#osip mandelstam
theoptia · 4 months ago
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Osip Mandelstam, from Voronezh Notebooks
Text ID: Where can I hide in this January?
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lilly48 · a month ago
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How sad, yet beautiful, is the dark brutal soul.
~Osip Mandelstam
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dark-academic-dead-poet · 4 months ago
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"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
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minastrit · a month ago
‘’Kederi, kül rengi bir kuş gibi, yavaşça taşıyorum kalbimde.. ‘‘
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derangedrhythms · 5 months ago
to pass through the worlds of dreams and death,
Osip Mandelstam, The Voronezh Notebooks; from 'Eyesight of Wasps', tr. Richard & Elizabeth McKane
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jareckiworld · 4 months ago
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August Lanin (1925-2006) — Lonely Multitude of Stars (In Memory of Osip Mandelstam)  oil on canvas, 1987.
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macrolit · 4 months ago
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Literary history that happened on 15 January 
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elizabethanism · 28 days ago
“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)
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fadeintoyou1993 · a year ago
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there are angels watching over you
hannibal (coquilles) - baptiste hersoc | crow song, margaret atwood | amour from armide, opera atelier | osip mandelstam
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alwaysalreadyangry · 6 months ago
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)
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theoptia · a year ago
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Osip Mandelstam, from Voronezh Notebooks; “Rome”
Text ID: Today—angels. Tomorrow—maggots.
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lilly48 · 5 months ago
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..to pass through the worlds of dreams and death.
~Osip Mandelstam
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the-final-sentence · a month ago
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“
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minastrit · 8 months ago
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inceden daha ince,
elin beyazdan daha beyaz,
çok uzak
bir dünyada yaşıyorsun,
ve seninle ilgili hiçbir şey
ve sürekli yanan parmakların,
sesinin hiç baş eğmeyen
ve gözlerindeki
Osip Mandelstam
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tinyghosts · 4 months ago
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)
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somekindlove · a month ago
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existential-celestial · a year ago
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Ilya Kaminsky, from “Musica Humana [an elegy for Osip Mandelstam], in Dancing in Odessa
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fleursdusang · 3 months ago
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I can feel my body eroding
What shall I do with this body they gave me? by Osip Mandelstam x Arcane 2021
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sprachgitter · 4 months ago
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
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megairea · a year ago
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)
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