Millers Viljamss

Par amerikāņu dzejnieku, tulkotāju, zoologu un vispār malaci Milleru Viljamsu uzzināju kādā apsēstības periodā ar viņa meitas, kantrī/folk/rokmūziķes Lusindas Viljamsas daiļradi, kuru, kā arvien šādos brīžos, pavadīja biogrāfisko materiālu šķirstīšanas stundas. Tā tiku pie viņas tēva vikipēdijas, tad dažiem internetā publicētajiem dzejoļiem, bet tad, kādā dzimšanas dienā, arī diviem dzejoļu krājumiem. Tagad Millers Viljamss ir mans mīļākais un vienīgais man zināmais mūsdienu amerikāņu dzejnieks (cik nu astoņdesmitgadnieku var dēvēt par “mūsdienu dzejnieku”). Tā kā pirms dažām dienām pabiju Lusindas koncertā, iedomājos, ka būtu labi padalīties viņas tēva dzejas nedarbos.

Tajos tradicionālas dzejas formas (arī atskaņas!!!aasasa) un vienkārša, “tautiska” valoda  parasti ir apvienota ar mūsdienu amerikāņu stāstniecībā izplatīto apsēstību ar lēni naratīvu tēlu atklāšanos un klusām, sadzīviskām epifānijām. Kā izrādās, tā ir visnotaļ dzīvīga un iedarbīga pieeja ne tikai stereotipiskajiem lauku apgabalu iedzīvotājiem, bet arī dzejniekiem (par to liecina Viljamsa saņemtās balvas, ieskaitot ASV galveno – Poet’s Prize) un prezidentiem (Bils Klintons otrajā inaugurācijā viņam mīļi palūdza nolasīt kādu savu dzejolīti). Un labi, ka tā, citādi šķistu, ka dzejnieki nemaz nedrīkst izkāpt no metafiziskajām dimensijām, lai uz brīdi uzvilktu čības, paskatītos pa logu kaimiņmājā vai savā spogulī un sajustu Visumu arī tajos (kaut reizēm to papildina pārlieku aktīva pirksta kratīšana). Zemāk arī pāris pierādījumi.


Personals

Like a challenge? Male, 45
could pass for 60, at least twice divorced,
heavy smoker, sober now and then,
living in trailer home with no water,
looking for female with good job.


We may have no more need for half our doctors
and every talk show will fold flat
when we can understand why there are people
who will enclose a picture and answer that.

A Good Son

He called home every once in a while
to tell his mother,
just so he could imagine how she would smile,
something or other

about a girlfriend
or work or a new movie he might have seen,
whatever was right.
He lied some, but mostly he stayed between

fantasy and fact. He was a good son. He loved his mother a lot
and knew what she needed -
to live through him whether he lived or not

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina

 Somewhere in everyone's head something points toward home,
 a dashboard's floating compass, turning all the time
 to keep from turning. It doesn't matter how we come
 to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
 the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
 to where it belongs, or what you've risen or fallen to.

 What the bubble always points to,
 whether we notice it or not, is home.
 It may be true that if you move fast
 everything fades away, that given time
 and noise enough, every memory goes
 into the blackness, and if new ones come-

 small, mole-like memories that come
 to live in the furry dark-they, too,
 curl up and die. But Carol goes
 to high school now. John works at home
 what days he can to spend some time
 with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.

 Ellen won't eat her breakfast.
 Your sister was going to come
 but didn't have the time.
 Some mornings at one or two
 or three I want you home
 a lot, but then it goes.

 It all goes.
 Hold on fast
 to thoughts of home
 when they come.
 They're going to
 less with time.

 Time
 goes
 too
 fast.
 Come
 home.

 Forgive me that. One time it wasn't fast.
 A myth goes that when the years come
 then you will, too. Me, I'll still be home.

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