We, a group of poets united by a common creative perception of the world, appriciate the world as not a sum of separate phenomena, but as an expression of an unique essence of the universe. We call this universe the Lumen. Lumen. Our eyes impale the things and penetrate into the radiating stream of Lumen. We transfix the spirit and substance. The unique light discovers itself in a variety of forms, and one of them is the verse. Our objective proposals for the realization of Lumen:
1. Form is a part of the content.
2. Lumen is not only an abstract and speculative concept, and we, force our way to Lumen with technical tools not monopolizing any of them. Lumen is not abstract and speculative only, Lumen is not abstract and speculative only, we strive for it, armed with different technical achievements without declaring a monopoly to one reception
3. The word for us is not a means, but the means and the goal altogether:
a) profundity and dynamics of word is a condenser of Lumen;
b) savings words in connection with the creative exertion.
4. World as a rhythm.
5. Lumen as a rhythm.
6. Objectification of the personality (stepping beyond the boundaries of especially personal psychology).
7. Monumental meaning lyric (our verses there are the marks which carved on granite blocks by in bronze for transfering to the next centuries, we write outside the present).
8. Reflection of the present – sub specie aeternitatis (in the aspect of eternity).
9. Trade-mark – green stem – the Sun.
The Sun does not need an hourglass marking its footsteps. Hourglass does need the Sun to be.
We don’t dictate the rules either for ourselves or for the others, we’ve just figured out the common points of view on creativity. Perhaps we’re still far away from these urgent theses, but step by step we follow the road to the Lumen. Because Luminizm for us is not only a literary device, but the whole life – the life through poetry and poetry through life.
Prophetic message of Lumenism
The background of philosophical and artistic creativity is uncovered. The sages and the prophets were defrocked, and behind the stage, where they made prophecies, giving themselves airs, taught us, everybody could see rough ropes and barbed wire of nude instinct of self-preservation.
A laurel wreath turned to wreath of iron, magnificent clothes turned to miserable clothes, which were covered up trembling nudity.
A fiery tornado of «It», terrible in its beauty, sated with froth of the untamed ocean, was opened up before our eyes and scorches our consciousness.
Our trembling consciousness was in a hurry to hide itself behind the selfmade schemes and scenery, and by means of the magic sounds it tries to muffle a noise of the greate ocean.
The granitic foreheads construct the gravestones over the cave where the indomitable «It» was imprisoned, but its red-hot sparks break through the heavy gravestones and fly up to the stars.
The madmen saw them: epileptic mumblings by Dostoevsky, sharp-sighted eyes by Nietzshe from under the beetling brows, native chaos by Tutchev, the white flame by Annenskiy.
Opposite them – the phalanxes of scholar philosophers, the reputed poets and the blind born critics.
«Back to Kant» – «Hide behind his back!» Under defence of the forty forties jailers, for the firm walls of logic of three dimensions, to the «kupchiha» by weight in seven poods, in the refuge for the anamic and beautiful ladies.
Oh courageous sailors! ventured to sail against the decuman waves. Where is your harbor? Where will you anchor?
But through the grey storm-clouds, in tempest and storm, – flesh and blood of the barest «It».
Many years passed, but little experienced!
Straining every nerve of their tubercular lungs, the symbolists majestically declared: «We are the fathers of the new rhythmes and revelations!» But... the revolutionaries turned into the simple bookworms, permanently suffering from with logical haemorrhoids, – turned into the hothouse butterflies.
«It» became a very respectable bookmark in a thoughtful book.
The fiery «It» died out amidst the dead abstractions.
The blazing «It» exhausted itself amidst the quicksands of the grandiloquent words.
How many prophets – and there is no one Apocalipse!
The dishevelled red-haired fellow who has lungs like a gorilla and the microcephalic head.
The dray-horse of the poetry, the percheron of granitic rhythmes.
He talked hoarsely nineteen to the dozen and croaked seven pairs of very clever sentences.
Futurists breathed with gasoline and automobile cognac, instead of having a breath of fresh air – they lounged about by asphaltic paradise, hands in pants, untill they vomitted.
How long could they lounge the Kuzneckij bridge by automobile gait, listening to mechanical interruptions of their mitral valve made of reinforced concrete, spitting , speaking through their teeth using foul language.
Here Imagism-butterfly went on the stage like a shot from a gun, trumbling by the wind of the orchestra, with grace of an experienced cabaret singer in «the shell of the seductive phrases and poses». The hybrid of Majakovskij and Severjanin, that is hybrid of tiger and canary. Imagism in order to rise its stock exchange of poetry first of all had hurried to curse the futurism as «a wore out shoe» and, had declared the hegemony of the image, started produce mechanically and very hazardously, as an apache, the philologic stilts and provided themselves with the cash desk of «National» to calculate the number of the images in the verses.
