Summer 2015


Walk this Way


Let me speak and I will tell you - I am pushed to the limits. Winds of change swirl intensely with dreams of perfection still to be sought, yet to be suspended. Repeated births that have caused me to ascend out of dullness, fierce survival strategies and sweet sound of light, now call to discover the master within. 'Discovery causes completion' philosophers say. 'Completion is often unexpected, because it is beyond your imagination', spiritual masters explain to encourage you to keep the faith. My faith is a rock, just the thunderbolts got harder to contend with. The winds of change reveal perfectly balanced elements for me to understand what is off-balance within, that I can heal and recreate. Challenged by dualistic elements of pain and pleasure I should sit with. And let Grace to step in to create me anew. 

The winds of change breeze in to consider direct alignment with the Soul, which calls me to overstep social norms, to integrate the teaching that is received into a new role that's been assigned. 'Integration can only happen when the elements to be integrated are in balance' all Human Science masters now preach as one. Maturity will provide a clearer vision which deepens life, so they say. My intuition is deep and receptivity high - I have begun talking phrases I do not even fully understand...

My mind is on a frying pan. My body can't keep up either. It cries for ease. It begs for Peace; sugar, please, feel the disconnection happen all along the physical lines. Please, realise, you must bring back the attention to the parts that were recently abandoned; because of the intensity of the mental train you do not stop to watch the ships leaving harbour, you do not fill the lungs with the smell of freshly cut grass, you did not even use the chance to touch the Galway Bay beach sand... You always rush. Through the moral dilemmas, through a day-old past, through present existential burdens which make your creativity flower, but you ignore spiritual practice homework is never done. Knowing and understanding will deepen and sweeten in Harmony. Please, take some time to examine the cause of your Rosacea flair-ups...

And this time I cry with it, because I notice how my body shivers, most of the time. 


I am sorry, but I have to step back for a while. I have to see the sunrise and dream in the sunset. I must stop running. Start breathing. Heal my body, gain physical power. I must digest the change and not to think of the deadlines. Talk less and read more. Get rid of the rhyme. Remember the blessings which I have passed by. Prepare a new path. Find another job. Receive a voice, that I can speak mountain high...


In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order. 

-Carl Jung


Gintė, 2015

Gintė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Clear Obscure Lost Find


Lively epiphany

Sough to diminish

Decorative distractions


Tonality of the colours

Sombre, silent, discreet

Vagabond under the sun-light


Surface becomes increasingly dense

Elephants leave the room

Marvellous place


The language moves

From the level of perception

To the evocative level of emotion


Nocturnal colours indicate

Deeply romantic impulse

With strong Zen underpinning



(... delightful encounter with Oscar, my new/old friend.) 


All the people that you meet are the reflection of You - Before and After.



by Brigita Stasun


'I can't find my voice, but I still speak a lot.'


So where was I? Aye, the weight of words.

Have you ever noticed how much we talk and how little we say, most of the time?

I could divide people into the 'categories' which would represent their patterns of Communication. The people, who talk little and tell little. Those, who talk a lot but tell little. Those, who talk little but tell a lot. And those, who can (if they choose to) talk a lot to tell a lot. Each of these categories, most likely, would have some subcategories, to compliment people's slight differences. Wouldn't be many of them though, as I agree with Carl Jung - we all fall into one of the sixteen Personality types, where, I am sure, our communication patterns are taken into consideration.

I want to highlight today only one of these categories, the second one - the people who have a habit to talk rivers, but say very little. From the first sight they appear smart, so you could think they are very wise, but when you really listen and start to weight their words, you realise they often do not have much of the value. Those people are called 'good speakers'. I am sure you all came across them. And I am one of them, I'd say. I can mesmerise you in the smoothness of my wordy waters, I can captivate your ear in a passion for which I thank the gods. I don't know how much of what I say you will remember later on though. You'll probably remember I made you feel inspired, significant, loved - good overall, but words? I am not sure, even that I still hope that some of them, you will. It's just when words flow flow flow, they flow pass by you, I think. And as a river which never stops, they don't give you enough time (space?) to think about what's being said. This is the trick of this type of communication, you see, you are in danger to talk in templates, where questions, answers and speeches are already prepared. When too many words are floating around, people tend not to listen, so they won't hear; they miss the opportunity (your fault!) to recognise the gems which are being shared and they won't even care.

How good on me, to come across the weight of words.   


