Poem
Ilya Kaminsky
MUSICA HUMANA
MUSICA HUMANA
[Een moderne Orpheus: hij werd de hel in gestuurd en keerde nooit meer terug, terwijl zijn weduwe een zesde van het aardoppervlak afzocht en de steelpan omklemd hield waarin zijn liederen zaten opgerold die ze ’s nachts uit haar hoofd leerde voor als ze gevonden zouden worden door Furiën met een huiszoekingsbevel.]
Nu er nog steeds wat licht op de pagina valt,
vlucht hij in de jas van een vreemde met zijn vrouw.
En de stof ruikt naar zweet;
een hond rent achter ze aan
en likt de grond waarop ze liepen en zaten.
In de keuken, in een trappenhuis, boven de wc
zal hij haar de weg naar de stilte wijzen,
ze laten de radio tegen zichzelf doorpraten.
Al vrijend doen ze de lichten uit
maar de buurman heeft een verrekijker
en loert terwijl er stof op zijn oogleden daalt.
De jaren dertig: Petersburg is een bevroren schip.
De kathedralen, cafés, ze bewegen zich
over het Nevski Prospekt terwijl de Nieuwe Staat
spelden in ze steekt.
vlucht hij in de jas van een vreemde met zijn vrouw.
En de stof ruikt naar zweet;
een hond rent achter ze aan
en likt de grond waarop ze liepen en zaten.
In de keuken, in een trappenhuis, boven de wc
zal hij haar de weg naar de stilte wijzen,
ze laten de radio tegen zichzelf doorpraten.
Al vrijend doen ze de lichten uit
maar de buurman heeft een verrekijker
en loert terwijl er stof op zijn oogleden daalt.
De jaren dertig: Petersburg is een bevroren schip.
De kathedralen, cafés, ze bewegen zich
over het Nevski Prospekt terwijl de Nieuwe Staat
spelden in ze steekt.
[Op de Krim verzamelde hij rijke ‘liberalen’ om zich heen en sprak streng tot hen: ‘Als u op de Dag des Oordeels wordt gevraagd of u de dichter Osip Mandelstam hebt begrepen, zeg dan “nee.” Heeft u hem te eten gegeven? – antwoord dan “ja.”’]
Ik lees voor uit het boek van mijn leven op aarde
en beken: ik hield van grapefruit.
In een keuken: worstjes; wodka proeven,
de mannen heffen hun glazen.
Een jongen in een wit overhemd, ik doop mijn vinger
in iets zoets. Mijn moeder wast me
achter mijn oren. En we praten over alles
wat niet bewaarheid wordt,
dat wil zeggen: het was augustus.
Augustus! het licht in de bomen, vol razernij. Augustus
vult onze handen met taal die naar rook smaakt.
Geheugen, schenk nu wat bier in,
wrijf zout op de rand van het glas; jij
die mij schrijft hebt wat je wilt:
een gouden munt en mijn tong om hem onder te leggen.
(De jongere broer van een wolk,
hij loopt ongeschoren in een donkergroene broek.
In kathedralen: hij valt op zijn knieën en bidt GELUK!
Zijn woorden op de vloer zijn skeletten van dode vogels.)
hij loopt ongeschoren in een donkergroene broek.
In kathedralen: hij valt op zijn knieën en bidt GELUK!
Zijn woorden op de vloer zijn skeletten van dode vogels.)
Ik heb liefgehad, ja. Waste mijn handen. Sprak
van trouw aan de aarde. Nu telt de dood,
een gewiekste minnaar, mijn vingers.
Ik ontsnap en word opgepakt, ontsnap opnieuw
en word opgepakt, ontsnap
en word opgepakt: in dit lied
is de zanger een gestalte van klei,
de poëzie is het eigenste – ik verzet me
tegen het eigenste. Elders:
Sint Petersburg staat erbij
als een verloren jeugd
wiens kerken, schepen en guillotines
onze levens sneller doen verlopen.
[In de zomer van 1924 nam Osip Mandelstam zijn jonge vrouw mee naar Sint Petersburg. Nadjezjda was zoals de Fransen zeggen laide mais charmante. Of hij een zonderling was? Jazeker. Hij smeet een student de trap af toen die klaagde dat hij niet werd uitgegeven en schreeuwde toen: ‘En Sappho dan? En Jezus Christus?’
De dichter is een stem, zeg ik, als Icarus
die tijdens zijn val in zichzelf fluistert.
Ja, mijn leven valt als een afgebroken tak in de wind
op de noordelijke grond neer.
Ik schrijf nu een geschiedenis van sneeuw,
de schepen baden in het lamplicht
en varen over de pagina.
Maar op sommige middagen
opent zich de Republiek der Psalmen
en word ik bang dat ik niet leefde, stierf, niet genoeg
om deze extase in klinkers te krassen, om plonsjes
heldere, bijbelse taal te horen.
