#osip mandelstam

[theoptia]

Osip Mandelstam, from Voronezh Notebooks

Text ID: Where can I hide in this January?

#osip mandelstam #voronezh notebooks #russian literature #lit #miscellanea #poetry

[lilly48]

How sad, yet beautiful, is the dark brutal soul.

~Osip Mandelstam

#osip mandelstam

[dark-academic-dead-poet]

"Then I started slipping out of the world/ And I kept on slipping."

Osip Mandestam, from Voronezh Notebooks|| Camille Norton, Corruption: Poems; The Brado Of The Mind In Contemplation

#osip mandelstam #Camille Norton #quotes #dark academia #literature #dark acadamia aesthetic #light academia #coffee #autumn #fall #books #aesthetic #dark aesthetic #January #rain #nightsky #bulidings #ocean #chaotic academia aesthetic #poetry

[minastrit]

‘’Kederi, kül rengi bir kuş gibi, yavaşça taşıyorum kalbimde.. ‘‘

#osip mandelstam

[derangedrhythms]

to pass through the worlds of dreams and death,

Osip Mandelstam, The Voronezh Notebooks; from 'Eyesight of Wasps', tr. Richard & Elizabeth McKane

#osip mandelstam #the voronezh notebooks #eyesight of wasps #poetry #excerpts #russian literature #death

[jareckiworld]

August Lanin (1925-2006) — Lonely Multitude of Stars (In Memory of Osip Mandelstam)  oil on canvas, 1987.

#August Lanin #soviet nonconformist art #russian art #soviet art #russian literature #Osip Mandelstam

[macrolit]

Literary history that happened on 15 January 

#january 15 #literary history #literary #history #literature #on this date #osip mandelstam #tobias smollett #moliere #honore de balzac

[elizabethanism]

“The people need poetry that will be their own secret

To keep them awake forever, And bathe them in the bright-haired wave of its breathing.”

― Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938)

#Osip Mandelstam #Poetry

[fadeintoyou1993]

there are angels watching over you

hannibal (coquilles) - baptiste hersoc | crow song, margaret atwood | amour from armide, opera atelier | osip mandelstam

#gore tw #body horror tw #blood tw #osip mandelstam #margaret atwood #mine #mb #mbed #hannibal #will graham

[alwaysalreadyangry]

flipping through a new book of poetry by agha shahid ali and it opens with a poem with an epigraph from an old favourite poet of mine, osip mandelstam. both poets died much too young - agha shahid ali of brain cancer aged 52 of brain cancer, and mandelstam aged 47 in the gulag, of typhoid fever. the way ali reads mandelstam, the way he writes through this line of his to talk about kashmir... it’s so good and painful.

anyway, here’s the poem.

-

The Blesséd Word: A Prologue

The Hour draws nigh and The moon is rent asunder. –THE KORAN, Surah 54.1

We shall meet again, in Petersburg –OSIP MANDELSTAM

I From an untitled poem, that opening line announces heartbreak as its craft: a promise like that already holds its own breaking: “We shall meet again, in Petersburg / as though we had buried the sun there.” From Kashmir, that Vale where the Titans sought refuge, where, just before Saturn began to speak to Thea, “There was a listening fear in her regard / As if calamity had but begun,” from there: “When you leave home in the morning, you never know if you’ll return.” “We shall meet again, in Srinagar,” I want to answer Irfan. But such a promise? I make it in Mandelstam’s velvet dark, in the black velvet Void.

II Let me cry out in that void, say it as I can. I write on that void: Kashmir, Kaschmir, Cashmere, Qashmir, Cashmir, Cashmire, Kashmere, Cachemire, Cushmeer, Cachmiere, Cašmir. Or Cauchemar, in a sea of stories? Or: Kacmir, Kaschemir, Kasmere, Kachmire, Kasmir. Kerseymere?He reinvents Petersburg (I, Srinagar), an imaginary homeland, filling it, closing it, shutting himself (myself) in it. For there is the blesséd word with no meaning, there are flowers that will never die, roses that will never fall, a night in which Mandelstam is not afraid and needs no pass. The blesséd women are still singing. A patrol is stationed on the bridge and a car hoots like a cuckoo. Maybe the ages will die away and the loved hands of blesséd women will brush the light ashes together?

III And the night’s sun there in Srinagar? Guns shoot stars into the sky, the storm of constellations night after night, the infinite that rages on. It was Id-uz-Zuha: a record of God’s inability, for even He must melt sometimes, to let Ishmael be executed by the hand of his father. Srinagar was under curfew. The identity pass may or may not have helped in the crackdown. Son after son—never to return from the night of torture—was taken away.

