|
MT Wessel
|
 |
« Reply #90 on: 00:52:46, 25-04-2007 » |
|
Sydney
I could not have put it better myself ?
Er .. pass the tablets please nurse
M in TW coat
|
|
|
|
« Last Edit: 01:04:06, 28-04-2007 by MT Wessel »
|
Logged
|
lignum crucis arbour scientiae
|
|
|
|
trained-pianist
|
|
« Reply #91 on: 09:16:31, 25-04-2007 » |
|
Here is a poem by Tsvetaeva that I found translated. This is not my favourite, but I want people to have a taste of her poetry.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Where does this tenderness come from?
Where does this tenderness come from?
These are not the – first curls I
have stroked slowly – and lips I
have known are – darker than yours
as stars rise often and go out again
(where does this tenderness come from?)
so many eyes have risen and died out
in front of these eyes of mine.
and yet no such song have
I heard in the darkness of night before,
(where does this tenderness come from?):
here, on the ribs of the singer.
Where does this tenderness come from?
And what shall I do with it, young
sly singer, just passing by?
Your lashes are – longer than anyone's.
Translation from Russian © Elaine Feinstein
Labels: Great Poets
|
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
Sydney Grew
Guest
|
|
« Reply #92 on: 09:22:38, 25-04-2007 » |
|
I don't know if he [Biely] and Skryabin knew each other. They probably did because both were famous. Also they lived in the same city (Moscow). Unfortunately there is in Boris de Schloezer's book no reference to any intercourse between Biely and Scryabine, but as Madame Pianiste writes they are almost certain to have known each other. What Schloezer does say though is that when in the autumn of 1914 Scryabine had almost completed the text for his Acte Préalable (the "preparatory act" for his projected Mysterium), he read it to three poet friends, Viacheslav Ivanoff, Juris Baltrushaitis, and Konstantin Balmont, for whose literary judgement he had great respect.    Ivanoff (Moscow 1866 - Rome 1950) affirmed in 1910 the religious mission of Russian Symbolism. His aim was to bring Dionysus and Christ together, Nietzschean individualism and the Christian community. Biely called him "the Faust of our century". One of his principal collections of verse is "Eros" (1907). (That would be a good name for a new operating system too.) He later emigrated to Italy and became a Catholic priest and lecturer at the University of Padua. Our private reference system reveals little about Baltrushaitis (poet and diplomat, 1873-1944), although there is a good deal if Members google. He was as is evident from his name of Lithuanian origin, but lived in Moscow after 1903. Balmont (Ivanovo-Voznesensk 1867 - Paris 1943) published in 1915 a theoretical essay entitled "Poetry like Magic", which proposed a new formula for a reconsidered and extended Symbolism. For him, poetry only rediscovered an ancestral and immemorial use of language, such as was found in ancient civilisations where the poet was the mage. Music, of course, is the art of magic par excellence. The musician, like the poet, recreates the world in naming it, and creates harmonies out of chaos. Balmont's goal was to transform the word - and indeed the world - into pure musical incantation. After the revolution he took refuge in France. Members will be familiar with Strawinscy's setting of two of his poems. We wonder what these three thought of Scryabine's grand project! |
|
|
|
« Last Edit: 09:39:50, 25-04-2007 by Sydney Grew »
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
Mary Chambers
|
|
« Reply #93 on: 10:04:12, 25-04-2007 » |
|
W H Auden, The Composer
All the others translate: the painter sketches
A visible world to love or reject;
Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches
The images out that hurt or connect,
From Life to art by painstaking adaption,
Relying on us to cover the rift;
Only your notes are pure contraption,
Only your song is an absolute gift.
Pour out your presence, a delight cascading
The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine,
Our climate of silence and doubt invading;
You alone, alone, imaginary song,
Are unable to say an existence is wrong,
And pour out your forgiveness like a wine.
I have to say I don't really understand the last verse.
|
|
|
|
« Last Edit: 22:03:20, 25-04-2007 by Mary Chambers »
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
pim_derks
|
|
« Reply #94 on: 13:56:50, 25-04-2007 » |
|
ET SURTOUT QUE...