Ik lees Plato, Augustinus, het verlorene van hun lettergrepen
en Icarus blijft maar vallen.
En ik lees Achmatova, haar kostbare gewicht hecht me aan de aarde,
de notenbomen op een terras ademen
de droge lucht, het daglicht.
*
Ja, ik leefde. De Staat hing me op aan mijn voeten, ik zag
Sint Petersburgs dochters, zwanen,
ik leerde de grammatica van meeuwenzwermen
en bevond me voor eeuwig
in de Poesjkinstraat, terwijl mijn geheugen
in een hoekje zat en me uitwiste met een spons.
Goed, ik heb fouten gemaakt: in bed
vergeleek ik het bewind
met mijn vriendin.
Het bewind! De hand van een hooghartige kapper
die je huid eraf scheert.
We dansen met z’n allen blijmoedig om hem heen.
de notenbomen op een terras ademen
de droge lucht, het daglicht.
*
Ja, ik leefde. De Staat hing me op aan mijn voeten, ik zag
Sint Petersburgs dochters, zwanen,
ik leerde de grammatica van meeuwenzwermen
en bevond me voor eeuwig
in de Poesjkinstraat, terwijl mijn geheugen
in een hoekje zat en me uitwiste met een spons.
Goed, ik heb fouten gemaakt: in bed
vergeleek ik het bewind
met mijn vriendin.
Het bewind! De hand van een hooghartige kapper
die je huid eraf scheert.
We dansen met z’n allen blijmoedig om hem heen.
[Hij zat op het puntje van zijn stoel en droomde hardop van fijne maaltijden. Hij componeerde zijn gedichten niet achter zijn schrijftafel, maar in de straten van Sint Petersburg; hij aanbad het beeld van de haan die onder aan de Acropolismuren de nacht aan stukken scheurt met zijn zang. Hij zat opgesloten in zijn cel en bonsde op de deur: ‘Laat me eruit, ik ben niet voor de gevangenis gemaakt!’]
Een- of tweemaal in zijn leven wordt een man
als een appel geschild.
Wat blijft is een stem
die zijn wezen recht
doormidden splijt.
We zien: ontucht, angst, slijk
maar er is de vreugde van de vorm, er is
altijd
meer dan één stilte.
*
– tussen hier en het Nevski Prospekt
strekken de jaren zich vogelgewijs uit,–
Bid voor deze man
die op brood en tomaten leefde
terwijl honden in elke straat
zijn gedichten voordroegen.
Ja, tel ‘maart’, ‘juli’
rijg ze met garen aan elkaar –
het is tijd, Heer,
druk deze woorden tegen uw stilte aan.
*
– het verhaal gaat over een man die ontsnapt
en weer wordt gevangen
in het proza van avonden:
na het bedrijven van de liefde komt hij overeind
op een keukenvloer, ogen wijd open,
spreekt van de leegte van de Heer
naar wiens beeld wij zijn gemaakt.
– hij is werkloos – tussen tafelzilver
en slijk kust hij
de hals van zijn vrouw zodat haar buikhuid zich spant.
Het doet denken aan een jongen
die met zijn tong lettergrepen
op de huid van een vrouw legt: regels
die volledig uit stilte zijn geweven.
[Nadjezjda kijkt van de bladzijde op en zegt: Osip, Achmatova en ik stonden bij elkaar toen Mandelstam plotseling smolt van vreugde: er renden wat kleine meisjes langs die speelden dat ze paarden waren. Het voorste meisje stopte en vroeg ongeduldig: ‘Waar blijft het laatste paardje?’ Ik greep Mandelstams hand vast om hem ervan te weerhouden mee te rennen; en Achmatova, die gevaar rook, fluisterde: ‘Ren niet van ons weg, jij bent óns laatste paardje.’]
– terwijl ik sterf loop ik blootsvoets door mijn land,
hier bouwt de winter de taaiste
verlatenheid, tractoren barsten in centauren uit
en galopperen dwars door klare taal:
ik ben drieëntwintig, we wonen in een cocon,
de vlinders zijn aan het paren.
Osip steekt zijn vingers in het vuur; hij
staat vroeg op, loopt rond
op zijn sandalen. Schrijft traag. Gebeden
vallen de kamer in. Motten
bekijken hem vanaf het raam. Terwijl zijn tong
langs mijn huid beweegt, zie ik
zijn gezicht van onderaf,
de smartelijke helderheid ervan
– aldus Nadjezjda,
staand in een oranje licht,
haar handen zwijgen, praten
in zichzelf:
O God van Abraham, van Izaäk en van Jakob
zet op uw weegschaal van Goed en Kwaad
een bord warm eten neer.
