Why poetry?
Because of thinking, which is abstract and elusive. Because of the innermost need to distance oneself from the language of everyday life. Because of the journey there – where words do not reside, where there are no views, and where there are no landscapes. And yet, when the meaning of all of that gets lost, It, poetry, proffers anew the need to share itself with the world and the idea standing behind it. It connects the inconceivable and that what is the omen of everything and precedes everything. It is omnipresent – word, music, picture, life. Uttered, It wields the power over all the presences and absences, over all the fears and desires. It is a yearning, but also a yearning that strives to become the truth. It is the truth. And the final judgment on the truth.
Poetry is the fatherland of the day’s and night’s game in which all our falls long to become a confession, to assume identity and an inner dwelling of the truth and meaning of one human life. Poetry is the idea of justice before all the injustice of the world. It unfurls our dream like a sacred text on the existence and the meaning thereof. Finally, It is our home, by way of which humanity can receive its message about happiness. It is born where the doors to the lie are shut. Conceived in the soul, It inscribes Its only Letter of the fateful inaccessibility of both time and space.
It is an Enlightener, for it teaches us about the timeless deliverance from sadness and lie. Waiting behind its door, It ushers us warmly and safely like a Mother. Its Logos hardens us like a meaning, like a realization that till the end of our lives other rules, too, will assist us in building a passage towards the fulfillment and growth of spirit like light. It, poetry, is born like our intimate being that should be maintained whole and incorruptible before any time and any departure. Remaining to be the Fatherland of love, at the same time It is exposed and fragile, yet brave and unbreakable in the face of anyone and anything. It shakes hands with the world, even though the world frequently offers it a fake shake. It discloses who, why, where from, and where to, and nevertheless on the road thereto is quiet, so that each of us can seize the opportunity that It, poetry, becomes one’s own auto-bio-graphy, again. A holy carving of the intimate being at the moment of one’s unfolding on the path to self-fulfillment.
Thus the face of man basks in beauty. And It, poetry, the real fatherland of light like a credo and a place man truly feels he belongs to. Just like home.
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