What kind of name is that?
asks the clerk at the Motor Vehicle Department.
And so it begins.
I tell her it’s bastardized Lithuanian,
and originally meant “God’s gift,”
or maybe “God’s beetle.”
But it got butchered at Ellis Island,
reduced to a lower state of grace,
like Lithuania itself.
Invaded, occupied, and bullied
by one country after another,
only to be humiliated by bureaucrats
who can’t be bothered to spell
a foreign sounding name correctly.
And no one cares
that the national plant is rue,
worn by brides
as a symbol of maidenhood,
that every large hill there
is called a mountain,
or that in Vilnius you’ll find
a swing foundation
whose members install swings
throughout the city and then move them
to other locations
when no one is looking,
and that there’s also a tiny “republic”
with its own Constitution
and a line that says,
Everyone has the right to understand nothing.
First Published in Gyroscope Review Winter 2026 (see page 43)
Love this poem for it’s humor and craft. Content matches the pathway to where the well-chosen thoughts are intended to go: the end line being the punchline. The swings scattered throughout the city and then moved, the medicinal rue worn by virgin brides all lead to where the poem was always going. Wonderful!
Thanks, Sandra! I just followed the poem and let it take me where it wanted to go. Always suprised where we end up.
I read, ‘I Understand Nothing’ and, as I do with all Gene Twaronite poetry, I understand more.
Read, think, savor, enjoy, repeat. Always a worthwhile endeavor.
Thank you, Gene.
Thanks, Eileen!