*
Toen mijn man uit Voronezj
terugkwam, had hij in zijn mond
een gouden lepel verstopt –
in zijn dromen
rende de despoot over het Nevski Prospekt
als een wolf zijn verleden achterna,
een wolf met slaap in zijn ogen.
Hij geloofde in de mens. Kon zichzelf
niet van Petersburg
genezen. Hij reciteerde uit zijn hoofd
telefoonnummers
van doden.
O, wat hij vertelde met gedempte stem! –
de onuitgesproken woorden werden sporen van eilanden.
Toen hij Tolstoj
in zijn gezicht sloeg was dat goed.
Toen ze mijn man meenamen verdween
elk woord in een boek.
Ze keken naar hem
terwijl hij sprak: op de klinkers zaten tandafdrukken.
En ze zeiden: Je moet hem met rust laten
want er cirkelen nu al stenen achter zijn rug,
helemaal uit zichzelf, en ze vallen neer.
[Osip had volle wimpers, tot op zijn wangen. We wandelden door de Prechistenkastraat, waarover we het hadden weet ik niet meer. We liepen de Gogolboulevard op en Osip zei: ‘Ik ben klaar om te sterven.’ Bij zijn arrestatie doorzochten ze het hele huis naar gedichten. We zaten in een van de kamers. Aan de andere kant van de muur klonk bij de buren een Hawaïaanse gitaar. In mijn aanwezigheid vond de rechercheur ‘De wolf’ en liet het zien aan Osip. Hij knikte kort. Toen hij afscheid nam, kuste hij me. Om zeven uur ’s ochtends werd hij weggevoerd.]
Aan het eind van elk visioen staat Mandelstam
met een kluit aarde en gooit
er stukjes van naar voorbijgangers. U zult hem herkennen, Heer:
– hij had een hekel aan Tsarskoje Selo,
zei tegen Majakovski: ‘Hou op met voordragen, je bent geen
Roemeens orkest.’
Wat harmonie was? Het rafelde
en ontrafelde; Nadjezjda zei dat het in haar sneeuwde,
ze hoorde het geluid van kuikens door haar hele lichaam.
Nadjezjda, haar Ja en Nee zijn lastig
van elkaar te onderscheiden. Ze danst, haar rok kruipt tussen haar dijen en het licht verhevigt zich.
In de vier hoeken
van elke kamer: vrijt hij met haar oorlelletjes en wenkbrauwen
en maakt knopen van de dagen.
Hij reist door haar keuken, betast het meubilair,
in zijn hoofd een kleine propeller
die ronddraait als hij praat. Buiten
pist een jochie tegen de boom, een bedelaar
foetert zijn kat uit – die zomer van 1938 –
de muren waren heet, de zon ranselde
de keien van de stad
‘de stad die zo graag ja zei tegen de machtigen.’
Aan het eind van elk visioen wreef hij haar voeten in met melk.
Zij opende haar lichaam, lag op zijn buik.
We komen weer samen in Petersburg, zei hij,
waar we de zon hebben begraven.
© Vertaling: 2013, Menno Wigman
MUSICA HUMANA
[A modern Orpheus: sent to hell, he never returned, while his widow searched across one sixth of the earth’s surface, clutching the saucepan with his songs rolled up inside, memorizing them by night in case they were found by Furies with a search warrant.]
While there is still some light on the page,
he escapes in a stranger’s coat with his wife.
And the cloth smells of sweat;
a dog runs after them
licking the earth where they walked and sat.
In the kitchen, on a stairwell, above the toilet,
he will show her the way to silence,
they will leave the radio talking to itself.
Making love, they turn off the lights
but the neighbor has binoculars
and he watches, dust settling on his lids.
It is the 1930s: Petersburg is a frozen ship.
The cathedrals, cafés, down Nevski Prospect
they move, as the New State
sticks its pins into them.
he escapes in a stranger’s coat with his wife.
And the cloth smells of sweat;
a dog runs after them
licking the earth where they walked and sat.
In the kitchen, on a stairwell, above the toilet,
he will show her the way to silence,
they will leave the radio talking to itself.
Making love, they turn off the lights
but the neighbor has binoculars
and he watches, dust settling on his lids.
It is the 1930s: Petersburg is a frozen ship.
The cathedrals, cafés, down Nevski Prospect
they move, as the New State
sticks its pins into them.
[In Crimia, he gathered together rich ‘liberals’ and said to them strictly: On Judgment Day, if you are asked whether you understood the poet Osip Mandelstam; say no. Have you fed him? – You must answer yes.]
I am reading aloud the book of my life on earth
and confess, I loved grapefruit.
In a kitchen: sausages; tasting vodka,
the men raise their cups.
A boy in a white shirt, I dip my finger
into sweetness. Mother washes
behind my ears. And we speak of everything
that does not come true,
which is to say: it was August.
