world and the God’s mind
Like a fearless seasoned sailor
He embarked an elegant boat
Of extreme mental endeavor
With powerful white sails spread wide
And four winds flying behind
He sailed into the realm of unknown
Rejected and abandoned by the world
Breaking hostile waves utterly alone
His peers called him scientific charlatan
And his attempt sickness of mind
But he ignored them and moved forward
Trying to find terra incognita
That was keeping secrets of mathematics
Touching the limits of infinity
Balancing on the edge of insanity
He reached a point where
All the lines of reality converge
In the mind of God in one tight knot
Where everything starts and ends
In one minuscule steadfast spot
The sails halted entangled in wind
And collapsed in a wide swing
He stood there still for three days
Like crucified sun on the cross
Of torturous spring equinox
Till the moment of revelation came
He saw overwhelmingly beautiful pattern
Spread wide in front of his sight
Of cosmic motion in one elegant flight
Moving towards the horizon
And bending on the other side
He saw infinity standing still all night
Revealing to him her mystical beauty
Expressed in vision of cornucopia
Of even bigger infinities springing
From each other’s solar plexus
Spreading at the speed of light
In an eerie turbulent cosmic night
Lustfully intertwining in one knot
And passionately devouring each other
In heavenly cosmic orgy of motion
Expiring in violent fiery commotion
And then flying slowly away
In a sensuous dreamy way
Extending to the horizon
And disappearing at sun rising
The next morning he saw
The navel of cosmos giving birth
To forever expanding universe
Overwhelmed with exhaustion
In numb emptiness he collapsed
He woke up in the cell of mad house
Opening his burning eyes
In pitch darkness of eerie night
He saw himself laying in a cold
Metal bed with restricting shirt
Holding his arms tied
Firmly behind his spine
Covered with sticky blanket of sweat
Waking up he was trying to grasp
The meaning of his vivid dream
And to memorize how big infinity is
Which he saw reaching the dome
Of his head and spreading outside it
How big infinity is that it would fit
In his feverishly racing mind
He agonized about it every night
In the depth of darkness,
He heard a secret voice
Calling him to open the doors
To mathematics of infinity
And in a daze of inspiration
And non-ending hallucinations
In his dream he saw the numbers
Dancing in front of his eyes
Like seagulls flying up high
In the bright bottomless sky
And diving in to the ocean
Of eternal primal motion
With indescribable precision
He put names on each of them
He saw their faces smiling at him
Seductively winking in a lustful way
And then spreading out in disarray
He could count them and see
How elegant the pattern was
That weaves the fabric of cosmos
The numbers were dancing
in front of his eyes all night along
Till the morning opened the doors
They dissipated like vampires
Burnt to dust by the power of light
With sun breaking through the clouds
All he could see was ashes and dust
He couldn’t remember last night’s lust
He saw it he memorized the design
But in the bright sunlight
He couldn’t remember it
Or think of it or see it
It was gone in one instant
It was like a gulp of water
Disappearing in his mouth
That quenched his thirst
But could not be grasped
A moment ago it had
A shape of clear glass
That he held in his hands
And now it was nothing
But a part of his flesh
A lonely organ was playing Bach
In the distant landscape
Behind cold shattered window
With frost painted floral glass
He struggled to remember
And he screamed:
I must I must to grasp it
To catch it to understand it
To memorize it to etch it
That which was hidden
Will be brought to light
One day or one night
In bright sun or candlelight
I must to find the way
To etch it in my brain
I must!