I feel my thinking habits are changing, and so will the pace of my speech, in time. I watch myself putting every sentence on paper, finger-pointing on each word, raising the same questions over and over again: 'Do you understand what you are saying? How important is this? Do you stand by it?' I learn better each day to separate and to detach, to group, to bond and to compress the words. I look up in a dictionary and examine each of their meaning that wise people suggest. And I learn not to make verbs from nouns anymore. I promise Shakespeare language to respect.

In the external world - I clean my wardrobe from the clothes that got piled up, again. Those cute colourful prints, floral notes of sheer delight, layered gowns and chick laces, thigh splits, regal capes - they all are so pretty, so cheerful, but they do not fit with me, I realise. Two black bags full of clothes I bring to a charity shop, for other beautiful girls to adopt them in love. And I message this headline to a friend of mine, who always says it is a sin to have such an amount of frocks, oops! I leave myself with clean bright colours as a charm, mixed in classical style. And all the art from the walls I take down as well. I choose to feel the emptiness in a space, before new life will hit at me again - with less worthless distractions, more quality line, on the way...

I might be preparing myself to walk more philosophical path, I realise. I open up Wikipedia to see is there such a thing as Spiritual Philosophy, I have a sense I would be good at it. Ha, of course there is, eight types, in fact! Must be another dream of mine starting to bubble out live; ah, honey sweet.

Besides, my teacher says I have to sacrifice the rhyme, to which I tend to stick in my writings. Because it limits a though, he explains, and I agree he could be right. So I will try in the near future, I will. When the summer will fade, when we'll start harvesting the fruits that prevailed...


Philosophy is an opportunity to break the armour of reality; to look at things in a different way, or, even, to look differently at a different way.

 -Liutauras Degėsis (Lithuanian Philosopher)


by Brigita Stasun



Faces many faces


In the light of evening sunrays, your third eye opens up. In between Cork and Galway, on the bus, I watch white figurine clouds reading that 'bigger picture' of mine. I turn towards the window and put my cheek against the seat that in front, to drift smoothly through the greenest of a green land; that month of July, ah... Black and white cows of the South, sheep and horses slowly moving through Peace; and those meadows of Ireland, paint brushed on the canvas of greens. I realise again, how important is to dream. I see again, how my life shifts towards my dreams.

I understand, how I started to grow through (and in) my own words...


I said I'll be a writer, over a year ago. I write this line with a smile, JUST over a year ago. It feels I am a writer already half of my life! I remember that time when I said I will try. I don't know what I was to make out of it, I still don't. The difference is that today I believe I WILL make something out of it, in whatever form. I am a littérateur, this I know. And even that at this point I am frustrated a little, because I understand that completely new start is in my hands - things change, so to say, and change fast. Maybe because of that 'fast' my confusion is born. I got so much of information lately on 'how to write', I am digesting it into the 'understand'. The man who teaches me is a writer himself, he lectured English Language, Literature and Screen Play writing at Mandela's University in Johannesburg; now he lectures me, privately, I can't believe my luck. What an amazing feeling to listen to him explaining to me literary rules and tricks, and to understand what is that he says... to feel, how information he delivers reaches and records the signal in my brain, tests it, approves and codes within; and all this happens at once, in a few minutes time. Good on you to know, sweetheart!

But even bigger achievement is to understand what you know. To know and to understand it is not the same, as we know. There is a distance between them. I think that I 'feel' stands half way. So when I listen to my teacher passionately expressing his knowledge on a level I have never experience before, I drink the meaning of every single point of a detail: what does this word means, how much it weights, where in the sentence it stands, and where it never will. And sinking in this privity I shiver from excitement 'I get it! I understand!'

I understand as well that my personal dictionary is not that abundant as I would like to have. And that some of the words meaning is not exactly what I always thought it was. Besides, there is a difference in style that journalists and poets write; now one my friend adds... And that I have to be very specific in my expression, I also understand. You don't get credits for tossing in a space which is too vague, like you are allowed doing in the fields of poetic literacy over on Baltic lands. English language has a different touch - it is decent in weight, stable, accurate and precise. Lithuanian language is like a bird in summer's breeze - light, flexible, emotionally complex, with sound that by itself mesmerise. Both are beautiful in their own way. Both I do treasure as my own Light.


The sun sets on Galway I see. I breath in the visions of Art; I already can sense the presence of dolphins that I trust. Universe, please, help me to feel the weight of my life through their own feel for their lives...

Let's connect.

