A view on Creation

Vadim Rabinovich, philosopher, poet, Moscow Foreword to collected poems I have never lived on Earth, 2009

Why does A view on Creation introduces a book of collected verse titled I Have Never Lived on the Earth? Never lived, yet witnessed creation, but before that he created all units (the features, the elements, the feelings…) of his – own! – Universe and laid them out for us – amazed and spellbound readers – to contemplate and to stop motionless in front of all these things as though we were witnessing the beginning of the world – the succession of grand events: “I fell out of time as out of the nest…”, “The night is falling into love…”, “To the island. As simple as that?..” (Brodsky, a poem), “The layer cake of my memory…” (Karaite Cemetery)… And so a lyric cycle of Wonders is made up. And so it means that the author shapes metaphors into a miracle of wonders and witnesses his miracles and wonders at his miracle-working: Time, Night of Love, Graveyard Peace. 
And so it is. With pauses between pictures, rivers, themes…


The pauses are here to give rhythm to the hand-made Universe. And each pause is a moment of creation, of coming into being. And each pause holds within it a possibility for a poet-demiurge. Anthropic possibility. But at what price?


Before I answer the question, let me cite a wonder titled Malevich:


“A tired butterfly, you flew towards the lights of square nights. A life of rapturous self-torments was born, the abyss above your head was swinging, an eternal pendulum of fear, while you thought it was your brush, you painted insanity of imagination in a rebellious and naïve fit of dislike to nature, to color, to the word which lay on the shore of your never-come-true dreams.”


For the price of losing poetry of words with delicate tracery of pauses between them, pauses which produce new meanings between the rivers of consciousness, between the lines of clauses, between the caesuras within the lines, between the letters; pauses of prosodic and syntactic nature. 
But you will not find all these in poet Alexander Korotko’s monads. You will, however, find Rodin-like wholeness of monolith: of time, of night, of graveyard peace. But…with air among monads, which can become shelters for pre-words: on the eve of speech overcoming speechless silence – suddenly and swiftly.


His own designer. His own examiner. And tenant in his own buildings of the Universe. Audiovisual Corbusier…


“I fell out of time as out of the nest” and… “…isn’t shy of eternity of emptiness”.


Isn’t it a miracle?