Horizons
“February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out. ”
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out. ”
- Boris Pasternak
It is perhaps about time that the latest pattern of thought trails of like the tail of a comet and I come back down to earth. There are things that cannot be explained; rather they explain themselves in due course. The quintessence of life is elusive, frankly because that is the nature of life; it does not promise truth or endings because it unfolds with indefinite movement. I recall the first moment in March 2006 when I first started pulling out all my memories and answering the call of the wild, and I suppose the recognition of truth is the same, but perhaps more layered with an unknown sense of beauty.
The poetry of Herzen, prose of Pasternak, and the leaves on overhanging branches still fill me with awe, and it is not always simple to explain the depth of a feeling which is always mutable, always seeing new horizons which it cannot pass. There is perhaps an answer, but why should that answer never change? There is colour in the leaves during Spring, but even being so very lost in downpour is good for the soul. The record player lingers in the back of my memory and its soft scratching, and the lull after the music has finished. I believe I have said much of what I meant to say, which is really to say everything that has been said with other lips, and coursing through the thoughts of others. If we all sought the space and the colour that would make us live and breathe, and stay awake. That would be the true handful of stardust.
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