In my creative work, there are not many poems devoted to specific individuals. One of them is the poem “Korkut” (2015). The other is my poem “Spinoza,” written ten years later. Writing about a real person carries a particular weight. The key is not only to present the well-known facts about the figure, but also to take into account the hidden, less visible aspects of their being. These must be considered as a whole. Very often, grasping this concealed dimension and conveying it on one’s own terms requires great creative energy, mastery, and a delicate, attentive search.

The image of Korkut, rooted in Turkic myth and legend, has been familiar to me since childhood. In general, poets of the Turkic world, including Kazakh poets, have shown great interest in the figure of Korkut. Most of these works, however, are written in a realist mode. Yet the nature of myth and legend cannot be truly disclosed through realism alone. Their systems of imagery and inner structures are fundamentally different. I approached Korkut from within a modernist worldview. I portrayed him through the perspective of the “I.” In contrast, Spinoza is built on a layered system of dialogue. Although not explicitly stated, the work exists within a network of relations between “I” and “you.” There is a reason for this. Korkut, in a certain sense, is a figure closely aligned with my own self — almost a fragment of my consciousness. This makes it possible to engage with him in that manner. Spinoza, however, is a philosopher, a Dutch thinker, a representative of Western philosophy, whose worldview possesses its own distinct logic. If he were portrayed in the same way as Korkut, the author’s perspective would dominate, and the character’s intrinsic qualities might fail to emerge clearly. This distinction cannot be ignored. If this point is not carefully considered, it becomes difficult to reveal the deeper spiritual movement of the work — its hidden dynamics and inner tensions. For this reason, presenting Spinoza through a conditional, multi-layered dialogic form is a far more appropriate artistic choice.

The core of the poem consists of this dialogue. However, it is not a direct dialogue between two characters, nor is it a monologue spoken by Spinoza. Rather, it is an inner voice related to Spinoza, articulated through the pen of a Kazakh poet. Within it, there exists a dual quality that belongs both to the Kazakh poet and to Spinoza. These two presences live in the text as different, non-identical traces. Yet they exist as a whole — and they must do so. In my understanding as a poet, when I think of Spinoza, I first think of his homeland, the Netherlands, of Dutch oil paintings, and of tulips. It is precisely the tulip that connects Kazakhstan and the Netherlands. For two weeks in spring, the wild tulips that cover the Kazakh steppe ripple like a sea. The poem begins with lines connected to an oil painting and ends with the tulip-filled steppe.

The manner in which this part of the poem is written is distinctive. From the perspective of textual analysis, it can be approached from multiple angles. For instance, there is the legend about the Creator forming humankind from clay and, before breathing life into it, leaving the body in the care of a dog; there are aphorisms from ancient Greek philosophers; there are religious interpretations of Hell, and more. These elements should not be understood separately, but as an integrated whole. What particularly interests me in this section is the presence of multiple voices. Shakespeare writes, “Life’s but a walking shadow… it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (Macbeth, Act V, Scene V). Yet these voices are not meaningless. They do carry meaning. Spinoza is precisely the figure who sought to understand and interpret such voices. But to interpret them, one must first listen to them, must first hear them. That is what I wanted to write — those voices. And I believe I wrote them well, in the way I intended. Because those voices had lived in my consciousness for more than thirty years.

In November 1990, I read the Chinese translation of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. In materials related to the poem, I learned that its original working title was He Do the Police in Different Voices. Now imagine this: The Waste Land being read aloud by guards in different voices. Viewing the poem through this title opens up a far richer field of meaning. Later, the voice of Spinoza joined this inner polyphony of mine. In his philosophy, Spinoza argues that substance, nature, and the Creator (Deus sive Natura) must be understood as one unified whole. He insists that one must read, listen, and comprehend this unity. This means that Spinoza, too, had a voice he listened to — a voice he tried to understand. And that voice needs to be conveyed. That is what I wanted to write — that sound, that resonance. The voice in the poem is not singular; it is multiple, polyphonic. Even voices that do not align or merge can resonate with one another on a different level. A symphony works in precisely this way, bringing together seemingly incompatible sounds into a single, meaningful whole.

One more point is worth mentioning. While I was writing the poem, I happened to hear an interview with the well-known Kazakh artist Saken Turisbekov. In it, he spoke about his musical composition “Wave of Emotions”, calling it a fateful work. This immediately brought to mind an incident from my past. In 1994, a music school in Kuitun, China, was holding entrance examinations. More than fifty applicants took part. At the stage where students were required to perform a piece of their own choice, thirty-four of them selected the same composition — Saken Turisbekov’s “Wave of Emotions.” It was as if everyone had agreed in advance to choose that very piece. The appearance of this musical work in my poem is connected precisely to that memory, which has remained vivid in my mind.

In my understanding, poetry and music are deeply interconnected; they overlap and intertwine. In other words, they are both forms of imagistic sound. And I am certain that Spinoza, too, listened to such a sound, such a melody, within the world.

Translated by Bayan AERDAKE

Ardakh Nurgaz. Spinoza

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