Seven lives.



by Brigita Stasun




To celebrate the 40th anniversary of the establishment of diplomatic relations between Mexico and Ireland (my recent fun) I, the assistant of Honorary French Consul for Cork, steps into the Auditorium of Cork's School of Music. Mexican Ambassador comes around with 'muchas muchas gracias Irlanda' and Cork's Mayor flicks Irish craic by introducing our Mexican guests to the rain - last but not least, he says, so don't be surprised or afraid. After the laud laughter and heavy applause, Antonio Vivaldi, chairman of Royal Baroque Association of all eras, gets ready to charm our ears. On Klavesin and Flute for tonight. Well, five different flutes and one klavesin, brought all the way down from Mexico (how do they do that, I wonder). All the flutes - for one man in shiny leather trousers and a sparkling Prada make belt; Horacio is his name. Klavesin's culture allows only suits though, accompanied by pale yellow shirts and white bow ties - sweet old Baroque; I'd carry pink rose. Have you ever heard the world famous flute player perform? Jeassus... He retrieves a song of five birds at once! So very beautiful, so purely precious; close your eyes and feel a feather land on your nose. Don't move, don't let it fall. Relax, sink into the pink rose and let her aroma to dress you in silk of bird's song... Say OM... hehehe

Pretty sexy is this Mexican man with a flute. His chest is the size of mine (with breasts) so I am sure he doesn't smoke. It is not the first time I wonder what it would be like to fall in love with a man - professional classical musician. I am curious what is their daily routine, what do they read and how do they party. I would love to hear Allemandes, Preludio Andantes, Correndes, Sarabandas talk over my morning coffee recitals. An extraordinary life, Señora, would you like?

I clap my hands like crazy after Giga Presto and even whistle once loud (aye, on Señorita's part!)

Mexican heat, rise


For the second part, I close my eyes and invite the birds from baroque gardens to enlighten me in beauty of Largo, which talks Mantua Opera's red velvet and a smell of black figs... Allegro then glows as an open fire on a Christmas night, somewhere in an old village of Belgium. Capriccio suggests the vision of Persian carpet, bare feet of a child and a blue colour cat... Grand piano, candelabras, long candles, white veil of curtains and Roman vases full of lilies; tea in blue porcelain... Ground reaching dresses in ribbons and flounces, azure stockings, silk shoes, pearls...

Through classical beauty my blood circulates


I open up my mind and dive even deeper into the music's pride; I try to recognize emotions that in sound: when Vivaldi felt joyous and on which note his sadness swung. Where he was slightly delirious and where he touched the space which has no colour at all. Because there is a place where colours fade, transform into the subtle lambency of light; where the sound (in this case) journeys vast quantum in space, unblocks your ears and expands... into a lustre glaze, as passage to the 'other side'... ah, I can't explain


'You will retrieve all that you write in years to come, young lady' tells Consul of Deutschland who is watching me from aside. 'A Young Lady' would be the status in between Señora and Señorita, occurs to me. 'I sure will' I kindly smile at this man. I live those writings - today, and years to come. My extraordinary life - a bird's song, of colour that human languages do not have enough words to describe...



Venice . Marga, 2011

Venice. Marga, 2011

by Brigita Stasun


Kiss, apparently 


'You came into my dream last night' she dots stars on her nails 'You asked me would I trust a dolphin'

'I am being held hostage by a gang of them right now, and they won't release me until they have gained your trust! So please, be careful' he is pleasing her lust

'I know people who only dream of normal things. I only dream of weirdness. It seems you do too' she smiles

'It is said that dreams are the book your Soul writes about you' he winks in such wise



Madam says the emerald hills these two climb.


Love is the ultimate creative power. Embrace it and you will find that your relationships, including the one you have with yourself, will be enriched. 

Close your eyes and feel your spiritual connection to every living thing on the planet - every person, animal, bird and fish, insect, butterfly, each blade of grass, tree and flower all swaying to the eternal motion of creation, the eternal flow of Love. Feel the life force at one with your own. Allow your mind to merge with the Wind, the Sun, the Moon and the Stars. Flow with the streams and rivers and merge with the Ocean, Clouds and Rain.

Hold the vision and feeling of all that exists within creation, remembering that the life force that flows through all these things is the same energy that flows through you. As you breathe, so too do Nature and the Universe.

(Toni Carmine Salerno)


 Would YOU trust a dolphin?