August! the light in the trees, full of fury. August
filling hands with language that tastes like smoke.
Now, memory, pour some beer,
salt the rim of the glass; you
who are writing me, have what you want:
a golden coin, my tongue to put it under.
and confess, I loved grapefruit.
In a kitchen: sausages; tasting vodka,
the men raise their cups.
A boy in a white shirt, I dip my finger
into sweetness. Mother washes
behind my ears. And we speak of everything
that does not come true,
which is to say: it was August.
August! the light in the trees, full of fury. August
filling hands with language that tastes like smoke.
Now, memory, pour some beer,
salt the rim of the glass; you
who are writing me, have what you want:
a golden coin, my tongue to put it under.
(The younger brother of a cloud,
he walks unshaven in dark-green pants.
In cathedrals: he falls on his knees, praying HAPPINESS!
His words on the floor are the skeletons of dead birds.)
he walks unshaven in dark-green pants.
In cathedrals: he falls on his knees, praying HAPPINESS!
His words on the floor are the skeletons of dead birds.)
I’ve loved, yes. Washed my hands. Spoke
of loyalty to the earth. Now death,
a loverboy, counts my fingers.
I escape and am caught, escape again
and am caught, escape
and am caught: in this song,
the singer is a clay figure,
poetry is the self—I resist
the self. Elsewhere:
St. Petersburg stands
like a lost youth
whose churches, ships, and guillotines
accelerate our lives.
Poet is a voice, I say, like Icarus,
whispering to himself as he falls.
Yes, my life as a broken branch in the wind
hits the Northern ground.
I am writing now a history of snow,
the lamplight bathing the ships
that sail across the page.
But on certain afternoons
the Republic of Psalms opens up
and I grow frightened that I haven’t lived, died, not enough
to scratch this ecstasy into vowels, hear
splashes of clear, biblical speech.
I read Plato, Augustine, the loneliness of their syllables
while Icarus keeps falling.
And I read Akhmatova, her rich weight binds me to the earth,
the nut trees on a terrace breathing
the dry air, the daylight.
*
Yes, I lived. The State hung me up by the feet, I saw
St. Petersburg’s daughters, swans,
I learned the grammar of gulls’ array
and found myself for good
down Pushkin Street, while memory
sat in the corner, erasing me with a sponge.
I’ve made mistakes, yes: in bed
I compared government
to my girlfriend.
Government! An arrogant barber’s hand
shaving off the skin.
All of us dancing happily around him.
whispering to himself as he falls.
Yes, my life as a broken branch in the wind
hits the Northern ground.
I am writing now a history of snow,
the lamplight bathing the ships
that sail across the page.
But on certain afternoons
the Republic of Psalms opens up
and I grow frightened that I haven’t lived, died, not enough
to scratch this ecstasy into vowels, hear
splashes of clear, biblical speech.
I read Plato, Augustine, the loneliness of their syllables
while Icarus keeps falling.
And I read Akhmatova, her rich weight binds me to the earth,
the nut trees on a terrace breathing
the dry air, the daylight.
*
Yes, I lived. The State hung me up by the feet, I saw
St. Petersburg’s daughters, swans,
I learned the grammar of gulls’ array
and found myself for good
down Pushkin Street, while memory
sat in the corner, erasing me with a sponge.
I’ve made mistakes, yes: in bed
I compared government
to my girlfriend.
Government! An arrogant barber’s hand
shaving off the skin.
All of us dancing happily around him.
[He sat on the edge of his chair and dreamt aloud of good dinners. He composed his poems not at his desk but in the streets of St. Petersburg; he adored the image of the rooster tearing apart the night under the walls of Acropolis with his song. Locked up in the cell, he was banging on the
door: “You have got to let me out, I wasn’t made for prison.”]
Once or twice in his life, a man
is peeled like apples.
What’s left is a voice
that splits his being
down to the center.
We see: obscenity, fright, mud
but there is joy of shape, there is
always
more than one silence.
*
-- between here and Nevski Prospect,
the years, birdlike, stretch, --
Pray for this man
who lived on bread and tomatoes
while dogs recited his poetry
in each street.
Yes, count “march,” “july”
weave them together with a thread –
it’s time, Lord,
press these words against your silence.
*
––the story is told of a man who escapes
and is captured
into the prose of evenings:
after making love, he sits up
on a kitchen floor, eyes wide open,
speaks of the Lord’s emptiness
in whose image we are made.
–he is out of work– among silverware
and dirt he is kissing
his wife’s neck so the skin of her belly tightens.
One would think of a boy laying
syllables with his tongue
onto a woman’s skin: those are lines
sewn entirely of silence.
is peeled like apples.
What’s left is a voice
that splits his being
down to the center.
We see: obscenity, fright, mud
but there is joy of shape, there is
always
more than one silence.
