Raits Aistars - In Memorium

Photo of Raits Aistars with his grandson, Anders Raits Aistars, 2004


Photo of Raits and Anda Aistars, wedding day, 1964

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For my much loved uncle Raits,
March 13, 1933 - January 2, 2006

Ka lai atvados?
Vel paliek nepateikts vards,
neizstastits stasts, neaizlikts solis,
neatdots glasts.

Vel vienu dienu gribejas lugt -
vel vienu, tik vienu,
bet no Tevis vairs tik paliek
sirdij mila atmina
aiz peksni aizslegtam durvim.

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Photo of Raits and brother Viestarts Aistars in military, ca. 1955



Photo of Raits and grandson


Photo of Raits and grandson


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(translation from Latvian)


How to say goodbye?
Still that unspoken word,
the untold story, the step not taken,
the caress not yet given.

One more day
I wanted to ask -
one more, just one,
but there remains of you
only a cherished memory
behind a suddenly
closed door.

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Photo of the Aistars' men: l-r, Janis, Raits, father Ernests, Viestarts, Aivars

Winter Eyes

"Ziema," oil painting by Viestarts Aistars, property of D & S Bowman

by Zinta Aistars




A moment of stillness, silence, of frozen time
with face lifted to sky for its kiss
of slow floating white, melting on warm
skin to a drop, a random tear,
whether from heaven or human eye -
and does it really matter?
Missing your lips, their warmth, their light
brushing over my face, I choose this sky -
its billowing fullness of winter secrets,
clouds low and pregnant with promise
of a flurry that might bury all:
the ache of your absence,
the longing for lips to skin,
the wet now pooling in the corners
of my winter eyes.

Medicine, No Sugar

(Light sculpture by Thomas Haagen)


by Zinta Aistars


Yet a sweet pain, stitched and mended seams of heart
where the rips began. There you touch
now, delicate fingered, clean scrubbed,
where you tore and prodded
before: sharp, with cruel and reckless abandon,
that blood vein that would weaken me most, drop me
to my knees, shoulders sagging, scooped
empty of pulp. You plug that vein shut
with the soft pad of your thumb,
distracting me with your winning smile.
Hurt still? you start to ask, trying hard,
chastised with the knowledge of heedless wrong,
but the fear of reply puts a fist to your mouth.
You want to know without asking,
without suffering the whip
of words, their bloody slash,
drip, and splatter
on your neatly polished floor.
Messes disturb you.
I hand you the mop;
I’ll hold the bucket.
We need the words, the slash exposing raw pink
flesh to bandages, precision stitches pulled taut,
cut places stronger now than uncut.