"Banzai to the Humanity
Of scared god!”
How to write about HIM? About whom exactly? About my god or about the poet? You should know - it is not same! But there is a God's particle in the poet, and I will write about it as about whole. Let my imagination create another image of the poet, the one I would like to see. Also let's imagine that his poetry and him – is one. Let's see what will come out?
So: his name is Vladimir Oksikovskii. Some time will pass, and his name will be in the same row with Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Blok and Vysotsky, if this life proceeds as it proceeded till this moment.
What can tell an autobiography about a soul, strength of mind and talent of a titan? Almost nothing. And only his verses and songs will slightly open to everybody a veil of secrecy.
“I know all your skin,
And I know all your blood.
I will leave - you will whisper: "Early".
And that is a last fight of Titan”.
Such he begins his song - a song of prayer and love. And he will finish this song with words of kindness and reconciliation with life:
“Eternity ahead of us with you,
Life is right in everything.
And from our bodies under black earth
Flowers and grass will be fed.
What is most important in his life? Surely, first - his birth in the city of Baku on January 7, 1958. What does he remember since the childhood? Of course - the city - and a cry about lost earth is sounding:
“... My poor city made with centuries
From three religions, oil and Love,
And the gloomy Caspian Sea sharpens a black stone,
And we mixed on liberty and Love.
I was born in your sacred Sabuncha,
Where brotherhood of the nations was not a forbidden fruit,
Where God of Love didn't become a son-of-a-bitch, or an inveterate drunkard,
He was bringing all of us under his hall”.
As tree doesn't live without roots so Vladimir Oksikovskii can't live without the earth that gave him life.
But what became with his Baku, where a secret birth of roots of mighty great families hidden? And the answer - a song-cry of the city, left by God and by the poet:
“...And some dead men lie on one side,
Having squeezed on the breasts whether a cross, whether a dirt,
And if my cry is about the old Baku,
Means - I don't have enough of Homeland”.
And where is now his Homeland? What happened to it? And I hear a cry from the soul which finishes the shout from Baku:
“And a pain also born to light,
The day burning Life as a pig,
If Magomet would be seeing it,
He'd damn all that”.
But where is an exit for the poet, where is a rescue? Perhaps he should renounce the native earth? No, he denies it in the lines:
“I didn't write parodies on myself
And I wasn't shared as a water-melon on pieces,
But if there is no "I" terrestrial in me, -
There is also none of conscience and will”.
Means, rescue is in integrity of his poetry. He, living in Moscow area, remembers everything, also his... grandmother.
When he was coming home heart-broken she was able to crack such a joke that his grief departed in a second, and happiness was getting born in the soul.
That is where your rescue is! Here, in such grandmothers - lean, in some Russian kerchiefs. She would stamp her foot, wink, play a trick - and the life changed coloring from grey into rainbow!
And as all boys he passionately played soccer, secretly smoked cigarettes, and once with a friend didn't go to school and tasted a first wine.
There was also a first love, but his stutter hindered, and in many years a song-confession of an unfortunate first love is born to light:
“The stutterer, - they shouted, - stutterer, -
...And I am, fool, made a racket and fought.
And, after all, of my first shout " -
I was frightened...”
How often people are frightened of themselves, of own feelings, and then...
“When I told her: "Ki... kiss me!" -
She burst out laughing”.
In total all similar to others and nevertheless - something distinguished him from other teenagers. But what it was? Perhaps - a high sensitivity and a violent imagination since the early childhood? And these qualities gave rise to a Great Dream of Heavenly Love in his heart? And as a confirmation of my thoughts of him - this lines:
“...You not simply believed in a Dream,
You was dissolved in it...”
A sensitive perception of people and a fantastic pensiveness opened in him a vivifying spring of poetry and music, and there was a first song in 1982, written on a bet, without effort:
“On the easter apple-trees
A white smoke thaws.
The new year's morning
Here it is - a rebirth of Volodya, a birth of new poet, his Easter.