*
-- between here and Nevski Prospect,
the years, birdlike, stretch, --
Pray for this man
who lived on bread and tomatoes
while dogs recited his poetry
in each street.
Yes, count “march,” “july”
weave them together with a thread –
it’s time, Lord,
press these words against your silence.
*
––the story is told of a man who escapes
and is captured
into the prose of evenings:
after making love, he sits up
on a kitchen floor, eyes wide open,
speaks of the Lord’s emptiness
in whose image we are made.
–he is out of work– among silverware
and dirt he is kissing
his wife’s neck so the skin of her belly tightens.
One would think of a boy laying
syllables with his tongue
onto a woman’s skin: those are lines
sewn entirely of silence.
[Nadezhda looks up from the page and speaks: Osip, Akhmatova and I were standing together when suddenly
Mandelstam melted with joy: several little girls ran past us, imagining themselves to be horses. The first one stopped, impatiently asking: “Where is the last horsy?” I grabbed Mandelstam by his hand to prevent him from joining; and Akhmatova, too, sensing danger, whispered: “Do not run away from us, you are our last horsy.”]
–– as I die, I walk barefoot across my country,
here winter builds the strongest
solitude, tractors break into centaurs
and gallop through plain speech:
I am twenty-three, we live in a cocoon,
the butterflies are mating.
Osip puts his fingers into fire; he
gets up early, walking around
in his sandals. Writes slowly. Prayers
fall into the room. Moths
are watching him from the window. As his tongue
passes over my skin, I see
his face from underneath,
its aching clarity
–thus Nadezhda speaks,
standing in an orange light,
her hands are quiet, talking
to themselves:
O God of Abraham, of Isaak and of Jacob
on your scale of Good and Evil,
put a plate of warm food.
*
When my husband returned
from Voronezh, in his mouth
he hid a silver spoon––
in his dreams,
down Nevski Prospect, the dictator ran
like a wolf after his past,
a wolf with sleep in its eyes.
He believed in the human being. Could not
cure himself
of Petersburg. He recited by heart
phone numbers
of the dead.
O what he told in a low voice! --
the unspoken words became traces of islands.
When he slapped
Tolstoy in the face, it was good.
When they took my husband, each word
disappeared in a book.
They watched him
as he spoke: the vowels had teeth-marks.
And they said: You must leave him alone
for already behind his back
the stones circle all by themselves and fall.
here winter builds the strongest
solitude, tractors break into centaurs
and gallop through plain speech:
I am twenty-three, we live in a cocoon,
the butterflies are mating.
Osip puts his fingers into fire; he
gets up early, walking around
in his sandals. Writes slowly. Prayers
fall into the room. Moths
are watching him from the window. As his tongue
passes over my skin, I see
his face from underneath,
its aching clarity
–thus Nadezhda speaks,
standing in an orange light,
her hands are quiet, talking
to themselves:
O God of Abraham, of Isaak and of Jacob
on your scale of Good and Evil,
put a plate of warm food.
*
When my husband returned
from Voronezh, in his mouth
he hid a silver spoon––
in his dreams,
down Nevski Prospect, the dictator ran
like a wolf after his past,
a wolf with sleep in its eyes.
He believed in the human being. Could not
cure himself
of Petersburg. He recited by heart
phone numbers
of the dead.
O what he told in a low voice! --
the unspoken words became traces of islands.
When he slapped
Tolstoy in the face, it was good.
When they took my husband, each word
disappeared in a book.
They watched him
as he spoke: the vowels had teeth-marks.
And they said: You must leave him alone
for already behind his back
the stones circle all by themselves and fall.
[Osip had thick eyelashes, to the middle of his cheeks. We were walking along Prehistenka St., what we were talking about I don’t remember. We turned onto Gogol Boulevard, and Osip said, “I am ready for death.” At his arrest they were searching for poems, all over the floor. We sat in one room. On the other side of the wall, at a neighbor’s, a Hawaiian guitar was playing. In my presence the investigator found “The Wolf” and showed it to Osip. He nodded slightly. Taking his leave, he kissed me. He was led away at 7A.M.]
At the end of each vision, Mandelstam
stands with a clod of earth, throwing
bits at the passers-by. You will recognize him, Lord:
– he hated Tsarskoe Selo,
told Mayakovski: “stop reading your verse, you are not
a Rumanian orchestra.”
What harmony was? It raveled
and unraveled; Nadezhda said the snow fell inside her,
she heard the voice of young chickens all over her flesh.
Nadezhda, her Yes and No are difficult
to tell apart. She dances, a skirt tucked between her thighs
and the light is strengthening.
In each room’s
four corners: he is making love to her earlobes, brows,
weaving days into knots.
He is traveling across her kitchen, touching furniture,
a small propeller in his head
turning as he speaks. Outside,
a boy pissing against the tree, a beggar
cursing at his cat –that summer 1938–
the walls were hot, the sun beat
against the city’s slabs
‘the city that loved to say yes to the powerful.’
At the end of each vision, he rubbed her feet with milk.
She opened her body, lay on his stomach.
We will meet in Petersburg, he said,
we have buried the sun there.
stands with a clod of earth, throwing
bits at the passers-by. You will recognize him, Lord:
– he hated Tsarskoe Selo,
told Mayakovski: “stop reading your verse, you are not
a Rumanian orchestra.”
What harmony was? It raveled
and unraveled; Nadezhda said the snow fell inside her,
she heard the voice of young chickens all over her flesh.
Nadezhda, her Yes and No are difficult
to tell apart. She dances, a skirt tucked between her thighs
and the light is strengthening.
In each room’s
four corners: he is making love to her earlobes, brows,
weaving days into knots.
He is traveling across her kitchen, touching furniture,
a small propeller in his head
turning as he speaks. Outside,
a boy pissing against the tree, a beggar
cursing at his cat –that summer 1938–
the walls were hot, the sun beat
against the city’s slabs
‘the city that loved to say yes to the powerful.’
At the end of each vision, he rubbed her feet with milk.
She opened her body, lay on his stomach.
We will meet in Petersburg, he said,
we have buried the sun there.
© 2004, Ilya Kaminsky
From: Dancing in Odessa
Publisher: Tupelo Press, North Adams, MA
From: Dancing in Odessa
Publisher: Tupelo Press, North Adams, MA
Poems
Poems of Ilya Kaminsky
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MUSICA HUMANA
[A modern Orpheus: sent to hell, he never returned, while his widow searched across one sixth of the earth’s surface, clutching the saucepan with his songs rolled up inside, memorizing them by night in case they were found by Furies with a search warrant.]
While there is still some light on the page,
he escapes in a stranger’s coat with his wife.
And the cloth smells of sweat;
a dog runs after them
licking the earth where they walked and sat.
In the kitchen, on a stairwell, above the toilet,
he will show her the way to silence,
they will leave the radio talking to itself.
Making love, they turn off the lights
but the neighbor has binoculars
and he watches, dust settling on his lids.
It is the 1930s: Petersburg is a frozen ship.
The cathedrals, cafés, down Nevski Prospect
they move, as the New State
sticks its pins into them.
he escapes in a stranger’s coat with his wife.
And the cloth smells of sweat;
a dog runs after them
licking the earth where they walked and sat.
In the kitchen, on a stairwell, above the toilet,
he will show her the way to silence,
they will leave the radio talking to itself.
Making love, they turn off the lights
but the neighbor has binoculars
and he watches, dust settling on his lids.
It is the 1930s: Petersburg is a frozen ship.
The cathedrals, cafés, down Nevski Prospect
they move, as the New State
sticks its pins into them.
[In Crimia, he gathered together rich ‘liberals’ and said to them strictly: On Judgment Day, if you are asked whether you understood the poet Osip Mandelstam; say no. Have you fed him? – You must answer yes.]
I am reading aloud the book of my life on earth
and confess, I loved grapefruit.
In a kitchen: sausages; tasting vodka,
the men raise their cups.
A boy in a white shirt, I dip my finger
into sweetness. Mother washes
behind my ears. And we speak of everything
that does not come true,
which is to say: it was August.
August! the light in the trees, full of fury. August
filling hands with language that tastes like smoke.
Now, memory, pour some beer,
salt the rim of the glass; you
who are writing me, have what you want:
a golden coin, my tongue to put it under.
and confess, I loved grapefruit.
In a kitchen: sausages; tasting vodka,
the men raise their cups.
A boy in a white shirt, I dip my finger
into sweetness. Mother washes
behind my ears. And we speak of everything
that does not come true,
which is to say: it was August.
August! the light in the trees, full of fury. August
filling hands with language that tastes like smoke.
Now, memory, pour some beer,
salt the rim of the glass; you
who are writing me, have what you want:
a golden coin, my tongue to put it under.
(The younger brother of a cloud,
he walks unshaven in dark-green pants.
In cathedrals: he falls on his knees, praying HAPPINESS!
His words on the floor are the skeletons of dead birds.)
he walks unshaven in dark-green pants.
In cathedrals: he falls on his knees, praying HAPPINESS!
His words on the floor are the skeletons of dead birds.)
I’ve loved, yes. Washed my hands. Spoke
of loyalty to the earth. Now death,
a loverboy, counts my fingers.
I escape and am caught, escape again
and am caught, escape
and am caught: in this song,
the singer is a clay figure,
poetry is the self—I resist
the self. Elsewhere:
St. Petersburg stands
like a lost youth
whose churches, ships, and guillotines
accelerate our lives.
