I remember the first
time we met– possibly it was on the bus from Central London to Ealing, where I
resided with my friends Len and Agnese.
Len introduced us. Mahmud was working at the BBC then. He was a man in a grey/beige coat, with intelligent, educated
man's language, immediately interesting, non-biased, with an unspoken
appreciation of everything's beauty around him. He had a light and unforced
sense of humour.
The occasional such
meetings (we lived a couple of houses apart in the same small street) turned
into friendship. He invited me to his BBC parlours, and to his house for afternoon tea, where I
saw the place of an educated man with interests– about poetry, music. There was
nothing to be associated with the 'normal <advertisement-generated>'
culture in his space. Pari, such a sweet-- and
if one reads the internet-- creative, educated friend of life. I felt how far
they were from their birthplace, how the warm/hot days are missing for them. There
always was this wordless message (non -
intrusive!), yearning for the complete
Paradise they had to flee in the 1970s.
The Oriental world
was such an impression— like a chest full of gold and gems, precious metals—
the huge spiritual and intellectual heritage of the East, immense capacity of knowledge,
hundreds and thousands of years ago, before
European science was born. That was my feeling– the Colossus, but in the form of a humble and sincere man.
A poet.
His poetry is immediately attracting, with
aforementioned deep world of real, rooted fantasy. And immediately eluding fast
reading: I had to catch his phrases, strophes,
force myself to read and understand— as
in Sufi practice— to be patient, not simply to break the ice. Thus I started now and
then to lift the weight of Mahmud's lines – and in most cases, I stopped after a
couple of them.
The only time I was brave enough [to compose music for his lyric] was – 2014. Mahmud's “Not All Words Are Birds“ was so direct (and merciful for the composer). I could identify and resonate with Mahmud's thoughts. Even now I see the birds - the storks, cranes - flying above in the skies of Ermanu muiza / Ermani manor - where Inga and I are living, mostly in summertime. The birds—the messengers, the thoughts have no borders, they are following to their thousands and more the year's seasonal migrations, traveling routes.
Overall to justify myself, I must acknowledge—
the best poetry is not guaranteed to fit into music, sometimes do not need music
at all to colour, illustrate the words.
Yes, I remember— I planted some years after the first performance of “Not All Words Are Birds,” an elm tree— Ulmus minor “Umbraculifera”– a Persian cultivar, introduced to Europe only in 1878— in honour of my friend, the writer Mahmud Kianush.
Meeting with Eastern values continued when we—
Inga and I— visited from Riga. Len and Agnese were now residing in the other
end of London. Our important stop was to
see Mahmud and Pari. I remember Katy was
quite surprised about the two strange foreigners sitting in the hall like old family friends. We were invited together to
see their Afghan friends in nearby Camden
Town's market. It was my first experience, like a journey in such a behaviour, attitude, may say human
responsibility, friendliness and— as the foreigners— like sisters and brothers.
Now, not anticipating Mahmud's ways, I have
already started to finish one of earlier ideas (for male chorus) of his poem “Of
Life.“ I hope to finish it by the end of this year.
Our last telephone conversation was a couple of
years ago, it was my small whim to congratulate him with the Nowruz (as I
understood, the ancient Latvians also started the year on the same date of
Equinox).
These are my basic memories about this precious, noble-minded friend, writer.
I would like to send my regards for Mahmud, in celebrating his life: he was special, he was a talent, he was truly a rare partner in conversation. Maybe, because both of us were foreigners: no complaints, but, we were different, and free from uniformed communication. Inga also is sending her gratitude and best thoughts to our friend Mahmud Kianush.
Yesterday we raised a glass of cava in memory of Mahmud. His radiance I have received will be permanent in me, this is a real treasure, rays of Enlightening.
Deepest condolences to the family and friends.
It is not an easy time for any of us.
Ugis.
OF LIFE
Let your words be like a wild flower,
A smile of azure
With a tiny mouth of gold,
In the naked sunshine of a desert,
As blissful as the kiss of a mother
On the forehead of a smiling child.
When you talk of life,
It seems as if on the road
We are confronted with a rock,
Unsightly and huge,
Happened to be there
For no known reason,
Unyielding to all solutions.
Let your words fly
Lightly in the sun
Like butterflies.
Mahmud Kianush
London, 1 April 2004
Sources:
Top photo (c) Ainars Paukšēns, from Uģis Prauliņš blog ~Not all Words are Birds
reminiscence by Uģis Prauliņš 2021
poem by Mahmud Kianush 2004
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