And further - songs, songs, verses, poems - an infinite stream of divine thought.
From the second school class he studied play a guitar, and when some songs were born, they began to sound by his voice, and under the guitar sounds. And the songs fell down in abundance, and this phenomenon proceeded for many years while Muse sent him her Light.
So who is he, Vladimir Oksikovskii? A scared Russian God of harmony, music and verse; a mysterious star, the light of his songs goes from heart to heart and makes you kinder, purer and softer. And he answers me in next line:
"...I am Nosh - I keep a ship's log
Describing of each creature couples”.
And I had an inspiration: he is as Noah, describing you, makes seated in a song ark of conscience and love! He offers you his rescue! And it is such Christianly simple. He calls you for repentance, forgiveness and creativity:
“Let's start forgive
To our tired hopes,
Let's start forgive
Let's play on a lira,
Let's get down high into the air...”
What a wonderful discovery he brought me! Turned out that there is no rise in Mountain heights, but - fall to earth, to people, to Lira!
In 1987, by strange combination of circumstances, he comes to my work. Then I was a director of concert department and remembered this day forever. There were about six o'clock in the evening. I was tired of listening of singers-beginners.
To be a true listener is huge work. I worked as doctor listening to a pulse, and to catch a pulsation of heart of song was very difficult. I began to gather to go home, and suddenly...
He entered - excessively thin, with long not combed hair. I remembered his nervous thin hands with blue streaks of swelled up little veins, and tired eyes. The employees, weary of talk and information, fussed around, getting ready to go home.
He got out a guitar from a cover and, without ceremonies and explanations, started singing Stalin's confession to his mother:
“Do you remember how they dragged me from the mausoleum
Under silence of angelic pipes,
And how the crowd looked, getting mute,
On this marble frame...”
The song struck the ceiling and walls as a bird in cage, and gave rise to a confusion in my soul.
I didn't like Stalin and his era, and suddenly, as a tub of cold water on my tired head and as a shot directly in the heart - lyrics - as a call to all my beliefs - brought a pain. Mother wakened in me:
“...Mother, you remember
I wanted to shoot through my own breast...”
“...Mother, you remember me,
When I could offend nobody?
When people start hating us -
Heavens starting forgiving”.
"What?! He acquits Stalin?! Acquits this monster?" - the thought rushed in my head, there was a confusion, my mind paniced. But suddenly something burst in the brain as though all partitions broke, and I felt a warm stream of light and inspiration, a Mother of Life started talking in me, and she turned everything in me into a song, into a pain, into a miracle, into a laughter. Like that, yes!!! That's it! I had a feeling which he, surprisingly precisely, will put into words:
“...And a pain as if a pendulum from laughter to shout,
When, having thrown everything, We find Great!”
I understood - the One, whom I so much time looked for, listening to the bards coming to me by hundreds. An envoy, a Messenger, a Prophet from my God, a genius of song and verse came to me.
And I accepted this person by all my heart. And he became for me a most close friend, and in many years later - my Guardian angel and a Christener on the way of God. And this is despite that thousands of defects lived in the person with name Vladimir, I simply didn't want to notice them. I made from him my Guardian angel.
And I studied the poetry of Vladimir. Only through time I understood the depth of inspiration that Volodya brought to me. He forgives everyone. And they are, dead and alive, come and confess to the one who listens and puts all in verses.
Stalin, Hitler, Lenin, Kaligula, Neron, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Rasputin, Gorbachev - all, kind and angry, geniuses and untalented, politicians, drunkards, prostitutes, cities and years, countries and eras, historical events - all of them speak with us through Oksikovskii: "Forgive us, we already forgave you".
Here the revolution asks from us, or may be just from me, a forgiveness:
“I don't know to whom it's necessary!
Life has flown silent and prompt,
And the children took up the arms
And shot down their parents...”
And how this historical event on a Divine plan, invisible to external eyes, comes to the end? Personally for the Verses open an internal sight:
“And at night the shot out parents
Come to forgive them”.
