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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.

     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
. 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
, 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.

Ilya Kaminsky, from Dancing in Odessa (grifos meus)

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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

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Transfer market rule changes, Cameron Smith off-contract

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…

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You’re either Betty or August from tay’s folklore, and if you’re August like me, then I wish you good luck :’)

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Written for @amonthofwhump March madness

Prompts used:Magical exhaustion, Collapse on doorstep

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.

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does august by taylor swift really sound like August or does August sound like august by taylor swift

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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.


Originally posted by warnerxjace

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taylor swift: *award winning, record breaking, BRILLIANT lyricist and songwriter*

also Taylor Swift: *literally names the girl in “august” augustine (august teen)*

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Everyday can be cry over Grant Chapman day when you’re mentally ill

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Cancel my plans just in case you call

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Jeff Fenech’s reaction when he found out protege Brock Jarvis and his daughter were dating

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.
Watch Boxing Live & On-Demand…

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