my first inspirations
as a child
gifted by poetry,
The childish poem sounded somewhat
like these lines, but in my mother tongue:
(Even if poetry
is a language itself.)
“My heart is like a violin with its cords;
When I’m easy on them, it plays kindly,”
wasn’t I a smart kid?)
“But when I force on it, it cries up and breaks,
Leaving every heart in a broken silence.”
that’s the ol’ me.)
This is the poem on which I got the warning:
“Sane kids don’t write such gibberish larking!”.
That was harming,
but the world
harmed me more
than such words;
so, I didn’t stop
writing because of a
However, I felt
I watched weirdly
the rich kids
playing on them freely;
telling to them:
You are insane
Doing what you do,
that rubbish larking.
That was hard to understand that time
why one’s art was seen crazy, and other’s playing was genius.
But after some materialistically and socially hitting slaps on my face,
I understood how it is exactly working with this terrible human race:
The rich that follows and serves the example of enjoying being
will be never replaced by the deep thinker wrapped up in grieving.
Realizing it was sad, but truth is enlightening.
This is why I returned to this magical instrument, now,
with its amazing sounds that leave my heart happily crying.
Just a decade and some years before, I was comparing my heart to those cords
that can make such a beauty the Earth is barely able to hold, within such a sadness,
within such a chance to fail and ruin everything, leaving rooms in heart-torn silence.
This divine instruments must not be played but by the devil
who knows what is true sin, and how gets fallen a daredevil.
Let the devil take the cords, let him take my heart with them, too.
I’ve needed no more than to truly know what is hiding in
this world and this heart that makes me love
a sad and gloomy while also pompous
No mellifluous lightbeams of the morning sun,
not even heated kissing of Helium atoms;
No crowing alarms waiting like a loaded gun,
not even deceived asleep minutes of cogs.
No rythmic murmurs of labour-heading steps,
not even monotonous capitalist torture;
No chopstick drums on the lunchboxed crêpes,
not even wasted earthlings’ nourriture.
No freedom fanfares from the last man-hour,
not even we are remaining slaves;
No loose hugging in a rencontre’s empower’,
not even we’re all meeting in graves.
No dark, star-brighted blanket’s planetary cover,
not even nightly phantoms of Paris;
No crawling consciousness’ journey to discover,
not even primates gazing to an abyss.
No poems today, no artistic magnificence,
not even music, not even dance;
No poems today, and this day is a lie
because without art we’re not alive.
Why to see if you can’t share it?
Why to hear if you can’t share it?
Why to feel if you can’t share it?
Why to live if you can’t share it?
This is why I write, so I can share it.
O’ you, who’s been taken to mouths as hot honey,
As with great frequency as with sweet ploy –
Playing with the temperature of the air as kids’ toy,
With joy that no child could easily accompany.
With the inner peace of an empty, blue lagoon –
While on the same token of an inhabited island –
With white-hot lava rolling along from the highland,
Narcotising even the highest creatures by swoon.
Might the oxygene pass its place to ecstasy,
Might the redundancy of other chemicals –
While you play with wild colours charming musicals,
So easily understandable, yet so complex, so fussy.
More of that rolling lava you fulfilled my veins with!
More of that turquoise peace in my mind!
You may try to hide your treasure, but I will find –
In any entity, any city, reality or a myth…
Please, rise me up from the greyness of the days,
Even when your greatness passed over my worldly says yet.