Luuletus
Selliseid luuletusi, mis mind köitsid, sattus lugeda aeg-ajalt ikka mõned. Teadsin erinevaid luulevorme, rütmi, paralleele, erinevaid riimimise võimalusi. Veel meeldis teada saada luuletajate elulugusid. Põnevaid seiku ja nende tavaliste päevade kohta. Huvi pakkusid vanad luuletused-ajad, kaheksas-üheksas, kaheteistkümnes ja seitsmeteistkümnes sajand. Luuletustes ma ei kahelnud. Oma kahekümnendate aluks oli ka mul pea kümme luuletust. Siis ei kirjutanud enam midagi, võimalik et üle kahekümne aasta. Olin olnud ka huvitatud, miks keegi kirjutas, kui sattusin kuskilt lugema, et keegi luuletas endas selgusele jõudmiseks, see oli meelde jäänud.
Toad olid mul korteris läbikäidavad, keskmises toas seisis ainult riidekapp, ka kardinaid aknal ei kasutanud. Lamasin tagatoas madratsil ja püüdsin meenutada viimati hetke, tunnet, mida ma endas hästi tundnud olin ja seda hetke, mis praegu tabada. Võis olla september, öös oli veel veidi aimata suvist hõngu ja aknad olid paotatud. Terve päeva olin sõna otsinud ja paarilist, et alustada. Riimi sai üks sõnapaar, eelviimases ja viimases reas. Meeleolu sai kurblik aga petta ei tahtnud, ja nii kirjutasin korrates ühe sõnaerinevusega veel teise luuletuse. Mõtiskluses sai sellest siiski luuletuse teine salm. Luuletuse panin nööpnõelaga seinale keskmises toas riidekapi vastas, kile alla, et tuulepuhang seda maha ei saaks.
Öösel ärgates läbisin veel korra keskmist tuba ja uksel märkasin helendavat kollast laiku seinal, vaatasin seda arusaamatuses ja siis taipasin – tänavalatern, kaugemal, valgustas kilet luuletusel, mis nõnda helendas.
A poem
I happened to read such poems that attracted me from time to time. I knew different forms of poetry, rhythm, parallels, different kinds of rhyming. I also liked learning about the poets' biographies. About exciting things and their ordinary days. Of interest were the old poems-times, the eighth-ninth, twelfth and seventeenth centuries. I had no doubts about the poems. At the beginning of my twenties, I also had about ten poems. Then I don't write anything anymore, possibly for more than twenty years. I was also interested in why someone wrote, when I happened to read somewhere that someone wrote a poem to find clarity, I remembered it.
The rooms in my apartment were passable, only a wardrobe was in the middle room, and curtains were not used on the window either. I lay on the mattress in the back room and tried to remember the last moment, the feeling I had felt well inside me and the moment to capture now. It might have been September, there was still a hint of summer in the night and the windows were boarded up. All day I had been looking for a couple to start. One pair of words rhymed, in the penultimate and last line. The mood became sad, but I didn't want to cheat, and so I wrote another poem with one word difference. In reflection, however, it became the second verse of the poem. I put the poem with a pin on the wall in the middle room opposite the wardrobe, under the film so that the wind wouldn't blow it off.
When I woke up at night, I went through the middle room one more time and at the door I noticed a glowing yellow time on the wall, I looked at it in confusion and then I realized - the street lamp, in the distance, illuminated the film on the poem, which glowed like.
