Selected Poems [antikvár]

A Few'Words About Myself Poets write books to tell other people about "themselves and their time", about the innermost stirrings of their soul, to communicate their thoughts and feelings. Poets are probably the most generous people on earth. They give away what they treasure and prize most of all. Russian poets — from Pushkin to Tvardovsky — have given me the history, destiny and soul of Russia, Shevchenko and Rylsky — the griefs and joys of the Ukraine, Rustaveli and Leonidze — the tenderness and toughness of Georgia. I am grateful to Armenia's Isaakian for bequeathing to me, an Avar, Lake Sevan's shimmering blue and the snowy summits of Mount Ararat. When I visited Kabardino-Balkaria, Kaisyn Kuliev told me: "I give you Elbrus and the Chegem gorge where I was born." Poets of different lands and epochs, of different nations and peoples have brought to my own mountain village the sky and soil of Spain, the tunes and hues of Italy, the prayers and vows of India, the truth and beauty of France. I have been fortunate. To me, a man of the -mountains, born in the remote village of Tsada, poets have brought the whole world of which my forefathers were deprived for centuries. Whereas previously I could speak of "my Daghestan", I may now speak of "my Russia", "my Georgia", "my Planet". The poet's generosity — which does not diminish his own worth and freedom — does