Poet is a voice, I say, like Icarus,
whispering to himself as he falls.
Yes, my life as a broken branch in the wind
hits the Northern ground.
I am writing now a history of snow,
the lamplight bathing the ships
that sail across the page.
But on certain afternoons
the Republic of Psalms opens up
and I grow frightened that I haven’t lived, died, not enough
to scratch this ecstasy into vowels, hear
splashes of clear, biblical speech.
I read Plato, Augustine, the loneliness of their syllables
while Icarus keeps falling.
And I read Akhmatova, her rich weight binds me to the earth,
the nut trees on a terrace breathing
the dry air, the daylight.
*
Yes, I lived. The State hung me up by the feet, I saw
St. Petersburg’s daughters, swans,
I learned the grammar of gulls’ array
and found myself for good
down Pushkin Street, while memory
sat in the corner, erasing me with a sponge.
I’ve made mistakes, yes: in bed
I compared government
to my girlfriend.
Government! An arrogant barber’s hand
shaving off the skin.
All of us dancing happily around him.
whispering to himself as he falls.
Yes, my life as a broken branch in the wind
hits the Northern ground.
I am writing now a history of snow,
the lamplight bathing the ships
that sail across the page.
But on certain afternoons
the Republic of Psalms opens up
and I grow frightened that I haven’t lived, died, not enough
to scratch this ecstasy into vowels, hear
splashes of clear, biblical speech.
I read Plato, Augustine, the loneliness of their syllables
while Icarus keeps falling.
And I read Akhmatova, her rich weight binds me to the earth,
the nut trees on a terrace breathing
the dry air, the daylight.
*
Yes, I lived. The State hung me up by the feet, I saw
St. Petersburg’s daughters, swans,
I learned the grammar of gulls’ array
and found myself for good
down Pushkin Street, while memory
sat in the corner, erasing me with a sponge.
I’ve made mistakes, yes: in bed
I compared government
to my girlfriend.
Government! An arrogant barber’s hand
shaving off the skin.
All of us dancing happily around him.
[He sat on the edge of his chair and dreamt aloud of good dinners. He composed his poems not at his desk but in the streets of St. Petersburg; he adored the image of the rooster tearing apart the night under the walls of Acropolis with his song. Locked up in the cell, he was banging on the
door: “You have got to let me out, I wasn’t made for prison.”]
Once or twice in his life, a man
is peeled like apples.
What’s left is a voice
that splits his being
down to the center.
We see: obscenity, fright, mud
but there is joy of shape, there is
always
more than one silence.
*
-- between here and Nevski Prospect,
the years, birdlike, stretch, --
Pray for this man
who lived on bread and tomatoes
while dogs recited his poetry
in each street.
Yes, count “march,” “july”
weave them together with a thread –
it’s time, Lord,
press these words against your silence.
*
––the story is told of a man who escapes
and is captured
into the prose of evenings:
after making love, he sits up
on a kitchen floor, eyes wide open,
speaks of the Lord’s emptiness
in whose image we are made.
–he is out of work– among silverware
and dirt he is kissing
his wife’s neck so the skin of her belly tightens.
One would think of a boy laying
syllables with his tongue
onto a woman’s skin: those are lines
sewn entirely of silence.
is peeled like apples.
What’s left is a voice
that splits his being
down to the center.
We see: obscenity, fright, mud
but there is joy of shape, there is
always
more than one silence.
*
-- between here and Nevski Prospect,
the years, birdlike, stretch, --
Pray for this man
who lived on bread and tomatoes
while dogs recited his poetry
in each street.
Yes, count “march,” “july”
weave them together with a thread –
it’s time, Lord,
press these words against your silence.
*
––the story is told of a man who escapes
and is captured
into the prose of evenings:
after making love, he sits up
on a kitchen floor, eyes wide open,
speaks of the Lord’s emptiness
in whose image we are made.
–he is out of work– among silverware
and dirt he is kissing
his wife’s neck so the skin of her belly tightens.
One would think of a boy laying
syllables with his tongue
onto a woman’s skin: those are lines
sewn entirely of silence.
[Nadezhda looks up from the page and speaks: Osip, Akhmatova and I were standing together when suddenly
Mandelstam melted with joy: several little girls ran past us, imagining themselves to be horses. The first one stopped, impatiently asking: “Where is the last horsy?” I grabbed Mandelstam by his hand to prevent him from joining; and Akhmatova, too, sensing danger, whispered: “Do not run away from us, you are our last horsy.”]
–– as I die, I walk barefoot across my country,
here winter builds the strongest
solitude, tractors break into centaurs
and gallop through plain speech:
I am twenty-three, we live in a cocoon,
the butterflies are mating.