IV And will the blesséd women rub the ashes together? Each fall they gather chinar leaves, singing what the hills have reechoed for four hundred years, the songs of Habba Khatun, the peasant girl who became the queen. When her husband was exiled from the Valley by the Moghul king Akbar, she went among the people with her sorrow. Her grief, alive to this day, in her own roused the people into frenzied opposition to Moghul rule. And since then Kashmir has never been free. And will the blesséd women rub the ashes together? Each fall, they sing her songs. They create their rustic fuel for winter: they set fire to the leaves, sprinkle water on them as they burn, and transform them into fragile coals. But the reports are true, and without song: mass rapes in the villages, townsleft in cinders, neighborhoods torched. “Power is hideous / like a barber’s hands.” The rubble of downtown Srinagar stares at me from the Times., Maybe the ages will die away—we will pray in Mandelstam’s night—and the loved hands of blesséd women will brush the light ashes together?

V And that blesséd word with no meaning—who will utter it? What is it? Will the women pronounce it, as if scripturing the air, for the first time? Or the last? Srinagar hunches like a wild cat: lonely sentries, wretched in bunkers at the city’s bridges, far from their homes in the plains, licensed to kill . . . while the Jhelum flows under them, sometimes with a dismembered body. On Zero Bridge the jeeps rush by. The candles go out as travelers, unable to light up the velvet Void. What is the blesséd word? Mandelstam gives no clue. One day the Kashmiris will pronounce that word truly for the first time.

(for Irfan Hasan)

#agha shahid ali #poetry #lit #osip mandelstam

[theoptia]

Osip Mandelstam, from Voronezh Notebooks; “Rome”

Text ID: Today—angels. Tomorrow—maggots.

#osip mandelstam #voronezh notebooks #poetry #russian literature #lit #miscellanea

[lilly48]

..to pass through the worlds of dreams and death.

~Osip Mandelstam

#osip mandelstam

[the-final-sentence]

How sweet the fat earth's pressure on the plow, how the spring turns the steppe to its advantage... my greetings then, black earth: be strong, look out— black eloquence of wordlessness in labor.

Osip Mandelstam, from “Black Earth“

#Osip Mandelstam #Black Earth

[minastrit]

"Yüzün

inceden daha ince,

elin beyazdan daha beyaz,

çok uzak

bir dünyada yaşıyorsun,

ve seninle ilgili hiçbir şey

önlenemez.

kederin

önlenemez

ve sürekli yanan parmakların,

sesinin hiç baş eğmeyen

yumuşaklığı

ve gözlerindeki

uzaklık.."

Osip Mandelstam

#osip mandelstam

[tinyghosts]

Do not compare: what lives is incomparable. I felt a a kind of tender fear as I took on the plains' equality and the wide sky became my malady. I summoned the air, my serving man, expected from him services or news, made ready to set out, sail on the arc of expeditions that could never start. Where I have most sky I am glad to roam, and a bright sadness will not let me leave Voronezh and its adolescent hills for the clear human hills of Tuscany.

"Do not compare: what lives is incomparable." by Osip Mandelstam (trans. Peter France)

#Osip Mandelstam #poetry

[somekindlove]

#Nadejda Mandelstam #osip mandelstam

[existential-celestial]

Ilya Kaminsky, from “Musica Humana [an elegy for Osip Mandelstam], in Dancing in Odessa

#ilya kaminsky #kaminsky #snow #winter #dancing in odessa #osip mandelstam #writing #language #book list 2020 #* #annotations

[fleursdusang]

I can feel my body eroding

What shall I do with this body they gave me? by Osip Mandelstam x Arcane 2021

#arcane viktor #arcane 2021 #Osip mandelstam #what shall I do with this body they gave me #Fleur makes arcane x classics comparatives #its Viktor brain rot time #this is actually my favorite poem #relate to it so much because of my own illness and my mothers #also why I love viktor so much probably #arcane comparatives

[sprachgitter]

And in your whisper, so much silk,

And so much air, and so much light

Osip Mandelstam. Tristia tr. Ilya Shambat

like the waltz of two words

made of pure fall, silk, and nothing.

Paul Celan, “Go blind at once” tr. Heather McHugh & Nikolai Popov

#poetry #translation #on language #paul celan #osip mandelstam #quote compilation

[megairea]

Night, maybe you don’t need me. From the world’s reach, a shell without a pearl’s seed, I’m thrown on your beach.

Osip Mandelstam, from The Shell (tr. by A.S. Kline)

#osip mandelstam #russian literature #poetry #literature