Tomas Terekas, 2015

Tomas Terekas, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Big Entrance


This morning I cry like a child. The baby boy came to this world, by a very thin line... But he is here at last, and all neighbours crowd in our yard with the buckets in their hands, to gather Love that he brought us; our own cups and bowls isn't enough! Church bells ring special news and so we take each other's hands, we wreathe in Love our small town. We all mind blown, again, for the way that Love JUST COMES into our lives... to reconnect the disconnected - it's always a good time. 

I cry a river today; from my own sorrow to pure joy that is mine. I cry the same of someone else's who is close to my heart, so very special human being with the assigned unique task. The 'special' part I realise in a few different dimensions. I feel again how very extraordinary we all are, how very significant to the Universe, to the Earth, and so to each other. How very strong, how powerful, how simply beautiful: in our doubts, our fears, on our humanity grounds. We can raise children, who live on the Earth in Neverland; and look after our parents, who find it hard to cope with an old age without the help. We can stand in front of a matter of fact and talk our hearts - No, to discriminate people because of different religion or sexual orientation is NOT right; we can forgive the country which got messed up. And to educate Africa in how to be self-sufficient we can, to help our sisters and brothers free themselves from the implemented oppression, in years to come. And save the whales from being haunted by the fishermen of some countries that this kind of hunt allows, we also can. To step over our egos and give a hand to someone different to us - someone from an ethnic group, or to an immigrant, we can! And if that touch is not so firm today, that is okay. We have all the time in the world, and each other, to help us learn to Love, and so to advance. 

Love reaches as high. And those are my waves. Doesn't have to be, necessarily, yours; we surf Love in many different forms. But always beginning from small; small as significant US, who learned to trust 'I am Love' and took (or consider to take) the commitment to spread this holy goodness around. Love is a seven storey mountain; so we might not reach its top per one lifetime, but that is not what's most important, so you know. The most important is to serve our duty here on the Earth, which is - to try.


Have you ever experienced how an injection of morphine works? If no, I can tell you, four of them I had. When a doctor injects morphine (in need of a surgery to be performed) within a second you physically feel the powerful stream of warmth disabling your body, carrying Peace through your blood. You DO feel exactly when morphine greats the very first cell of blood; your body gets perfectly symmetrically aligned and as light as a feather. Within another second, you realise how very small you are against the power which in you, you never be able to fight. And then you leave the Earth for a while, to wake up fixed. How strong your desire to heal afterwards is entirely up to you... That is exactly how I feel each time after the news of one more baby joining us on the Earth. And every time my family or friends send me their little laughing Buddha's photos, I feel the same. The second I receive the information (visual, or spoken) Love rushes through my veins from head to toes. With tears so as well (most often) which melt all blockages that on a way, washes, purifies, and settles in my body as 100% Love intake. I always close my eyes and for a few minutes still I stay. Until my mind process the gift that is received, until I feel whatsoever no pain...


I thank our new baby boy for the injection which opened up my heart. And I know that someone else's, who is so special, within a moment, grew double in size...


We are perfect in Love.


When the baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand of pieces... and that was the beginning of fairies. 

-J. M. Barrie 'Neverland'


Think in terms of WE, not in terms of ME.


Gintė, 2015

Gintė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Earthly Rhythm


I don't do much these days. I just live an ordinary life. I go to work to watch other people's fascinating stories unravel; about them, unfortunately, I cannot talk. I mingle my ways in the groceries stores I can't stand, and in the evenings I cook meals of limited scope (I am not able to eat even eggs anymore) watching all sorts of motivational talks, which inspire me for ten minutes at max. So I just drift along with boredom; I sit back and watch busy street, playing the game of 'my future car' - I pick the ninth today, before it passes by - a white Suzuki Swift, zero five - nay... I read depressing Lithuanian poem before I go to bed, about Yellow Rose, which happen to be the symbol of hatred over there; a beautiful flower, hello, like. And I observe my face puffing each day more and more (some allergy never experienced before) and the two fingers, which got yellow from smoking tobacco rollies, sure. My thoughts got shorter, but my breath gets a little bit longer - I started to exercise for fifteen minutes before I start the day. So I do feel per atom (more) alive, but still - not an inch of sun-ray you see in Cork these days...

In the park I secretly stare at a man, impatiently waiting for pigeons to set off for a flight. He has a camera with enormous size lens; the perfect shot is his mission, as I understand. But pigeons are too lazy to fly; it's just past the lunch time. He'd like to throw something at them, I guess, but the top of the gate where pigeons gather is pretty high, and besides, there are children running around. So he walks in small circles angrily talking to himself, to the birds or to God (who knows) until (guess what) a pigeon's shit lands on the shoulder of his red 'Liverpool F.C.' raiment. Few of us crack into a demure laughter, the artist gets frustrated and swearing leaves the park. Pigeons start flying all over in a mean time. 

