Кантор Марина Михайловна : другие произведения.

The Castalian Spring

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The Castalian Spring

  
  

I wish you were aware from what stray matter...

  

(Anna Akhmatova)

  
  Where does the poetry come from? Nobody knows exactly, however... For thousands of years poets argued about the magical source of inspiration. Wanting to name it, poets have found metaphor: the source was called The Castalian Spring, the spring of the talent, shielded by Hellenistic myths.
  That magical spring flowed from rocks near the Parnassus Mountain in Greece. "In ancient times it was sacred to the Muses," so Webster tells us. Dreamy visions appear in the brain: proud and wonderful mountain, covered with virginal forest; nymphs, dryads, naiads and Muses (not moose!) are gamboling, singing and dancing; Apollo himself comes down sometimes. Incredible picture!
  I saw that spring. It's not far away from ancient Delphi town. We walked from the hotel and found the cleft from where the spring flows off. We passed through the narrow rocky gate. Not very far from the entrance, in a dusty ditch, under trash and litter we saw it: a thin, smelly and muddy stream of the water. What? Drink it? Bathe in it? O, never! It's unimaginable! It's a trash can, not the source of inspiration! O, Muses, Apollo, where are you? Maybe, you escaped to the top of Mount Parnassus? Then, we shall go and find you there!
  We climbed. Parnassus was as bald as the head of the Russian recruit. No trees, no nymphs, and no gods. Just dusty rocks and dried grass, tortured with sun. Maybe, only deer could live here; they are, however, irrelevant to poetry.
  Astonished, we walked down. Then, I recalled the poem of Anna Akhmatova. She never been to Greece; she never saw that spring. She lived in Russia, wrote her poems, and passed through terror, wars and fear. She said, "I wish you were aware from what stray matter/ Springs poetry to prosper without shame..." She told me it before I got to Greece. She was a prophet - as a poet can be. She told us that poets could transform the trash into poetry - and this, I think, is the only difference between poets and other people.
  

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