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I wrote these
poems seven years ago. I wrote them
because my
father died. And because not having the stamina and the purity of the
saints
and monks, I had to vocalize my loss. I had to make my pain audible to
others.
To you. If I were simple and pure of heart, I would have carried the
cross of
my father’s death alone, I would have borne the pain in silence,
without
the
audience. But I am not. So, hence these
poems, now gathered in the form of a
book. This is not an apology of any sort to the reader. It is simply a
stating
of the fact. Besides, If I were to apologize, then I would ask the
forgiveness
of the above-mentioned saints and monks and also of the dead. But I
doubt very
much that they spend their time reading confessional (or any other
kind) poetry.
I would imagine that they dwell in the solitude of their hearts making
the
latter traceless and invisible.
The only consolation that I can offer myself is
that I
waited for seven years before making these poems a public domain. That
I didn’t
run out into the forest, chop down a tree to make paper and
hysterically jot
down the feelings I have while the wound is still fresh. I waited. And
waited.
I wanted to wait until the blood on the wound dried up. But in this
process of
silence and solitude, I learned a much more valuable lesson than
juxtaposing
words together and calling the result poetry. I learned that spilled
blood does
not dry. And that wounds (real wounds) always stay fresh. And that to
really
live is painful. Much more painful than to exist on the plane of words,
no
matter how precise or rhythmic they get. Doing it is harder than
describing it.
And when I finally felt this and understood it on a real, deep level,
the core
of my values and beliefs was re-evaluated. I became simpler to live
with for my
own self. I regained the faith that I had when I was a child. A faith which does not poke one’s heart with
linguistic complexities and riddles. Faith that opens you up and makes
you realize what you knew all along: that
actions speak louder than words. And that clichés do not lie.
And I promised
myself that I will try to live and write
simpler than before. With words that would witness of the blood that
never
dries and wounds that never heal. Even at the cost of disgrace.
There are three shattering events that occur in
ones
existence: Birth, Death and Love. The first – we don’t remember. The
second –
we know nothing of. The third – we are not always lucky enough to
recognize
mostly due to fears that besiege our consciousness, we grow cynical and
bitter
and our hearts grow hard. And, as a result, we live in the monstrous
and ugly
reality of reasonable, common sense adults that are blind to miracles
that
befall them. It usually takes a jolt, a tragedy to awaken one back to
the
innocence of childhood, to the time when the heart was transparent and
was able
to reflect or envelop the heart of another. When it was able to love.
Unconditionally. Because everything that is worth anything is
unconditional. It
takes tragedy. And it takes work. Long hours of self-reflection upon
which you
realize not only the insignificance of your own being but, oftentimes,
its utter
lowliness. And stupidity. And wastefulness. And superficiality. And
vanity.
Please, do not get offended. I only speak of myself.
Scientists tell us that every seven years cells
regenerate
inside our bodies. In other words, according to scientists every seven
years
you get a new human being inside the same shell. Scientists believe
that
because scientists and those that take their word as the final seal
also
believe that a human being is nothing but a manifestation of physical
matter
that is composed of cells, that are composed of molecules that are
composed of
atoms. If that was the case, if all that we are is nothing but an
accumulation of
cells, then our memory would be erased every seven years. But it is
not
erased. Memory stays intact, and the pain that it stores still pains.
To me,
this is the biggest and the only necessary proof
of the existence of a soul and its timelessness. And
hence
the title
of this book: Immortality.
As I mentioned before I wrote these poems because
my father
died. I know nothing of death. I know nothing of that which he is now.
And I
don’t even want to guess. These endless, vacillating
arguments on life after death seem like
nothing but verbal carrion to me. Mental masturbation. And I don’t feel
like
taking part in it. Everything that is worth anything is much simpler:
either
you have faith or you do not. I happen to belong to those that do. That
is why
in this preface I do not write about my father. These poems have less
to do
with him than they do with me, with my own struggles to deal with the
biggest
loss that I have yet endured. I will not pretend that they are an
attempt to
reach my father there where he is. Because there where he is – he
doesn’t need
poetry. The only thing that he needs is love and love is made up of
silence.
When I was a small child I used to look at
vagabonds
meandering through the crooked streets of my birth and envy them their
freedom
and unaccountability to any authority. I remember approaching one
homeless
young woman, (who must have been no more than a teenager at the time)
and
asking her: Who are you? Instead of giving me her name she said: An
orphan.
Since then, the notion of being an orphan always fascinated me and in
my
childish fantasy I idealized it. With time I forgot all about it until
time
itself reminded me of it by making me one. Sentimentality aside, I
found out
that there actually is freedom in being an orphan, abandoned by one’s
father.
Freedom not in the sense of unaccountability, but on the contrary, in
the sense
of being no longer protected by anything other than your own self, of
being the
only one that can walk that forking path of innocence and cynicism
without
directions and making sure that you swerve to the right road. I learned
that
there is nothing that one cannot endure, and that if you stare into the
abyss
of pain long enough, it will recognize your effort and transform into a
well of
love. I learned that loss can make you free and that love is not a
sentimental
drivel of an intoxicated rhymester but a measured and sober effort of a
soul
that walked the path of loss and destruction, that tore through the
tragedy and
made the right swerve onto the road that leads back to innocence. There
is no
death and there is no birth, I learned.
There is only love. There is
only Immortality.
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