At writers gathering almost everyone giggles at Love, which lasts for a lifetime. That was back in 'certain era' they say, enforcing the 'fact' that that era is over, you see, no more. Makes me yawn, the ordinary life...



(... when the muses are asleep, sit down and simply describe the surroundings; you'll learn the correct grammar in no time, reckons my literature teacher.)


No pen. No ink.

No table. No room.

No time. No quiet.

No inclination.

(James Joyce)


by Brigita Stasun


Tinker Bell and Three Battlements


So on my way to Neverland I come across the trinity; no, not so holy, bit deadly in fact. And so this time I know for a fact what today it is a matter of fact. First fact - I cannot fake writing no more. The second one - I cannot make it right, because I'm not sure who I am and what REAL left do I have. The third is Deadline; and the hands are empty. I acknowledge these facts (never happened to greet them in such company before) and I go to bed. I have to get my head around what's happening in the 'bigger picture' of my precisely small world. And how I'll navigate my way out of the Mainland I have to set the plan. But this task I am to start tomorrow. And please, God, after the lunch time. Right now the red lamp is off, and the green one stays overnight...


'Adventure is never too far away in Neverland' adds Peter Pan.



Briga Saulė, 2015

Briga Saulė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun




At my birth hour,

day and night hug each other; seduced by ones rays lowers shadows into deep Kama Sutra poses, intoxicates my vision with riches of delights; makes me want to paint those thirty nine nights before the first day of July... in green, yellow and white.

At my birth hour,

Human Fear, Me and the Universal Love stand holding hands. Fear on the ground, me - on a chair, just above the table - pink clouds. Last century, todayherenow and forever more - we agree to play domino - two against one.



I wake up the next morning with spider in my hair. To thank God for Hope and Gratitude that I found, wrapped in gleaming recital of Sunrise, on grand piano... which I touch, as the Sun climbs the day higher.


Silk of Wonder, sugar, you are...


Gratitude . Agnes Martin

Gratitude. Agnes Martin

by Brigita Stasun


Fear of Loosing a Page

(part two)


'Maybe that is what happens when you try to pull back from who you are' Madam is talking about me as a writer. ''Your 'I' is so strong, you should think twice before you swap it for your friend's Stephen story. Maybe that is why you can't write. Have you thought about that?''

Maybe. Or maybe fish goes deeper even than that. Maybe my consciousness is weighting big decision right now - to be or not to be; because to be (a writer) it's not an easy path. Because this kind of struggle - never ending self doubts, self discovery and self rejection, finding and loosing: a genius line, an inspiration or a muse, too unusual approach, a narrow path which you must crawl, even the connection with your own Soul time from time - becomes part of your every day life, my literature teacher warns me. And you have to take it all seriously, he says, you have to accept yourself as an artist, and not as a child which never grows up. You have to stay faithful to your creative heart; remember - you art what you are. Serious stuff, like.

As an artist, you live a magnified life; in both ways - good and bad. It is more difficult to balance yourself amid the states like that. But the question 'Is this Normal?' you may never raise, otherwise you'd chop off yourself an ear (like Van Gogh had done) or throw far-reaching thoughts into a bin and close the lid on them. 


So maybe this creative block began because of the choice that has to be made? Some ways has to be changed? If I'll stop writing, I feel I will loose myself in wide ways; and if I keep carry on with my old ways of life (I will talk later about them) things might never change and I could lose my ability to write. Cos I don't have much time for mySelf anymore, Madam is right. I should stop fooling myself - positive perspective here is not going to sort me out. 

It is said that the external world reflects your inner mental state. Here you go, even a waiter forgot about me today.


Universe, please, help

I choose to write




(... Briga Saule, please, commit to the Arts, and don't you get into a habit of apologising for the way you write.)


A true artist takes no notice whatever of the public. The public to him are non-existent. He leaves that to the popular novelist.

-Oscar Wilde


by Brigita Stasun


Fear of Losing a Page

(part one)


I haven't written anything in almost two weeks. I put a line on the page and I draw wave over it. One more line, one more wave - hide tide in my diary. I draw myself drowning in it, screaming for help. I am loosing my thoughts and my words.

I am walked all over, by creative block.


