A wreath to an artist
A wreath to an artist
1.
Well, first you need to live this life,
oh, Artist, guarding pace of time,
of poetry resplendent halls
soaring over tides of life.
Unsure may seem your fate, so harsh,
possess your wayward word, oh poet,
a fluttering of a night-fly
amongst the flowers growing.
There is
no suffering, thirst, nor hunger or disease — but only,
of sounds and colors a wondrous world.
And be you poor and mocked, my sir
and this life of yours –
a chain of fierce humiliations,
you didn’t echo venom back, but brought the people
gracious comfort.
There is no greater fate than yours.
2.
Oh, Artist, guarding pace of time,
what is the source of your eternal woes
or trials? No living man, we know,
could find the answer right.
The lone desire is to create,
to fill the world with daring art.
And God has blessed this act, this thing.
How bitter, hollow and utterly vain
as if reviving passion dried away,
and dimming the stars, the darkness grew,
the ancient chaos consumed the world.
behold, with beat of mighty wings, they will
as harmony with mighty flock, fly in
the poetry of resplendent halls.
3.
Of poetry resplendent halls…
the lights slow down the mighty beam,
for you to see the rush of oppressing grief,
and sadness of the finest dream.
From all the painful, tragic features
depicted feelings, which were branded on.
And two-faced Janus is also a friend of art!
And, heresy of simple falling, as if in fornication
The fate and vanity divided by grief,
you, life, take it over, delegating as you wish
the dreams and pain, sent out into the blue sky
as bird you fly, or slide over narrow bridges.
The window carving out into creation’s depths
and soaring over rapid life.
4.
– And soaring over rapid life –
oh, if only I could find these words!
As ruins of the pyramids
in quicksand drowns the naked verse.
A cry of joy will break the dawn.
By dead of night expelled, the good news,
it will explode the constellations born.
Above all these, the shy, unfleshly
soars verse. Above the harp of Aeolus
the hands of glimmering dawn of day
and raising voice, they soar.
Of nightly visions’ tangled hair
the crown of sun will comb.
So changing in its rays, so harsh
will life again appear.
5.
And let the changing fate, so harsh
part you from this peace of yours.
But, step by step, relentlessly the verses
follow you. Engaging you forevermore.
And festering, you the grieve the past,
a worm, it gnaws at you restless.
Of fantasy resplendent whirling flight,
a daydream you embrace.
It won’t lay down its wings for a moment. Explosion
To the sky. A fever pitch and off the ground.
Will blend the mountains and ice will melt,
the rivers turn their ways from seas.
Oh, many things will be destroyed.
Is that your fate and destiny, oh poet?
6.
Your fate and destiny, oh poet,
will be the source of many troubles.
All those you loved will turn from you.
With rattling vehicles passing by.
Come then the shades of burning hearts,
so lately, suffering and beating,
then ashen burnt and savaged.
The cycle of troubles that won’t be changed.
As requiem. Not even bothering to knock,
disguising their gloomy genius mind,
your dark man through locked door enters.
But open windows wide to dawn!
The nightmare ever lingers, but now
possess your wayward word, oh poet.
7.
Possess your wayward word, oh poet.
There’s some reproach in weakened eyes.
To mournful life it’s foundation,
a canvas with a pattern traded
of harmonies of words. Over the abyss,
inseparably wondrous for a blink,
of happiness the moment will bring
enlightenment and a draft of joy.
Descends the quietness below:
and cheers the flesh; and soul is full of
joy. Avast, all storms! The thunder is passed.
The verses will all tide to shores.
And will fill the world with twitters of laughter,
with fluttering of the night-flies amongst the flowers.
But no.
8.
The fluttering of the night-flies amongst the flowers.
And there’s to happiness no other foundation.
In an insane world of tears and troubles,
the one torn to the bitter parts.
What is the point of happiness? An unearthly word
merged with the one from earth, in a reflection.
Unbreakable are bonds with this world;
again your word is your life’s foundation.
Behold, the artist floating above the crowd
connected with it, unacknowledged,
he saw the depths of abysses revived,
that lead through darkness, chaos
inevitably to the reality of needs
and sufferings, cold and sickness.
9.
Needs, trials, cold, disease
the deadly ring has closed,
the most frightening collisions, yield gorgeous stars
they yield a word, a word that lives.
So here it lies, the base of happiness.
And it now by fate it is rendered
it is always with you, look, it’s in us
the poet, as in Holy Communion.
The glorious light, with a count beyond numbers
to the seas, the forest, the light of the heavens.
Light poured out, pours out freedom songs,
the birds all sail through the skies
as the grass soaks in clearest dew.
The world is colors, sounds – what a wonderful world
10.
So many colors, sounds – what a wonderful world,
the tale of heavenly nature.
The soul simply shakes, a shaking word broadcasted
through which perfect waves flow.
The soul rejoices with joy unearthly,
although the earth is its very cause
repeating as an oath, words of verses
that your life by fire was burned to dust.
Poems are born in heavenly places.
But the world below, the song it plays
the dreaming child of stars,
By inheritance, the Universe is yours.
That heat of in the soul has never cooled down,
through ridicule, poverty and cold.
11.
And through ridicule, poverty and cold,
what lucky star was above at your birth,
will you reveal? In the image
of the creator you were made.
Oh, your eternal double — verses.
In them the universe is kept, in poems,
where as fuel and fire, worries are thrown in
the endless cycle of vanity sin.
And you partake, again expecting
the striking wrath of Genesis,
and the thirst for words you quench with words
unhappy you will never be, although
the veil of earth is a sea of misfortune,
while your life is but a chain of cruel humiliation.
12.
Your life is but a chain of cruel humiliation.
But gracious light falls to earth from above,
as rays slant through the prism of
your, dear poet, invisible feelings.
Over city walls hovers the moon,
and eyes are squinted at the invisible dawn.
Caught in the teeth of a mountain range,
hosanna sings the silent night.
Closing lashes in joyous worry,
on each tint of the dawn so early.
All is chaos amidst a raw creation.
The soul, it trembles. With insight and thoughts
in a bubbling cauldron. And inside lie
not putrid hate, but the good of comfort.
13.
Not putrid hate, but the good of comfort
saves the world. An outcast cannot
change reality. And yet,
justice and mercy combining, he
can weave a wreath of scattered sonnets
somehow you have found the strength.
And if someone asked you then,
what strength drives you to be a poet,
Constantly giving your spirit courage,
and from where do you draw your strength,
answer in truth:
— life is multiplex, but the torch
of your soul is the wreath of words in your fate,
where joy is rare; among many bitter tears.
But what, in your suffering do you ever bring?
14.
In your suffering you brought to people
a verse, an integrated “with”:
with doubt, communion, union live,
with peace, and so on breathe
impossible images of love
and people’s just and righteous words,
born in pain. What did you say? Stop!
there’s nothing here to have, to save.
Where is luxury, finery and pompous glory
the earthly owner of heavenly gifts?
There are none of these in the universe.
But those out in the cold, for the, I pray!
In world where verses yet revive again.
And is there any fate, greater than the fate you face?
About the author:
Larisa Zubakova is a poet and journalist, a member of the International Union of Writers. She is an author of four poetry books, “The Ring”, “The Chilly Warmth”, “Wuthering Heights” and “Red Heat”. She is currently preparing to release her fifth book of poems “The Assemblage Point.”
