Latvian Feature

fuck it, do I or do I not make sense?

ByEdvīns Raups Edvīns Raups

Contrary to the opinion expressed by some regarding the senselessness of contemporary poetry, I have always been tormented with this/a search for sense. — fuck it, do I or do I not make sense? And what the fuck is the sense of life around me and of me, myself. . . These questions torment me for a large part of each day, but in the rare moments, when I write — yes then, know that I am not tormented, then I feel exhilarating sadness or joy. . . Living itself becomes a celebration, I'm imbued with a dense and cosmic energy that translates into an animalistic honesty. And can there be any greater sense in life than the search for sense? That is the poet's extraordinary social task, his (temporal?) position in the world, his aesthetically polished lines being a thorn in the eye of some — if not the majority in this worn out industrialized society. Because the art of subduing/taming words to be a perfect expression of a thought is the unique beauty of this language's gala concert. Besides, the thought in a poem — whether it be sentimental or pragmatic, carries within itself a coded gene of ultimate awareness, that gene which determines (what is) the sense of being/existence and the being of sense. While this is not something, like a diploma for example, that you can demonstrate to others as proof of your value, it is for the briefest of moments, what you feel when you write a poem. And while you write you know that you exist, that your existence makes sense. More so than eating. That's how I encourage/reassure myself, here, in Latvia. . .

Translated by Margita Gailitis