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

A Shade – there’s the dark echoing: —
«Of a noblest kind!» – slides in,
All silent, pre-materialized.
There can be seen no eyes
Of maid surprised, no scene
Of fatal cries. A monster
Felt from high-po e tic stars,
He swam across the sea of Death,
And, after seven lives of storm,
His ugly look how eloquent!
Much peaceful though. The light-rays
Seem are not to aggravate the lines
On his still brow, so ’tis like now
As he tries his light-way back.
Envoked to face the old dream’s wrack.
Within the Rumours House, frank,
He steps, in corridors of Lie.
Those specks of crystal life guides
Him to th’ rooms of other-side Crime;
With manner of the dead he comes,
In manner of a gone-bye stays
There by the frame of glass —
Infernal entrance. – Sweet diable waits,
Envoker of the burn e d tails:
Intrigue – prist e ss of ache’n shame —
She ought to do him welcome.
In her service, that a sacrifice
To make for him, to animate
His vague self. – Abandoned Shade!
Be fed thou by a sacred essence
From the most luxuriant Hell!
And can’t thou see these gazing Sins?
Not of the most devoted they
Are seen and bloodsome to be yours?!
Have a liquid life from them, be-shared:
One fear relatives they 77. —
A sad guest. He sees around her
The sights of lunarcraft there —
Depraved Gossips ’bout a «lost face»
Has their fun, and, ’tlike some Mass on,
The naive and sensitive in their will.
The loves too sweet are to be killed, —
They laughing?… – «Dear murderer,
You gibbet’s libertine, kids’ knot!
Are you proud not? We yours, yours!»
They’re giving their life-drops; phrase;
And as he yet can’t tell his Fate,
She pours some magic upon glass; —
There, in Diaboli’s circle dark 78,
O’er the border of reflected Doubt,
He realize… he stands himself,
His awkward figure, and his face,
As if from ashy rhyme arisen,
Alien to them. But what’s that shape? —
His ugly look where has gone?!…
He sees in his reflection’s eyes,
Would be that Ferro Luxe 79from, those sparks
Of starry soul; and no ruined
Grace, no aught of damned lines
At all – a vision of clean Youth,
Delightful, poetic, but… feared, so.
Feared of (a) doomed self, of diable’s call,
Betrayal of the Past?… Reflections
Quite can be confused, when meet they
In the glass of Times their part,
Their lasting life. – That fears…
Though the feared (is) facing Fear leaves;
A silent visitor steps back;
His Future saw its Shade from dark,
And he’s to keep the path. And…
Yes,… as like the timeless echo-thought,
The other side of Air there spells, —
Whilst his eyes back to kiss his boat
Far let be flying through the ends
Of the blind dream of Life’s Ghost; —
So, he’s to hear: – «He’s with us… Amongst…» 80