You Hear…
‘You know, Gena writes poetry…’
I didn’t know that. Gena is a thick-set fair-haired man of about forty. He studied to become a physicist, never graduated, and now works as a lab assistant in some research institute. He always has a plump brief-case about, even when visiting friends.
‘Could it be poems that are inside?’
‘Might well be poems. He has been writing for many years – and never published a thing.’
‘They won’t have him?’
‘He won’t try, he just keeps writing, and that’s it. From time to time he gives a friend a collection as a birthday present– and is quite content with that.’
‘Wish you could get hold of a copy for me…’
‘I think I have one about… here it is.’
I took the little book bound in leather with a silk ribbon for the book-mark. He binds them himself… I opened the book, the first poem began – “…a Hellenic youth…”, he was doing something with a paddle, can’t remember exactly what… The second… “…a beautiful Amazon maid…” But oh no, it can’t be. The third – “…how beautiful evening roses are…”
I shut the little book. I was stunned. I had imagined a graphomaniac writer as something quite different. He has been creating his pieces for so many years – and he never talks about it, doesn’t push on to carve his way to notoriety, doesn’t frequent publishing houses with this case of his. Unconcerned he writes on an on. Doing what he needs to do – and that’s that… When we start – we just need it, we don’t hope for anything. It is not work yet, but pure joy. Then it becomes one’s trade – and doubts and torments commence… and imprecations – I’ve got stuck with my drawing, I’ve got stuck with my writing…
My friend laughs:
‘Why aren’t you reading, you’ve asked for it. A natural graphomaniac, yes… But what a fine fellow for all that – a truly pure soul…’
‘Have you read it through?’
‘I must confess I’ve never made it to the end.’
‘Let’s try the end…’
I opened the last page — and read:
— YOU HEAR…
You hear a leaf drop in the autumn woods
You hear a twig screech sliding against the window pane
You hear a sparrow have a bath in the sultry heat, beating his wings in the dust
You hear a hawk fly in the sky slowly vanishing in the distance
You hear the old cat sleep, breathing heavily, noisily
You hear a cockroach run over rough paper with his little legs going tap-tap-tap
But you never hear time crawl, or run, or fly
But you never hear death approach, rest his hand on the back of your chair
Shift his feet, have a look over your shoulder…