But the factory making the mechanical shoes is not the poetry, and everybody convinced, having acquired the literary corns, turning the gangrene.
With the «applyed make-up» soul and with the clenched fists, the imagism wastes it's efforts in moving to pity somebody and to convince somebody in one’s prophetical gift and of one’s creative greatness.
Attitudinizing, buffoonery juggling with own sincerity – all that promises imagists the coquettish and indecent ending.
That is enough.
The universal «It», Lumen; the storming light; the red-wings of the vortex; the red breast of the stormy sails; the blinding foam of the cosmic sigh; this is not and that is not; but everything is in everything and nothing is in nothing, – it is, like is in sparkling wines, it flies, like a squall, to a weak consciousness and across the blue and gold fields of the horizont wrecked down, – in the volcanic symphonies, – it flows over the world.
The lines move, the corners move, the perspectives fall away, everything goes down, like heavy stones, during the day and the night, yesterday and today, sooner or later; the dispersed reality, like the sparks of the fuming bonfire, is merging, similar to the blue haze, with the blue streaks, and ruby suns and gold moons flew of the gold streaks.
Naked, barefooted soul, – breathing in the bitterness and the slash fire of the worldspout, – falls in the black draw-well, uselessly seeking to stop in the endless expanse.
The fireworks of sharpened orbits, the rusty tracks of meteors, the blades of comets, like a sickle, the sleepless torture, when the convulsively compressed jaws had not unclench; the perpetual grimace twists the shreds of the clouds with the maternal damnations and unappeasable inevitableness.
But near the very nadir, behind the last limit, amidst of total darkness, the light is growing now, like a stalk, and the green waves drip dew, the sky-blue lilies are visible into the black source in theirs enlightened impulse.
Unexpected insight, tearing by the agonizing music of pain, floats away in the direction of its bosom, of eternal, dreadful in its silence the «It», and the black color of the snow-white stamens crumble, keeping itself as an echo into word.
The word sways, exhaling with snow-white aroma, and the black fire runs about the its consonance.
But not like an isolated mavericks, who is killed themselves with the torments of solitude, – we, lumenists, come to you, but to go through fire and water, going through thick and thin and hardening themselves with the slow fire, we bring you the, eternity
The live word, growing out of the circulation of the layers and vibrations by the unexhausted vortexes of the a revelations, fast like lightning, that is not a grammatical word, but a word alien to our usual statical speech, looking for the channel for its rhythms in darkness and to the underground shining with the phosphorus of its emotions, – this word is not an end in itself, but the means and aim together, immortal organism in the veins of which the «It» pulsates. This word uses not outside futuristic dynamics and not scholastic imagery of the imagists for food only, but inner, spontaneously igniting and irresistible dynamics for, – spiritual eschatology, – and the images in this word are the alive faces and the radiation, which is spreading by fire, of the eternal «It».
Strained, like a very tightly stretched string, explosive, like a pyroxylin, – this word in its tension, dynamic and concentration, sharpened to a prick, compared with children stillborn by today's poetic schools, – this word is as a thunderbolt, compared with a bald light of an electric lantern.
And upstairs by the fiery stairs of this word, foamed with boiling blood, the coral ship of our verses, – strives through the surges to rise above it to reach the gate, lighted up with daybreak, and behind gate is the glad fusion, which clinks like «It’s» gold keys.
The dreadful duel with rhythm, the resistance of the dead material, – but from the shaggy clutches of the ominous sluggishness the gummy stalk grows up among the garden of blossoming cherry-trees – the garden of poetry.
The objects, separate for us, lumenists, are the derivative of mental statics; dynamically strained soul, starting from the object like from the frame, seizes with both hands «It» and sprinkles with «It», like an alive water, to the dead stagnation of the objects and to put a dent into the inconsolable dead end of a doomed, mortal and damned historicity of the humanity with its horrifying self-delusion – to build the iron brige to the airy future.
Not isolated mavericks, drooped with the torments of loneliness, – we, lumenists, are coming to you; but, passing through the hearth and hardening in it by slow fire, we bring you the barest, and only «It» connects every person, as peculiar one, together, not mechanically, not by stranglehold, but by eternal return to vivifying cradle of existence, growing with fiery sprouts.
The green stem – is the Sun.
The standard bearers are the poets: