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NEW Being a poet is not easy at all. Everything new gets old way faster. New inspiration, new emotions, even new boots – all of it gets replaced soon by something else. Only one thing remains – an urge to move forward. To go after muse, after idea. After something new. Thoughts like these were haunting a Poet from city of KOKOS as well. Every new day came with different......

NEW Being a poet is not easy at all. Everything new gets old way faster. New inspiration, new emotions, even new boots – all of it gets replaced soon by something else. Only one thing remains – an urge to move forward. To go after muse, after idea. After something new. Thoughts like these were haunting a Poet from city of KOKOS as well. Every new day came with different emotions for him. Not new, just different. One morning he was on wings of determination to put on his new shirt and go hunting for new impressions for his poetry. Another morning he cringed in fear of not finding anything new anymore for him to admire. “New”, “latest”, “brand new” - were the only words that Poets eyes could read in latest newspapers. But nothing could catch Poets attention this morning. Everything seemed too well-known and colourless. Blank. Even those cool new Italian leather shoes that he had purchased during last days flight of inspiration didn seem to make him smile. Poet slithered through his room with heavy steps, mumbling :”New, new...”His depressing shuffle stopped when Poet hit his toe against little, new coffee table (who put it there??) and, with juicy cursing, he bent over to pick up stack of magazines that fell of the table. Between new and not that new (last days) pages Poets attention was caught by a picture. One of the not quite new magazines seemed to have opened when fell down and revealed a sight of hissing, new and shiny locomotive that was welcomed by ladies dressed in visibly brand new dresses. Picture wasnt new. Not at all. But the idea in Poets head was fresh and hot. Poet realized that in the newest part of KOKOS there was a train station as well. Well, without the hissing locomotive and all but with existing train traffic. Traveling by train? Not a new thing particulary. But destination might be. New destination, new place, new feelings and... new style? Style would be new, that is true, because, until now, Poet used to create his poetry based on the news of city of KOKOS only. Lifted by his latest idea Poet arrived to KOKOS train station. Instead of ladies dressed in new dresses and new blouses he was welcomed by impressive and loud collection of seagulls and pidgeons. New collection, because Poet remembered that in last months paper there was an article about catching train station birds and moving them someplace else. New or the same ones? Who can tell. His wide and determined smile disappeared the very same moment when train station lady put out latest changes of train traffic.Platais, apņēmīgais smaids nozuda brīdī ,kad stacijas darbiniece izlika jaunākās izmaiņas vilcienu kustības sarakstā. Closest train was fourty-six minutes away (can one young Poet be more unlucky?). Getting quite peevish, Poet tightened his new trenchcoat around himself, put up the collar and stood on the platform. Completely alone. While ruminating about karmic revenge about his bad deeds in the past, he noticed something in the dust of railroad. New, fresh and green leaves with pale blossoms was fighting through the surface of hard rocks. Most of it was already covered by engine grease left by trains that flew over the flower day by day. Poet sat down and leaned closer. All new things are lost sooner or later- he thought with sadness. Just like the pale blossoms under the grease. While contemplating his similarities with the flower young Poet didnt notice heavy cargo train that was swiftly approaching the station. Poets attention was captured by gentle flowers fight for its life. Captured by the heavy, sweet smell of engine grease that grew stronger by seconds. And how come the flower is honking so loud? Well, that is something brand new indeed... Poet scratched his nose thoughtfully and gazed around. Together with unduly loud stream of cursing words Poet jumped back while cargo train passed almost catching Poets new coat. After landing on his backside Poet barely could catch a breath – the rush of new emotions was too big to handle. Joy was new. Fear was new. And sudden rush of adrenaline seemed new. Well, it was not the first time Poet felt joy, of course. Bu it felt new. Because it was made by something else – reason different from all the others. But if the cause is new.. and the day is new..can joy be new as well? Poet sat there and felt that his muse was back. Fresh and lively. Forever young like Poets new-found impressions. Because Poet was brand new and different every next second. And sun was shining different as well. Colours seemed new – all of the ordinary and casual things seem new when looked upon under different light. Poet realized that new things are infinite, countless. We change and our perception changes too. It is worth to look on things longer. It is worth to return for the second and third time. It is worth to try again. To smile about joke in another day as well. Because we are new every moment we live.

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NEW

Being a poet is not easy at all. Everything new gets old way faster. New inspiration, new emotions, even new boots – all of it gets replaced soon by something else. Only one thing remains – an urge to move forward. To go after muse, after idea. After something new.

Thoughts like these were haunting a Poet from city of KOKOS as well. Every new day came with different emotions for him. Not new, just different. One morning he was on wings of determination to put on his new shirt and go hunting for new impressions for his poetry. Another morning he cringed in fear of not finding anything new anymore for him to admire. “New”, “latest”, “brand new” - were the only words that Poets eyes could read in latest newspapers.

But nothing could catch Poets attention this morning. Everything seemed too well-known and colourless. Blank. Even those cool new Italian leather shoes that he had purchased during last days flight of inspiration didn seem to make him smile. Poet slithered through his room with heavy steps, mumbling :”New, new...”His depressing shuffle stopped when Poet hit his toe against little, new coffee table (who put it there??) and, with juicy cursing, he bent over to pick up stack of magazines that fell of the table. Between new and not that new (last days) pages Poets attention was caught by a picture. One of the not quite new magazines seemed to have opened when fell down and revealed a sight of hissing, new and shiny locomotive that was welcomed by ladies dressed in visibly brand new dresses. Picture wasnt new. Not at all. But the idea in Poets head was fresh and hot.

Poet realized that in the newest part of KOKOS there was a train station as well. Well, without the hissing locomotive and all but with existing train traffic. Traveling by train? Not a new thing particulary. But destination might be. New destination, new place, new feelings and... new style? Style would be new, that is true, because, until now, Poet used to create his poetry based on the news of city of KOKOS only.

Lifted by his latest idea Poet arrived to KOKOS train station. Instead of ladies dressed in new dresses and new blouses he was welcomed by impressive and loud collection of seagulls and pidgeons. New collection, because Poet remembered that in last months paper there was an article about catching train station birds and moving them someplace else. New or the same ones? Who can tell.

His wide and determined smile disappeared the very same moment when train station lady put out latest changes of train traffic.Platais, apņēmīgais smaids nozuda brīdī ,kad stacijas darbiniece izlika jaunākās izmaiņas vilcienu kustības sarakstā. Closest train was fourty-six minutes away (can one young Poet be more unlucky?).

Getting quite peevish, Poet tightened his new trenchcoat around himself, put up the collar and stood on the platform. Completely alone. While ruminating about karmic revenge about his bad deeds in the past, he noticed something in the dust of railroad. New, fresh and green leaves with pale blossoms was fighting through the surface of hard rocks. Most of it was already covered by engine grease left by trains that flew over the flower day by day. Poet sat down and leaned closer. All new things are lost sooner or later- he thought with sadness. Just like the pale blossoms under the grease.

While contemplating his similarities with the flower young Poet didnt notice heavy cargo train that was swiftly approaching the station. Poets attention was captured by gentle flowers fight for its life. Captured by the heavy, sweet smell of engine grease that grew stronger by seconds. And how come the flower is honking so loud? Well, that is something brand new indeed... Poet scratched his nose thoughtfully and gazed around.

Together with unduly loud stream of cursing words Poet jumped back while cargo train passed almost catching Poets new coat. After landing on his backside Poet barely could catch a breath – the rush of new emotions was too big to handle. Joy was new. Fear was new. And sudden rush of adrenaline seemed new. Well, it was not the first time Poet felt joy, of course. Bu it felt new. Because it was made by something else – reason different from all the others. But if the cause is new.. and the day is new..can joy be new as well? Poet sat there and felt that his muse was back. Fresh and lively. Forever young like Poets new-found impressions. Because Poet was brand new and different every next second. And sun was shining different as well. Colours seemed new – all of the ordinary and casual things seem new when looked upon under different light. Poet realized that new things are infinite, countless. We change and our perception changes too. It is worth to look on things longer. It is worth to return for the second and third time. It is worth to try again. To smile about joke in another day as well.

Because we are new every moment we live.

About us

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FRILIVIN
GEOX
Guess
KOKOS
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State of Art
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