Osip puts his fingers into fire; he
gets up early, walking around
in his sandals. Writes slowly. Prayers
fall into the room. Moths
are watching him from the window. As his tongue
passes over my skin, I see
his face from underneath,
its aching clarity
–thus Nadezhda speaks,
standing in an orange light,
her hands are quiet, talking
to themselves:
O God of Abraham, of Isaak and of Jacob
on your scale of Good and Evil,
put a plate of warm food.
*
When my husband returned
from Voronezh, in his mouth
he hid a silver spoon––
in his dreams,
down Nevski Prospect, the dictator ran
like a wolf after his past,
a wolf with sleep in its eyes.
He believed in the human being. Could not
cure himself
of Petersburg. He recited by heart
phone numbers
of the dead.
O what he told in a low voice! --
the unspoken words became traces of islands.
When he slapped
Tolstoy in the face, it was good.
When they took my husband, each word
disappeared in a book.
They watched him
as he spoke: the vowels had teeth-marks.
And they said: You must leave him alone
for already behind his back
the stones circle all by themselves and fall.
here winter builds the strongest
solitude, tractors break into centaurs
and gallop through plain speech:
I am twenty-three, we live in a cocoon,
the butterflies are mating.
Osip puts his fingers into fire; he
gets up early, walking around
in his sandals. Writes slowly. Prayers
fall into the room. Moths
are watching him from the window. As his tongue
passes over my skin, I see
his face from underneath,
its aching clarity
–thus Nadezhda speaks,
standing in an orange light,
her hands are quiet, talking
to themselves:
O God of Abraham, of Isaak and of Jacob
on your scale of Good and Evil,
put a plate of warm food.
*
When my husband returned
from Voronezh, in his mouth
he hid a silver spoon––
in his dreams,
down Nevski Prospect, the dictator ran
like a wolf after his past,
a wolf with sleep in its eyes.
He believed in the human being. Could not
cure himself
of Petersburg. He recited by heart
phone numbers
of the dead.
O what he told in a low voice! --
the unspoken words became traces of islands.
When he slapped
Tolstoy in the face, it was good.
When they took my husband, each word
disappeared in a book.
They watched him
as he spoke: the vowels had teeth-marks.
And they said: You must leave him alone
for already behind his back
the stones circle all by themselves and fall.
[Osip had thick eyelashes, to the middle of his cheeks. We were walking along Prehistenka St., what we were talking about I don’t remember. We turned onto Gogol Boulevard, and Osip said, “I am ready for death.” At his arrest they were searching for poems, all over the floor. We sat in one room. On the other side of the wall, at a neighbor’s, a Hawaiian guitar was playing. In my presence the investigator found “The Wolf” and showed it to Osip. He nodded slightly. Taking his leave, he kissed me. He was led away at 7A.M.]
At the end of each vision, Mandelstam
stands with a clod of earth, throwing
bits at the passers-by. You will recognize him, Lord:
– he hated Tsarskoe Selo,
told Mayakovski: “stop reading your verse, you are not
a Rumanian orchestra.”
What harmony was? It raveled
and unraveled; Nadezhda said the snow fell inside her,
she heard the voice of young chickens all over her flesh.
Nadezhda, her Yes and No are difficult
to tell apart. She dances, a skirt tucked between her thighs
and the light is strengthening.
In each room’s
four corners: he is making love to her earlobes, brows,
weaving days into knots.
He is traveling across her kitchen, touching furniture,
a small propeller in his head
turning as he speaks. Outside,
a boy pissing against the tree, a beggar
cursing at his cat –that summer 1938–
the walls were hot, the sun beat
against the city’s slabs
‘the city that loved to say yes to the powerful.’
At the end of each vision, he rubbed her feet with milk.
She opened her body, lay on his stomach.
We will meet in Petersburg, he said,
we have buried the sun there.
stands with a clod of earth, throwing
bits at the passers-by. You will recognize him, Lord:
– he hated Tsarskoe Selo,
told Mayakovski: “stop reading your verse, you are not
a Rumanian orchestra.”
What harmony was? It raveled
and unraveled; Nadezhda said the snow fell inside her,
she heard the voice of young chickens all over her flesh.
Nadezhda, her Yes and No are difficult
to tell apart. She dances, a skirt tucked between her thighs
and the light is strengthening.
In each room’s
four corners: he is making love to her earlobes, brows,
weaving days into knots.
He is traveling across her kitchen, touching furniture,
a small propeller in his head
turning as he speaks. Outside,
a boy pissing against the tree, a beggar
cursing at his cat –that summer 1938–
the walls were hot, the sun beat
against the city’s slabs
‘the city that loved to say yes to the powerful.’
At the end of each vision, he rubbed her feet with milk.
She opened her body, lay on his stomach.
We will meet in Petersburg, he said,
we have buried the sun there.
From: Dancing in Odessa
MUSICA HUMANA
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