A Poet’s Confession

Perhaps no one will understand what I write, but I am not obliged to write so that everyone understands.
Perhaps I am searching for a woman I will never find. Where is that woman? Or at least—does her existence even truly exist? Perhaps she is five steps away from me, or perhaps she is so far away that even distances themselves are insufficient—so far that humankind has not yet evolved enough to comprehend the measure of that remoteness.
The woman I seek is the central figure of my poems, yet she is imaginary, utopian.
To find this woman, who stands above humanity, has been granted to no one so far. Every human being—especially creative people, poets, painters—has created their genius works precisely by thinking of her. But I believe no artist could ever be brave enough to say, “I found her,” “I came close to her,” “I touched her,” “I heard her voice.” Because to touch her would perhaps mean the end of all genius works yet to be born.
And at that very moment, poetry, poetic spirit, painting—everything—could be destroyed in the blink of an eye. This would turn into a tragedy multiplied by millions. Because sometimes, it is better that what is sought is never found.
Is that woman unbelievably beautiful? I don’t know.
Is she unimaginably noble? I don’t know. But what I do know is this: that woman is neither the symbol of beauty nor of nobility. If I could find her merely within these concepts, perhaps no poem would ever be written, and that imaginary being called the “muse” would move away from me, never again becoming a guest in the home of my heart.
Great works are born only by thinking of someone whose discovery is longed for, but who will never, ever be found in an entire lifetime.
And perhaps one day, a certain work of an artist will bring them success and make them live on forever throughout the world. Yet that artist will not even realize it.
Why?
The reason is very simple.
Because no artist can ever know which of their works will be a masterpiece. And no work can be created without thought. No poet, no painter, no composer—and no one at all—is God.
Habil Yashar