They forgive own children, the those who made the revolution and killed their parents!
Why you, people, still can't forgive this event and the people what managed it?!
Volodya redeems this sin for you together with me.
And as response to my reflections - Vladimir sings:
“I forgive to love, lawless and false,
And to hundreds of fires of Sacred Agni.
Whether she would forgive me my haughty temper,
That soiled her wings of me”.
Who is – "She"? And the answer - in one of his last songs
“I ask you, Mother of God,
I ask you, Mother of God,
I ask for myself and for all,
That a last beggar
Had a word and food,
And that his word never
Would lead into sin ...”
From where Oksikovskii has taken a new gold-haired Mother of God? Well, here each fool will guess - this is about me. For him and for the Poetry I am not just a Mother Nature as we live in a Christian world. The Verses themselves call me the Mother of God. And it turns out that all the Verses of Vladimir are a dialogue of the prophet and the Mother of God.
And all what came from an imagination is already materialized in flesh and blood here on Earth and all that is not for nothing. All this conversation of the poet-prophet with the Mother of God changes this world and it's only visible to the Mother of God and not to anybody else. But he plays a role in this performance and has to play it till the end. And I have to read this fairy tale and that is up to me to operate it.
So, he asks Mother of God about forgiveness. But before asking Mother of God of forgiveness, he passes through an infinite work of forgiveness - chains of tsars, dictators, artists, poets, musicians, soldiers. They came at night to his heart and told about themselves. And each such meeting isn't simply a song, it is a confession with a life performance. He sings, and we laugh and we cry.
The songs of Vladimir helped me to see a link between times and generations. These songs penetrate the past, connecting them to the present and pave the Way of Light to the future. And here what he writes about himself:
“Perhaps one day
I will manage to understand
A Krishna's despair,
Perhaps one day
I will manage to accept
Everything that is given me from above:
Both - the wall of cry and the Lord's coffin...”
But here a sharp turn from crying to laughter, and I hear a monologue of Kaligula's horse:
“I suspected that he is stupid
And all his programs - also.
Imagine, he blurted out so:
All empire is a mess,
Only some cattle and boors are there...”
“We will catch up with all and overtake them
By some effective measures.
And in all the empire there are houts and slogans:
Need! Need! Need!
Whether they want sticks with birches,
Whether - some chocolate...”
And of course Kaligula's programs weren't carried out, and:
“They say that both - slaves and Gods are guilty,
There are not enough of salt and cotton wool, the fish is too expensive”.
Well, how not to smile here as everything is so known and actual. So often history repeats itself. And a joke sounds as a prevention: "Let's not repeat the same mistakes again, or instead of us will be speaking our horses".
All songs of Volodya help to see and hear a main thing - Truth.
There is Truth in any story, but it is hidden under some butaforny clothes and masks. So we study the story as Neron set Rome on fire because he was a cruel and blood-thirsty dictator, and the people didn't want to obey to this governor.
And suddenly Volodya unmasks a horror and strength of the emperor, and I see an offended boy to whom someone in the childhood told that he writes the nasty verses, and then this boy proved all life to himself that it's a lie. So who is guilty, why he became like that? This question demands a long heart's reflections.
Here is how a cupbearer of Neron looks at this problem by V. Oksikovskii:
"I've told to myself: Dilute wine with water,
He already sticks out as scoop,
Set on fire, shouts, set on fire
The Roman yards.
Well, what is he kind of poet?
Thick, red, as a crab.
Shall I invite some ladies-dancers?
Perhaps somehow it will be possible by means of women
To extinguish this poetic heat?!”
“...What is the rascal doing?!
The temple of Mars burns,
Built by the national money!”
Such is Neron's truth!
How often the wars between countries began and begin not because a policy changed, but because in the evening governor got drunk, and quarreled with the wife, and here already a war or a new restrictions and decrees. Whether it is possible to condemn the governor for it? I will answer with Jesus's words: "Who is innocent? Let him cast the first stone!"
