Imants Ziedonis R.I.P.

I did not manage to recount my theory about four types of people before another God-given one departed. The God-given (and this has no connection to any specific religion) are talented, gifted - they see and feel further than others. The God-given are of two types: those who believe in their inner light, and those who do not. But the life mission of both types is to pass the light on to those around them. Some fulfil it; others never find the right way, path, or opportunity to do so. Evidently, Ziedonis was God-given and he believed in his light. I don't truly know whether such people leave from old age, illness, accident, or simply because they have written themselves out, spoken themselves out, expressed themselves completely dry.

I remember - it is very long ago now - choosing to write about Imants Ziedonis's "Attack of the Butterflies" in a secondary school literature specialisation exam. It seemed everything was said in that collection of poems. Few Latvian poets suit the summer. Ziedonis did. He was somehow beyond any mentality or canon. Proof of this, if nothing else, is the genre of epiphanies he created. There are no boundaries between poetry and prose, no straight lines, everything in zigzags, movement butterfly-like.

Yesterday, when the news broke that I. Ziedonis was no more, many on Twitter retweeted a fragment of his poetry. I liked that. As if one after another, hundreds of glow-worms lit up in a nocturnal meadow.

It was difficult to call I. Ziedonis one's "favourite poet" or "favourite writer", because a "favourite poet" or "favourite writer" always writes in the same specific beloved style, with specific images, beloved symbols or comparisons. Ziedonis always said something new and different. That was always captivating, but never allowed one to place him on any list or attach any "tag" to him. Sometimes one wondered: where does he get all this?! But it sounds, resounds, echoes far and wide.

"Sing at the grave. Why are you silent - sing! He cannot hear. Not for him. Sing - not for him who has left, but for you who remain. Not for the needles in the grave, but for the leaf at the treetop. For yourselves, you living! - it is you who need the song, not him." (I. Ziedonis. Epiphanies)

Image: Drawing by Kurts Fridrihsons