A solitary violin was crying
In a distant murky landscape
Of remote rural Saxony
Telling a tragic story of a lonely man
Possessed by desire to understand
His titanic effort to catch infinity
With his bare strong hands
Of his brilliant powerful mind
Locked in a cramped square
Filled with transcendental fear
Clinging to infinity hopelessly
In his feverishly racing brain
Like an old man in the sea
Was holding a sublime fish
Bigger than his eyes could see
In desperate mortal attempt
To win the battle of his life
Or to perish in demise
Violin was crying for infinity
imprisoned in a tiny square
Of a madhouse dreary cell
In an extraordinary mind
Of a very lonely man
Till the day he died
Then the doors opened wide
Letting freed infinity fly away
In to the burning skies
Of the cold grim evening
Of sorrowful winter day
Lonely Violin quietly cried
For a man who tried
To tame infinity
Like a wild mustang
That was born to be wild
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
1
Profound insight climbing the mountain
The higher you go the more beautiful view
Opens up wide spread in front of you
You see the world under your feet
Overwhelmingly liberating experience
Shocking overpowering, and scary
You play walking on the sling blade
The line that only God can balance
Once you take a close piercing glance
Into the depth of the center of the universe
And the hidden secrets of the living earth
It gets you and suspends you in vacuum
In the crack between realities that no longer
Is a safe haven where it used to belong
And is not yet fully on the other side
Of God’s omnipotent limitless domain
Only a few bold dare to push the limits
Fearlessly to the very edge of the cliff
Opening the view of bottomless abyss
There is no way back from the sharp edge
It is a one-way ticket secret knowledge
Into unknown and there is no turning back
You are bewildered and only can stare
Helpless onlooker lonely and scared
No matter how baffling the truth is
You have no choice but to face it
Like a lonely prisoner in Plato’s cave
Chained and starring at the other side
Cast out of cozy safety of ignorance
Stuck in between worlds upside down
In a circle that never stops spinning around
Circle is a shape of infinite shapes
With you uncomfortably stuck inside
2
The string orchestra of the universe
Playing symphony of those remote days
When endless galactic suspended in infinity
Let out of the bottle cosmic creative genie
And the world started vibrating in unison
Spinning boundless eternity new born
In beautiful curves waves and forms
Reflecting its’ suspenseful elegant flight
In the matte darkness of primal night
The mystery of eternal law of motion
Forces trajectories shapes, and forms
Converge in the mind of creator god
If you extend the edge of infinity
You reach another bigger infinity
And so forever the world expands
In a whole new infinity that stands
Like a pillar holding the very edge
Of spinning around infinite universe
3
Below the veil of reality there is
Another world of ethereal matrix
Of pure ever-present mathematics
An ocean of dancing numbers
Sparkly little precious shiny jewels
Woven in a colorful fabric of cosmos
Creating amazingly beautiful patterns
Filled with secret signs and omens
Accentuated by elegant curves
Of flying at the speed of light
Myriad of bent shiny sun rays
Arched into the snake of genetics
That keeps the secret of life
Locked deep in the pattern
Of frenetic spinning cosmic dance
Shining through the porous surface
Of blue atmosphere of the earth
Moving in swift powerful ways
Delivering suspenseful delays
Of disbelief and shocking awe
Bending the time and space
In strange unfathomable ways
The dancing numbers are holding
Together the world expanding forever
And we are little colorful scattered dots
That are aimlessly hopelessly lost
In our desire to understand the way
The incomprehensible world spins away
Which is always bigger than we can grasp
The world of matrix spread in front of us
All the time but its' meaning
Deeply masterfully hidden
Beyond sheer fabric of cosmic Maya
Seductively alluring our desire
And forcing us to get lost
In endless perpetual earthly lust
4
Infinity is spread all over the space
But we don’t see it’s elusive face
Covered with thin veil of illusion
Of starry sky and blooming flowers
Intoxicating scents of morning showers
We are stuck in the world of delusions
And non-ending painful exclusions
From attempts to touch the true face
Of reality hidden deep in the shell
Of primal knowledge bottomless well
We dream about it every night
Trying to catch the elusive edge
Of Ariadne’s magical invisible thread
That will lead us back to the earth
But with the dawn opening eyes
After pitch darkness of night
The fine line that we finally reached
In the dream slowly dissipates
And we start search all over again
Lost in terminal inability to understand
Caught up in zest of seeking feverishly
To catch the ever escaping edge
Of desired elusive knowledge
Like uncanny mandala of a snake
Lustfully devouring its own tail
Is an image of the unfortunate fate
epilog
When in the thick darkness of night
We look deep into the well
