In Memoriam
Out of habit or hermetic insistence, I kept poor pace with current events and was sadly surprised to learn of the passing of a great poet through some chanced obituary. I came to him via introductions by Brodskii and Ray. Brodskii's works, for me, opened up entire vistas of possibilities -- Pasternak, Frost, Akhmatova.... Of course, they are acquainted with each other. All the estranged ones are, America being the orphange for such large a number of emigre writers. As for Ray, I never gave it much thought but it now seems ridiculous otherwise for they were within walking distance of each others' offices. Ray, good mentor, counsel, friend -- my debt to him will be mentioned elsewhere. In this scope, the manner of introduction is nonessential. What matters is having the voice of a poet resonate across the boundless expanse of one's youth. It has been ten tumultuous years yet his words still hold at once the incredible lightness and gravity -- an eagle one has come to expect. The relationship between reader and author can be quite intimate without the intention of the former nor knowledge by the latter. Those heroes, lords, and zions we have come to admire and love seem mythical, immortal. To a certain extent, the latter is true -- a matter of fact by the medium. The difference lies in new works.
For someone who has such a large corpus, it seems insignificant. Still, a terminus is inflexible. There will be no more. One can no longer experience the same world and satisfy one's wonder of how the poet may think of it. Silence. A tremendous loss. It should not come as a surprise that most of my favourites have passed on, given my propensity to fall in love with men of the last century. They lived in an exacting, terrible world, hallowing of legends. Without him, I would not know to listen to the rustle of gowns, or anything of enormity, of a setting sun in the Pacific, stupidity, bullets from a musket, mirrors, how to grow old..... Without him I am myopic, too concerned with immediate frivolities, rates of returns, profits and scores. His torch illuminated an epoch. "And the heart doesn't die when one thinks it should." Indeed, Milosz. Thank you.
HrK '04
For someone who has such a large corpus, it seems insignificant. Still, a terminus is inflexible. There will be no more. One can no longer experience the same world and satisfy one's wonder of how the poet may think of it. Silence. A tremendous loss. It should not come as a surprise that most of my favourites have passed on, given my propensity to fall in love with men of the last century. They lived in an exacting, terrible world, hallowing of legends. Without him, I would not know to listen to the rustle of gowns, or anything of enormity, of a setting sun in the Pacific, stupidity, bullets from a musket, mirrors, how to grow old..... Without him I am myopic, too concerned with immediate frivolities, rates of returns, profits and scores. His torch illuminated an epoch. "And the heart doesn't die when one thinks it should." Indeed, Milosz. Thank you.
HrK '04