And you, sinning, some times in vain you judge governors and by that you plunge them even more into an abyss of lawlessness. There is nobody here to stand for them and you have what you have.
Through Volodya's songs I see a depth of human wisdom and stupidity, simplicity and pretentiousness, devotion and treachery.
Having listened to these songs, I began humanly to sympathize to Neron and Kaligula and to all these who considered as the mighty ones of this world. Some boys, out of children's offenses, weaknesses and fears, are making mankind's history based on blood and sweat.
And they are not at all all-powerful, but simply timid and sensitive, with absence of belief in themselves. As Goodwin from children's book "The wizard of the emerald city", the one who was great and awful turned out as a cowardly and fat, who lost his house. So all our politicians, governors and magnates, they are the same Gudvins, often unfortunate persons with no character.
If they believed in themselves, in their wisdom - would they begin to offend anyone, would they be capricious and launch wars? Such they demand our attention and protection: "Do love me in an amicable way! Intercede for me, protect me from myself. Don't you want it like that - I will show you!".
And what you do, dear gentlemen?! You scold the children, governors, countries.
So who is guilty? And the Ivan the Terrible's song confession:
“...I killed my own son in temper, Oh!
Oh, I am so bad!
And a last candle burns down,
Oh, if there would be God!”
The search of God is so difficult. In 1992 I leave Moscow in search of Living God on Earth. And in this year Volodya begins a bible cycle. A songs about my searches and sincere experiences are born: "Magdalene", "An Epiphany", "A Lady's Day", "The Gefsimansk's garden", "Jesus's Birth" - etc.
Together we stepped everyone on his road of search of God. And four years later, having visited the half-world, I come back to my Russia to the world of poetry of the Russian poet-dreamer who believed that Christ and Mother of God didn't leave this earth. And there is a high insistence to own guilty heart, and a belief in God's mercy:
“I listened a song sung by monks,
So quietly and gently that I shivered.
And there was only a step to God and an executioner's block,
But I couldn't take this step.
And the heart was beating - My God, have a mercy!"
He can't take this step without you, those who will want to hear his Voice. He want to present heroes of his songs with warmth and love. The poet himself lives as an unknown, from the lack of realization he drinks a bitter one and stacks the songs and verses. There is no demand for simplicity, modesty, frankness and for poetry itself.
Vladimir isn't able to put on masks and clothes, and there is no any image to which all people so got used to. You, people, as in the fairy tale about a princess and a swineherd, you choose an imitation and prefer a mechanical nightingale to a real rose. And our greatest dreamer sings:
“...Do love God while he is still Alive,
So far as his world is so beautiful,
While still in power his passion and world,
And the way is so pure and clear”.
“...A star lit up by sharp fire,
Christ was born who forgave
All of us infinitely, childly”.
“...Those came to The Lord,
Who were always in poverty.
The first ones, the first”.
The prophet asks Mother of God for the whole earth:
“...I ask you, Mother of God,
Girded in black silk,
For them the baby, gives himself as son - out of fidelity to the Father,
I ask you, Mother of God,
Eternally alive, resurrected church porch,
This earth to the end”.
He asks for all of you, for earth. But I will tell that you, people, missed the time and now your chance is lost. I only rescuing Mother Nature, mother Earth. And you yourself think of own rescue, while reading his verses.
Now, when I re-read the written by me again, I am surprised of myself and of purity of own perception.
But I needed to take away from each person in whom it was - a particle of my broken into small pieces God.
I re-read, remember and cry. The memory breaks through with pain. The blow was so strong and brought such pain, and after - a total loss of memory, amnesia. Many of those who was near also had that.
The millennia had passed, and the particles of God began to come to life and each splinter of his big and pure soul began to look for the beloved, and a memory began to gather in my heart into the single whole representation of God and into the one who created all this Universe and wrote this history of big love.
You will always be able to learn this story from those poets in whom God's particle was really stored. And here I present you those Verses that sounded in His soul and proceeded through the poet who was a splinter of His big love to the Goddess.