Of the desired forever hidden
Secretive world of forbidden
Dangerous alluring knowledge
We open the doors and get drunk
With the passion of gnostic desire
To get a glimpse beyond Maya
At the bottomless cognition
Of the promised land
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
Pain is everywhere
Springing from the crown
Of the head and like jellyfish
Expanding proboscis
Cover the whole body
Till the end of the toes
He collapses in epilepsy
And lays there on the cold floor
For the whole day
Till the senses start coming
Back the next morning
He is starring at the ceiling
In a desperate attempt
To remember who he is
He sees the face of his mother
Holding him in her arms
He is crying inconsolably
Because of the unbearable pain
Devouring the whole body
He sees his mother shaking him
And dropping him on the floor
Where he lays unconscious
And still the whole day
Till the next morning
He opens his eyes
In desperate attempt
To remember who he is
And he sees the face
Of his mother again
The coursed cycle
That never ends
One more attempt
He is on his knees
Praying for help and for relief
Till the pain dissipates slowly
In the dawn of the morning
He is exhausted after non
Ending permanent torture
The desk and the paper
He reaches for a pen
And starts writing feverishly
His dreams take over
And in one instant
He is nowhere
To be found
In the real world
But he is there behind
The veil of inspiration
Devoured by passion
And overwhelmed by dreams
Writing till exhaustion takes over
And he collapses into dreamless
Ethereal sleep till the next morning
When pain wakes him up again
Cursed circle that never ends
He reaches the limit of hope
And belief
There is no relief
Zarathustra comes into his dream
And starts speaking of things
To be achieved only in dreams
Actions to be performed
And ideas to be formed
In deep overpowering sleep
Under the blanket of night’s
Secretive relief
To climb the mountains
To perform miracles
To cross the canyons
Up in the air without any despair
And stand there with the whole
World under his feet
So he grabs Zarathustra
With his week shaking hands
And holds tight with sheer
Power of his desperate mind
That is left untouched by pain
And not yet destroyed by disdain
So he rides the world on
The shoulders of a modern man
Who outgrew the old times
And challenged the minds
Of the world sinking into reflections
Of its own imperfections
A moment of relief
Standing high up in the sky
Gives a desired peace
But next morning comes along
And the circle starts again on
Overpowering pain with no relief
And he loses any belief
Like a little child abandoned by mother
He cries inconsolably
He screams to the world
About his unbearable loneliness
And in angry despair
He announces the world
That God disappeared
He died long time ago
But world did not know
He screams at the top of his voice
God is dead
And is not coming back
Cursed circle of non ending torture
Of pain and despair
God disappeared
In to the darkness of square
Of the bottomless sky
Of his wounded mind
God is dead and is not coming back
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
He remembered the day
Before he was exhausted
And his soul was very sick
He was suicidal that night
But when he woke up
From his nightmarish dream
His soul was not hurting
Anymore and felt clean
He came back to Paris thinking
He was healed and free of pain
His head was full of bold ideas
And his heart was beating fast
He was ready to change
The matters of the old stage
He thought theater can do
The same magical things
That shamans did in the
Mountains of Mexico to him
To transform human into a new
Being that is free from pain
And ready for a drastic healing change
Being exposed to torture and fear
That can be inflicted by magic of stage
So he destroyed the old stage
And built a new one instead
He equipped it with deus ex machina
Thundering with strange sounds
Crammed with images of violent
Physical forces that destroy and crush
Hypnotize unsuspecting spectator
Seized by the magic of the stage
And whirlwind of mental forces
Experiencing intense theatrical pain
Induced by elaborated torture
Magic tricks gestures ghostly lights
Articulations of powerful insights
In to the secrets of hidden mysteries
Behind the veil of reality of everyday
Where Cenci was raping his daughter
To open her eyes to the cruelty of life
And laughed at her when she begged
For mercy and cried for escape
Artaud believed the magic will work
On the stage immersed in the real torture
Themes of rape, sacrifice, and murder
Will shock the audience and confront
With the basic elements of life
He remembered how Don Juan
Transformed his soul and taught him to fly
With magical mushroom peyote
Which Artaud come to believe to be
A true double of theater of cruelty
That he was creating
To advance the power of a theater shaman
He got a walking stick made of the wood
that had knotted design all over its surface
And a magic power of evil and good
Like a baton in the hands of conductor
Artaud thought he could change
The world through the prism of stage
With the magic stick of the wood
That had smiling scary faces staring
