poetry
Latvian Feature
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fuck it, do I or do I not make sense?
By
Edvīns Raups
Contrary to the opinion expressed by some regarding the senselessness of
contemporary poetry, I have always been tormented with this/a search for
sense. — fuck it, do I or do I not make sense? And what the fuck is the
sense of life around me and of me, myself. . . These questions torment me
for a large part of each day, but in the rare moments, when I write —
yes then, know that I am not tormented, then I feel exhilarating
sadness or joy. . . Living itself becomes a celebration, I'm imbued with a
dense and cosmic energy that translates into an animalistic honesty. And
can there be any greater sense in life than the search for sense? That
is the poet's extraordinary social task, his (temporal?) position in the
world, his aesthetically polished lines being a thorn in the eye of some
— if not the majority in this worn out industrialized society. Because
the art of subduing/taming words to be a perfect expression of a thought
is the unique beauty of this language's gala concert. Besides, the
thought in a poem — whether it be sentimental or pragmatic, carries
within itself a coded gene of ultimate awareness, that gene which
determines (what is) the sense of being/existence and the being of
sense. While this is not something, like a diploma for example, that you
can demonstrate to others as proof of your value, it is for the
briefest of moments, what you feel when you write a poem. And while you
write you know that you exist, that your existence makes sense. More so
than eating. That's how I encourage/reassure myself, here, in Latvia. . .
Translated by Margita Gailitis
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