I don't know when it all began. Was it since the day I have decided to quit my personal confessions and to write in a third person's perspective? I tried to look around for people and their stories and looking to the date. It's not like I don't see them, it's just that I'm not sure where these people are at in their lives, what do they know and how do they think, what do they dream and with whom do they drink. I'd prefer they'll tell me their story themselves so to speak, at least in short bits; I don't want to invent their perspective, to be honest - I am not even able for it. To write about somebody I have to connect with them in some way, I must hear them speak; only then I can suggest my own interpretations. I cannot think in stories otherwise, like Oscar Wilde did. The way I fish out my lines is different to him, I connect through 'I feel'. And so I like that feeling to be reflected as possible real as it appears to them, if you know what I mean.

So what is going on nowadays that I am not able to write? Life in a pond I don't want to connect with? I skip. Never ending lost loves that started to feel like the curse? I am sick tired of them. Coffee breaks watching the rain? If I drink one more cup, my heart is going to stop. The sunny future that never comes by? Didn't you have enough of it? What else is there? THAT man? I give up. I am drained, tired and even... ashamed of my 'same same no different' life. That doesn't sound healthy, right? I wish I'd know what is going on for me and why, but I don't. All I can sense - something is lingering around the 'quitting time'. I'm curious what will it be. My Blog? The old way of life?

'When you come back home, first - stand on a chair. Stand on a table afterwards. Things might reveal themselves in different light' suggests one colleague of mine, a writer and a walking Cork's History in one man. Hmmm, I like this idea, so I promise myself I will try - to this point I'll take anything to help me survive. Maybe I should eat more potatoes as well; I read yesterday they have a good bit of Vitamin B, which balances our nervous system. And sure, if I'll eat them under the sun (that's like plus D) I could become like Stephen - just close the lid on a bin and rubbish like don't exist, hehehe 

'I am bored I am so bored so so bored' I chant to Madam on the phone. 'I need fresh injection into my blood...'

'Like what? Please, specify'

Ah, I don't know. Like sweet little romance? Big Love? Maybe a new interesting friend to play mind-chess with? Maybe some kind of event which would twist my consciousness to the opposite - low tide. 

It's not like I don't socialise or attend cultural flights, I do. But somehow everything manages to slip through my fingers untouched, and unfelt through my heart. 'So, where is the surprise?' each time I ask. Do I take things for granted? I wouldn't think so. I am honestly grateful for them. Just nothing moves me at all.

'Something is weird about you' tells Madam. 'You are not You. I doubt you have a space for me today. I am not sure you have it even for yourSelf, do you?'

Feckin great. What have I told you? When around is no space, all things change...


On a lazy June evening no more delightful companion could be found than a poet who has the sweetest of voices and absolutely nothing to say.

-Oscar Wilde


Gin Tė, 2015

Gin Tė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun




You are full and half by nature

The fragile edge and opposite of night

Lucid as climate of dreams

Complex as contemporary thought

With steps so small

Towards the thrill of accomplished Beginning


Within the space between all and nothing

You exceed your reason for being.





You looked up, looked down, and looked right through

Shedding hard skin of identity

Walking everything to gain and nothing to loose

Mastered the wisdom of heavy thoughts

Were only dark complexities of Love

Which took shape of your freedom


On the edge of the Earth, hallowed

The Universe in a single atom you breathe.



by Brigita Stasun


Pond Life


An old fish, theoretically - gold

Slowly moving in circles, alone in a glass bowl

Round and round classified as the greatest standby

You go insane watching cycle so well known

Murky is water, and reality fright hang over the bowl

It locks your bones in a way that you can't move at all

Plastic frogs oracle never changing wheather, that

None else could stand it - believed they might, managed the escape

An old fish also tried, jumped higher than usual, once or twice

But landed on an air bubble, so remains in the 'lake'

Whose waters yeast and no owner exists

To show mercy and flash the fish down the drain


If yesterday's hardships are stealing our aliveness today, than we must seek another level of consciousness.

-Brendon Burchard


Tomas Terekas, 2015

Tomas Terekas, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Wine of Desire


Back at my modest house for two days I weep watching the rain, walking the paths of old love. For two days after, I feel sad. Then two 'just days' follow, betraying my life of sunny elegance. Clouds gather over my town, plus the wind turns itself inside out suggesting all sorts of 'ifs' that start to mingle over my chosen life's story. And the more real wistfulness hits, the more misleading it feels. After six days, you forget what shape the earth is. 

