Poets do not live on the sunny side. They stealthily rewrite his life for pages, nervously biting his lips experiences, broke into the night waking hints gesture, otherworldly true sky, its underside, where the dust swirling memories and flies around the world, and finds cohort scattered around the world of fate, whose life – only echo lines, migratory birds living under the wing silent sentence written by the Creator.
So thought Holderlin and Schiller encouraged him insane silence, and Goethe looked bleak for a lonely figure without acknowledging it brother. Tsvetaeva recluse adversity, standing nearby, around the corner century, and inquired: “Goethe, how could you?” But he did not listen, did not want to comprehend his mental system, organ majestic thoughts poet future time, he lived outside.
When sleep and not sleep, and the last refuge of the verse does not warm, and life does not want to let go at will, where so we are waiting for, where everything goes nowhere, and there is only a hint of what was, and then only in the first hours minutes when the soul is still on the way to the endless, and the address is, but it is another sense, it is not the words, it just is, ecorticate, intangible essence envelope clouds, flying over foreboding thought that dissolved the truth, which the stars and garlands New Year, do not understand.
All this in front, and down here in the distant oblivion, where the tree is growing doubt and buds swell days, how to find peace, naive and funny in the interplay of events, where the spirit of the high asking for forgiveness confusion passions invented and acquired, and let hope reigns at the station, respite, and then save the madness. And these seven wonderful years – the forerunner, Hyperion. Who are you – a novel, poem, prose non-existent? No, just a shelter, salvation from all the hardship and turmoil.
I hear the voice of Holderlin. And here he is. “Why are you here?” – “I can not sleep. Came time for me to build a trail to my creations, and to appeal to those who were near, and those who filed the signs of future times. Suzette Gontar, I invented you, Plato invented Diotima leading Socrates dialogue, I borrowed, and here we are together, we live and breathe in Greece, but you left me in the care of the Roaring Twenties. Gone not only you are gone and mother, and Schiller, Hegel, and even Goethe. This loneliness is not seen the light, so not left alone with the body, not the soul, and with the shadow of life, forgotten, past, present, as if the summer rain has passed, but the sun is high, the heat and the thirst for winning.
Thank you, Rilke, I am far from now, but the vision is not diminished, and I see myself on the line, is not that nice, rather awkwardly. For some reason you started correspondence with Pasternak and Tsvetaeva, okay, you know best. Yes, that’s “Elegy,” dedicated to her. Perhaps it will be stronger than the words that you have saved for me. I’m not jealous, I’m just saying it is. Marina, I know, do not stay in debt. I see Rilke, you’re going on the road. Where? To me. Well, there’s plenty of space. And here is the “New Year” by Marina arrived. So what about you … nobody said