The Art of Words Belongs to Eternity
There is no polarity, no duality, no disharmony. Duality is an illusion, like a stage set up behind a curtain of oblivion, where actors act out the drama of incarnation, unaware that they are simultaneously actors, directors, and spectators.
All is one infinite Creator, and the path to it is through moment-to-moment awareness. When we choose to take responsibility for every moment of our experience, we accelerate our progress.
And the best way to serve others is to open up and reveal your true nature to them without hesitation.
Our path back to the original, unified and conscious is like a map with a well-known destination marked out. The countless paths and byways are also known to the mapmaker. The choice of the route is in our hands. It is the conditionality of free will. A game in which we are not allowed to choose the destination, but only our path to it.
Ernests Austrums (literary pseudonym)
Where and why does an image arise? Where does a poem live when it has not yet been born? Such questions have been heard many times, but I doubt whether the answer even exists.
Because the creator of poetry himself is an incomprehensible being, rather a phenomenon that does not conform to any norms and can be attributed to an anomaly or a miracle. An unaccountable miracle.
We live in a time when miracles don't happen, they only happen rarely. So rare that when we see a nugget in a drift of sand, we can't believe it. But we have to believe, because the spell is happening right before our eyes. And suddenly time sticks to our soles and won't peel off, and we have to carry this weight like a condemned man. And lightning bolts go like arrows along the edge, and all this before our eyes like in the paintings of Grosvalds and Kazāks. And the heart becomes pure and hot like a roof tin, which is scorched by June, rustling the nights for the next day's fuel. And in the morning the darkness gathers in coffins, and more and more of Ernest's conjured images come at us in ranks, shooting with ninth-caliber words. It's not easy to stay alive after such a density of images, after such a frontal attack, because you have to survive in a completely different universe, where there are no road signs and you have to learn to be a guide yourself.
Ernests' poetry has a fascinating quality of calling back to itself again and again. The density of fresh, original images is surprising, they mostly organically weave into the fabric of poetry, its form, which in turn holds within the classical framework, while at the same time trying to expand and untangle them. May the east wind fill the sail and bring this book to readers!
Armands Melnalksnis