Bewildered I lament to Madam: 'Maybe we not meant to shape our life in the direction we wish, maybe the fate is the thing for real?' to this point I feel like an ostrich with its head in sand, weird.

'I look at you two and sense great comfort still present; even your eyes are the same colour, just his doesn't shine...' Ah, Yellow people have the eyes of an eagle. 

She feels I am a little delirious, so she sends me a virtual hug: 'Curl up, baby' she says. I hear the bells of her kindness ring and I see red flags blink, but they don't hurt my eyes. Because I am not new to this, I know what it means - so No, I am not contemplating a sacrifice. I just allow us to sink in common longing, for another short while...


Compass of history

Silence of knowing

Wisdom of small birds, hesitating


The glory of light returning


I cannot live without the atmosphere of love: I must love and be loved, whatever price I pay for it.

-Oscar Wilde


Loneliness . Briga Saulė, 2015

Loneliness. Briga Saulė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Uncertain Track


'It is hard to come back without having made a fortune' tells me a country side like chap on the plane. 'And if it happen to you to make it, you will not want to go back' - an interesting perspective on what is like to be an Immigrant he has.

''And what about that 'grass greener on the other side'?' I ask.

'And which one is that 'other side' now?' he giggles in return, and I have to say - I give him credits for brainstorming like that.


An Immigrant's subsistence is never clearly defined, but definitely present. It pulls and pushes our logic, Spirits and hearts. I just hope that wherever we are, we'll make it to the end being happier than we began.


Our forefathers had civilization inside them,

the wildness was outside.

We live in the civilization they created,

and within us wildness lingers.

What they dreamed we live,

and what they lived we dream.

-Walt Whitman


Briga Saulė, 2015

Briga Saulė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Behind the Scene


So what do you do when your native land feels like home for the first time? How does it feel to smell lilies, bluebells which grow here in the forests valleys? Do you feel pleasantly surprised to step into the lake and find its water warm? And when at sunset in the park Vilnius is streaming Lithuanian folk tales, you feel at peace you say? Then must be really good...

When instead of battling with the family playing power games you realise this time is different and so be it, how do you feel? Is this because they finally accept that you grown up, you think? Or, possibly, you understood you've learned to sense and trust their Love forever more? Maybe then it is a time to re-convince yourself in theories of Wisdom, sugar, ha?

How do you react when meeting somebody who use to be so close to tell you he loves you still? Do you raise eyebrows to your intense delight sensing that he tells the truth? How well do you control the feeling of wanting him too? When looking at his face in pixels that you asked as memory to keep, what do you feel? Do you know why all night long you can't sleep?

Do you appreciate the moments you are in?


Do you have regrets watching your friends living great lives; do they lack money you think? They live in cute modern houses in red roofs growing children, dogs, flowers on ancient Baltic land, keeping strong sense of pride, saying at least they know who they are.

How does it feel paddling a boat in the lake on your own, against the wind? Does this confusion intensify fear of things you run away from, all your life? When you hear cuckoo bird and realise you have not a single coin in your pocket because you not in your own skin - you wearing someone else's clothes - what kind of a paradox surface? How many diamond tears secretly fall into the water after your loved one gently states - 'Don't be silly, come back home, t h i s  is your place'?

How does it feel to recognise again that people are the same anywhere you go; except that here you tend to understand and so to trust each other more - you know where they coming from - for many years you've shared one plate in kindergarten, you've seen each other grow...

What do you feel when sitting down to write in English you make mistake in every second word? You think it is okay to be afraid to open a book of poetry in language native, not to tear your heart apart, you know it could. Coffee is stronger here and strawberries are sweeter besides it all... The hugs fall on your shoulders distant and, at the same time, so amazingly close. Do they feel the same down in Cork?

Do you question those feelings when printing 'check in' passport at the airport?


I do, and I don't. I think again about what do I want, the most.

And about the feeling that we have landed on each other's lips - the precious memory attached in present 'if'...


A kiss may ruin a human life.

-Oscar Wilde


Wild Strawberry . Briga Saulė, 2015

Wild Strawberry. Briga Saulė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Wandering Colour Notes


Grown up from the last word

Stretched in abstract shadows of legacy

Distant soldier of Light

Mortal and lonely 

Asks God his own name




Misty morning landscape of the Soul has no voice - gone wild in the trees

He says her life fits in a bird's house, and he is right - only the beginning and the end in her vision live

His heart ponders gently - but Why?