And incantations carved on it
For the rest of his life he tried
To perfect shamanic mastery
To bring the change he was
Dreaming of on the stage of life
After years of experimenting
With cruelty and magic on the stage
He was very lonely and misunderstood
Confined in his cruel double theater cage
His brilliant but sick mind did not find
A fertile ground on Paris stage
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
I am walking Athens with Socrates
And see the world through his eyes
Barefooted with white robe
Tied in a knot with linen rope
I follow him like a shadow
Starring at the faces of Athenians
Who lived ago a couple of millennia
I see Xantippe chasing chickens
And a bunch of little children
Chasing her in the square of Athens
Screaming laughing, and clapping
Socrates passed by quietly as if he
Did not see the vivid loud scene
Deeply immersed in his thoughts
Teaching his students maieutics
Socrates did not have time
For insignificant petty things
He always thought big
And about important things
He had to go to the war
And was the only one
Who was walking slowly
Glancing back in case
The enemy was chasing
Him after the battle was lost
And he once more
Would have to protect
Beloved city and its
Citizens in the battle
He was awarded a medal
For such a brave act
But he gave it away
To a young man passing by
On the street one day
Believing that he did not
Need awards and other
Shiny meaningless things
He walked market place
Filled with beautiful items
And he wondered how that is
That there are so many things
That he did not want
Socrates was in dangerous business
Of telling fools that they are fools
And it did not last very long
As Socrates would have guessed
If he cared about consequences
Fools like to hide under fancy
Words and elaborated lies
They don’t like to be called
By their true ugly names
But Socrates did not know
How to lie nor he cared
He never felt scared
So he always told the truth
Till one day he was accused
Of conspiracy to destroy
The old ways of the world
Teaching young men
How to think on their own
That was the biggest crime
In Western history of all times
And he was the first philosopher
Sentenced to be executed
For telling the truth
I was standing behind him
In a dark cave where he
Was locked till the execution
I saw young Plato crying
And desperately trying
To convince wise man
To escape the gloomy jail
But Socrates as always
Looked straight into the eyes
Of his students and said
He could not do such a thing
It would be against his
Precious teachings
To be true to himself
And to his words
To escape as a guilty man
Avoiding execution
While all he did was
He told the truth
Socrates believed he
Was an innocent man
But he thought that he
Had to obey the law
Designed by Athens
So he took a cup
Filled with liquid poison
Took another piercing look
At young men that he was
Surrounded by in the cave
Smiled at them swiftly
And in one gulp he put
A stamp on his word
That has never been
Even once proven wrong
Up till this remote day
I saw the grieving faces
Of his young followers
And eyes filled with tears
And moans of despair
And the pain of the Athens
That lost the only man
Who loved them the most
And the bravest philosopher
In the history of the world
I hold Socrates in my arms
When he stumbled
And started loosing sight
His white robe shone
In the darkness of night
Like angels wings
Spread wide in a swing
And his words were written
In the cosmic pattern
Of the sky of that fatal
Unfortunate night
The skies became dark
And I saw bright robe
Floating towards the dusk
Light like a lonely bird
Crossing the burning sky
Where the next morning
Was slowly opening eyes
And I cried grieving
For the world that never
Learned to cherish those
Who loved it most
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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Ruta Skendeliene Poem
He was sitting alone in the corner
In a little cafe at the painting of Monet
And was talking to imaginary friend
About thinness opaqueness fear
Sensation of heat cold anger despair
Cruelty he claimed is the language of reality
Not the barren lame poetry with vulgar
Metaphors hiding behind empty words
Cruelty was the only honest way
To open the hidden heavy doors
Into suffering human soul and heart
And talk about things that matter
Through shamanic art of reaching
Deep into the guts of true teaching
And bringing light to the dark corners
That have never been lit before
Actors dancing in overpowering way
Manikins with terrifying theatrical faces
With empty eyes staring at the audience
And drilling through their souls
Objects of strange proportions
Surfacing in a dreamy scenery
Of unrecognizable ghostly world
Of the modern stage transformed
By the means of the theater of cruelty
It is the only way to be honest
To himself Artaud claimed
And believed
He was right
He sacrificed his life
To this idea
And died lonely forgotten
On the bare floor
Next to metal bed
That stood at the door
He tried to open so hard
In a madhouse
Where magic of theater
Truly belongs
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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