Максимилиан Гюбрис - Избранное. Поэзия. Драматургия

All, so spontaneously!… No, I wasn’t feared
Neither I was satisfied; timelessly,
Seem, a last question of the Theme we’ve tried,
Was keeping alchemize my loaded mind,
And the effect was felt like limbo thought
Grotesquely-dissolved in mount of sights
Of all subsequently awaken fancies.
It was all coming up from stranger words
Made wilder dancing of the scene-to-world.
The Provocation how fast was rising
From the back-imagined talk. …That “’bout tomb»,
That “’bout dead», that “’bout doom and light»; —
As if these Two, sane-eyed, sat there, side to side,
At their philosophic table of the Time,
Whilst all around, full of common cries
From yet tonight, the witnesses of our insight,
Beings too-voluntarous, rose to unite
And all got closer, and acted there blind,
And some were just to fight then. All images,
All characters to find… Dude Fonomore,
With others, fans of End, Satirehood, and…
Madder-looking creature broke the hand, then,
Of the Dead Wall’s Clock, and picture changed all.
And all, so suddenly, went to behold:
Oh, that was news unique! that opened wide,
That newly-view e d field there was; – that hugely…
Laid all o’er there… corpse. Bigger than house.
Much bigger than the airplane or gardens
Some, – the Corpse of War, dread on the sun.
And ’twas all full of moving…! life, not life, —
What could I call it like? The crawls, all sounds,
Those all expressions, parasitic mess,
All from inside came out; – ants not ants,
Not so the worms, but looked like flags and guns,
In tones and tints, materialized moods
Of things in shape, in shade, dead sentiments.

…The threats of vision stopped, view lost its ends
Dissolved in shouts for the needed Grave
That time, when my stressed psyche invoked again
Back to my consciousness, that f o r me then
To be a here-man. And here I am. – Think,
Else, what I can say is that, when my old mind,
Impressed a lot, went wondering alone
Of that if ever could be right to grow
Our seductive «Carny’s theme» at all, —
If e’er we’d find a way to bury doubts
(Oh, what a wisest thought!) «bout Death of War,
So it can’t rise again, per rotten chance; —
To this, I felt, however, but a nerve
Of Human inspiration, – dreaming then
Of sage and dispute to be back again.

The sun of this Spring awoke me,
With the Voice from the Sleep it rose,
From the Doubt of Thought, it took me
Into world, where the Red Truth grows.

«How often you’ve had the Red Day?» —
That mystery teller have led; —
«The word to be fair on your eye-way,
By magus the Nature be spread.»

Dumb, I have stepped into wood mine;
How felt I to see that all new:
The birches not white! – the red line
Mystify the strange poetic view.

How could‘ve that happen, oh, tell me? —
Is’t a sign of Red Horse? Skye cries? 66
Like the shades, blood with o’erwhelming,
Those Life’s witnesses stands and sighs.

Human mind – fatalist-dreamer!
All the fancies in time, behold,
Paints the things – fairer to grimmer, —
All embodied in real world.

No image stays off-the-Matter,
Not a map that poein 67, but Life;
On this border, the Fate ne’er flatter
With that Polis can use for strife.

Voice had gone… I felt quite awkward.
These red stems, kind of prophecy…
Yet I’ve dreamt, what if some Ode-word,
Incarnated, its author could sее.

/ To Olga Barre,
On her very Day,
Also to that thought of hers for
The 100th Birthday of Don Juan Mattus ./

What the bird could hear
Time, when the space go asleep,
No one to prevail they knew.

No soul done to dream insincere.

No sky can escape that of thought
To be near
To the eye of grace new.

The sigh is the heart’s atmosphere.

For whate’er the mountains stayed
As the myths with those few,
The sea-birth hymns the light over there:

Joy ancient and Earth for you.

If Poetry was Music, – what, mostly, is, —
I’d rather be a voice, that of the melos
Plays beyond the Tacts, that of the lyriс
Freer than forebound words of textured song,
Like a strange wonderer, ne’er care if right or wrong
Half-slept Composer planned it be, for world
Could learn its inner history; and that of stress,
Of hidden breath, of rarest thought in notes unread —
«Twould be a witness of the sacred dialect
For new-found sounds be your own mistery.
A song, sings newborn song, a dreaming dream —
Much I would love it c a n be; – honestly,
I’d dare to mix then a sort of nostalgie
For things unheardable with archi-tenor fancy,
What could be like no energy th’Sky needs to hymn
A Scene of very Soul of the pure Listening.
This glancing Myth! And you in it, you genious
Are the creator of the future bliss, at once:
That inspiration yours brings that what I’ve brought not:
The orphies 70from within you join my pauses,
And it is like the Chance compose that I ne’er heard, —
No falsed, no spoilt, – and this is might be somewhat…
What could be told thus of the sacrifice in notes? 71

/ To the KSMA friends,
With gratitude to J.K.
For the initiating as such a great idea of the Day ./

Three years later, five years since th’Apocalypse 72,
Which never happened, that of what old doubts
Be, still: if really happened so ’twill be not, —
The Beauty, dove-tailed thought 73, will diseclipse,
As ever, people’s minds from dead uncertainty
In bounds of its genial transgnostic Art.
New coming Dawn will phrase on that. Redeemed world!
The Biggest Doubter of goodly mankind died
On freest Sunday 74, and wasn’t it for Poet’s word,
Who came up’n new time to shake Great Negus 75hand,
Soothing no sword, if not in name of th’Unforeseen
All-Love? Unreasonable, called by Air so, Love,
That goes through the bounds of a Life-denial…
Mind, no ugly Trial on this day will be. —
How Mystery of Fate and Time takes Dream Exiled
Back to Light? not samely, as the Beauty ends old history? 76