an elegy for Osip Mandelstam
[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.
[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.
(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.)
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.
[In summer 1924 Osip Mandelstam brought his young wife to St.
Petersburg. Nadezhda was what the French call laide mais
charmante. An eccentric? Of course he was. He threw a student
down the staircase for complaining he wasn’t published, Osip
shouting: Was Sappho? Was Jesus Christ?]
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.
[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
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
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
of Petersburg. He recited by heart
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.
Ilya Kaminsky, from Dancing in Odessa (grifos meus)
hello all, i’m technically august, and my sleep schedule is Wild
Good happy things!
-had a nice wake up
-got a decent amount of work done, all things considered, felt pretty productive
-also spent a lot of time relaxing
-met (ds) carmen recently, who is an utter delight just like (ds) alchemy, who are both good happys
-briefly saw one of my partners i’ve kinda missed today, even just the moment with them was nice
-nice weather today, wandered around the backyard for a bit and enjoyed the fresh air (not too long but still)
-true crime date with (ds) anxiety (beloved) :)
-also had an awkward but im told hilarious moment with him, (ds) princey, and the fact i need to stop auto-assuming people aro skdhcfjnbvksj
-i accidentally therapist-ed myself earlier which was weird but kinda helpful so ??? yay me i think
-(ds) remy…. i just…. gods how dearly i adore her, there are not enough words to properly express my affection towards xir
-blink snipe: paps her brainrot look at this excitement and interest
- 📸 by Marina M. Moschberger / Ina [26.08.2019]
Transfer market rule changes, Cameron Smith off-contract
NRL players will be able to switch teams as late as August 1 in a rule change that opens the door to a late-season recruitment frenzy.
It was reported Tuesday, the NRL has scrapped the June 30 transfer deadline, pushing it back towards the finals series.
The switch would allow off-contract stars to move to new clubs as late as Round 20 this season.
NRL commentators said on Tuesday the new rule…
She killed Netflix
You’re either Betty or August from tay’s folklore, and if you’re August like me, then I wish you good luck :’)
He was tired. So so tired. He had caught her. Gravity be damned he’d caught her. And he was in a way, still catching her. As she clung to August’s shoulders and stumbled and tripped he was there. Catching her. An arm around her waist just barely missing the wound in her side. And it was difficult to breathe for the both of them. Every last bit of energy he had went into getting Oakley out of there alive. And here he was still trying to keep them afloat just until they arrived at the Smiths. The Smiths would help. They had to. A reassurance that held the paranoia at bay. They had to. She would be fine. He would be fine. They’d both be fine. And with the street lights fading at the edge of his vision and his hand slipping through the blood on Oakleys side, he climbed the stairs. Slowly. Painfully. And by drawing on the last bit of energy he had to give them just enough of a magical boost to reach the door.
And then he knocked.
And then he passed out. The edges of black finally creeping all the way in and perhaps vaguely he felt the hands that caught him on the way down.
does august by taylor swift really sound like August or does August sound like august by taylor swift
It is my belief that Taylor Swift’s folklore love triangle trinity: cardigan, august, and betty, perfectly relate to barchie and their storylines. I get so happy seeing fan vids using those songs. In fact feel free to reply to this with any folklore trinity related barchie content.
taylor swift: *award winning, record breaking, BRILLIANT lyricist and songwriter*
also Taylor Swift: *literally names the girl in “august” augustine (august teen)*
Everyday can be cry over Grant Chapman day when you’re mentally ill
Knoxville, Tennessee. August 2020
Gatlinburg, Tennessee. August 2020
Cancel my plans just in case you call
Jeff Fenech’s reaction when he found out protege Brock Jarvis and his daughter were dating
They have developed such a close bond, Jeff Fenech often finds himself siding with his fighter Brock Jarvis over his daughter, who the boxer is dating.
One of Australia’s brightest boxing prospects, Jarvis has been in a five-year relationship with Kayla Fenech, an aspiring singer.
“She pretended that she was never interested, she said he was too young,” Fenech said.
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