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Mar. 21st, 2023|12:34 am |
Pasaules dzejas dienā jāizvēlas dzejolis, jāpārraksta tas ar roku uz kartītes un jāuzdāvina kādam citam. Pasaules organizatori nešaubās, ka dzeju var iespiest praktiskā un noderīgā kopības radīšanas rāmī kopā ar šokolādes cepumu.
Cilvēki, kuriem es gribētu uzdāvināt ar roku rakstītu dzeju, atrodas pārāk tālu un mūsu mīla bieži vien ir bijusi un turpina būt smagnēja.
Bet ir taču ciba, vai ne.
Kad Frosts skatās uz mājas dēļiem, saka Brodskis, viņš saprot, ka koks nepavisam nebija domājis, ka paredzēts kaut kam tādam.
Deep conviction or preference can seldom
Find direct terms in which to express itself.
Today on this shingle shelf
I understand this pensive reluctance so well,
This not discommendable obstinacy,
These contrivances of an inexpressive critical feeling,
These stones with their resolve that Creation shall not be
Injured by iconoclasts and quacks. Nothing has stirred
Since I lay down this morning an eternity ago
But one bird. The widest open door is the least liable to intrusion,
Ubiquitous as the sunlight, unfrequented as the sun.
The inward gates of a bird are always open.
It does not know how to shut them.
That is the secret of its song,
But whether any man’s are ajar is doubtful.
I look at these stones and know little about them,
But I know their gates are open too,
Always open, far longer open, than any bird’s can be,
That every one of them has had its gates wide open far longer
Than all birds put together, let alone humanity,
Though through them no man can see,
No man nor anything more recently born than themselves
And that is everything else on the Earth.
I too lying here have dismissed all else.
Bread from stones is my sole and desperate dearth,
From stones, which are to the Earth as to the sunlight
Is the naked sun which is for no man’s sight.
I would scorn to cry to any easier audience
Or, having cried, to lack patience to await the response.
I am no more indifferent or ill-disposed to life than death is;
I would fain accept it all completely as the soil does;
Already I feel all that can perish perishing in me
As so much has perished and all will yet perish in these stones.
I must begin with these stones as the world began.
/On a Raised Beach, Hugh MacDiarmid (To James H. Whyte) |
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