'Because I am a Water Lilly, my stem never reaches the ground' she believes

In the middle of a lake in silence they drift


'I feel like a duck' she says after a while

'Great, then you are really a bird' he reads Goethe's 'Faust'

Mephistopheles talks new life for her tears start falling feeding fishes in crowns

Breeze disappears at last, water lilies salute to sunrise

Cuckoos lend them the wings to fly over their own paradise




Just give me one pearl of Love, please, that I could release eternal voice into the air,

for my ears hear news from heaven


The sun is sweating on the edge of an ancient paradox:

We come from far away to feel so close.


'me' and 'not' list.............................................................................


me - not me......................................................................................

not me - me......................................................................................

me and not me.................................................................................

not me and me.................................................................................

not me and not me...........................................................................

me and me.......................................................................................

me - not............................................................................................

not - me............................................................................................



(...tedious midday hour, deep metamorphoses of someone to me.)


The Road (3)  Briga Saulė, 2015

The Road (3) Briga Saulė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun


Confetti Notes


It is the 'Lilly of the Valley' season here - simple elegance is shaping my senses!

Impressed by the river bank carpets woven from 'Forget Me Not' tiny flowers

I watch people smile, stretching the corners of their intelligence vows.


The warmth of the air tells sky blue fairy tales,

happiness fly kissing my feet with no end...




'Second year in a row I see you sitting around, writing' stops by to tell me homeless young man. 'Could be the truth' so I say and open my wallet in search for a euro. But he wouldn't take the money, he asks me for a bowl of soup instead. Together we lunch talking old Vilnius lanes - full of drying lines, cats, narrow footpaths made from almost ancient stone, graffiti on the walls and a mini flower garden on the roof of a shed. I instantly get a feel for 'Vilnius 37 degrees Celsius' that my friend wrote the book on. '37 degrees human body temperature is slightly out of norm, but it's not a warning for medical condition; it's just an indication that some part of the body got a little more active, that's all. Light fewer mode means the city has slipped into more colourful motion...' - Magical Realism of mine, like, hehehe


'So what do you write about?' after a while asks this young man.

'About me. And you. Sometimes - giraffes. Today, about the black angels praying for us...'



The Church of St. John's, Vilnius.

The Church of St. John's, Vilnius.



Vilnius is loaded with plastic art and spoken word. Lithuanian language is very sonic, just like Cork's. I tour the streets filing old distances that were walked barefoot in my youth, and drop all 'to do' lists into the abyss with raving installations - for a stranger to unravel their meaning till coffee gets cold, doughnut - old

I do not look for a Baltic identity in the warm waters of Vilnelė river which refreshes the heart of this city. I sit in silver peace watching birds, coding flower scents in my memory, eating cherry ice cream and learning geography of Lithuania's regions once again


When you become

The owner of your own flash-light

You have no need 

To borrow the Light

From the blind

You don't condemn, judge nor attach

Don't stuff the world 

Into your eye to see

The quick behind the dead

Enough one






(...Lithuania's bright mind - Onė Baliukonė)


by Brigita Stasun


Vanilla Notes


'Every time she'd come to the restaurant he'd leave a rose made of napkin on her tray. Two months later they met on a train and went same direction since then...' I recall a love story from today's afternoon.

Curled up in a chair I put headphones on, close tired eyes and start dreaming first line of mine:

'She had an attitude, he had the money. Both had a style and each other.'





A little girl Anna that I meet on the plane talks only English; she comes to Vilnius to visit her granny. 'I bet it is not the first time you come to visit Lithuania, sweetheart?' 'No' she says 'I have been on a plane many times' and adds next month is her birthday. I take her hand and tell in whisper that my gift to her is those holidays.

'So have a good one make sure, the weather girl has promised sunshine.'

'And you too' smiles the angel.

On Lithuania's soil Irish Souls land...




I find a key under the door mat- how cool old school is that! I walk into my friend's empty house and see colourful changes around! Oscar Wilde hangs on a wall, in the next room - a girl from the fashion magazine Vogue!! And the usual - traditional Lithuanian dinner is made (something slightly absurd to my taste - each time we laugh) a bottle of water and a hand cream are in the same place - grateful for some things never change. 

I tuck myself in a duvet like in bird's feathers, ah; to wake up in Vilnius is my favourite part...


Non material


With an opportunity to connect (even for a stranger) 

In slow motion

Silent, with the essence of greenery



Understood by children


Without an option to borrow





(...random poems sing good old city.)


Briga Saulė, 2015

Briga Saulė, 2015

by Brigita Stasun