-Et surtout que Demain n’apprenne pas où je suis-
Les bois, les bois sont pleins de baies noires-
Ta voix est comme un son de lune dans le vieux puits
Où l’écho, l’écho de juin vient boire.
Et que nul ne prononce mon nom là-bas, en rêve,
Les temps, les temps sont bien accomplis-
Comme un tout petit arbre souffrant de prime sève
Est ta blancheur en robe sans pli.
Et que les ronces se referment derrière nous,
Car j’ai peur, car j’ai peur du retour.
Les grandes fleurs blanches caressent tes doux genoux
Et l’ombre, et l’ombre est pâle d’amour.
Et ne dis pas à l’eau de la forêt qui je suis;
Mon nom, mon nom est tellement mort.
Tes yeux ont la couleur des jeunes pluies,
Des jeunes pluies sur l’étang qui dort.
Et ne raconte rien au vent du vieux cimetière.
Il pourrait m’ordonner de le suivre.
Ta chevelure sent l’été, la lune et la terre.
Il faut vivre, vivre, rien que vivre…
O.V. de L. Milosz
|
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
|
|
|
|
trained-pianist
|
|
« Reply #95 on: 20:09:55, 25-04-2007 » |
|
Thank you Mr Grew for your interesting post. I only know Balmont out of three people you mention. Balmont is famous (like Bely). They were all symbolists poets.
The Renunciation Balmont translated by Alex Sitnitsky
The stars are beautiful with their perfect match,
The planet promises the captivating pleasures.
For here Man had Time as his eternal pledge.
The light, the air — they dwell in endless measures.
And every day, at the appointed time
A ruby fire covers up the earth, its precious treasure.
The spring of new reflections has not died.
The brook of feelings still alive, refreshing
One who can love like it is his last try.
The flowers bloom, their sepals breath with passion.
The colored petals are desirable. The tints’
Magnificence is far beyond expression.
The ghostly-mirror lake mysteriously glints,
The river’s stream is meaningful, yet silent,
Inspiring a blithe bliss. And anguish only gleams.
And tops of mountains on an abandoned island,
And boundless ocean with its tender foam design —
All is the feast. Your eyes are to define that
The lands’ distinction is incredulous and fine.
The spaciousness of plains is the superior blessing
And the mirage’s fraud seduces the keen mind.
The women’s lips are scarlet and caressing.
The thoughts of chosen men are brilliant and thin.
But since no one perceived life’s plane essence
And at the time of death they are so tired, and since
The meaning of this life tormented me and tempted, —
The shifts of days, the beauty of the scenes
All suns’ and moon’s exquisite luxury — I damn it!
I might add that the status of poets in Russia was always high. For some reason people like poetry. Therefore what you write about him make even more sense. Esenin was from peasant family and poetry gave him access to a "High Society".
Many of this poets were visionaries. Unfortunately they were swept away by the revolution. The once that stayed in Russia had to change or write children's books to survive. Many were killed during revolution or after, because they were considered not proletarian enough, too sentimental etc.
|
|
|
|
« Last Edit: 20:16:47, 25-04-2007 by trained-pianist »
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
Sydney Grew
Guest
|
|
« Reply #96 on: 01:35:25, 26-04-2007 » |
|
The Renunciation Balmont translated by Alex Sitnitsky It is thrilling to read it Madame Pianist despite its pessimism. We wonder when it was written? |
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
trained-pianist
|
|
« Reply #98 on: 12:39:59, 26-04-2007 » |
|
Poem by Sologub (he is also symbolist like Balmont and Bely).
We Are All Captured Beasts
We are all captured beasts,
And we howl - as we might.
We can't open the doors,
For the doors are locked tight.
If our hearts can remember tradition,
When our barking brings solace, we bark.
We don't know. Long ago we've forgotten
That it stinks badly in this zoo-park.
For our hearts can accept repetition;
Bored and weary, we cuckoo our song.
For the zoo is impersonal, habitual;
We've not longed to be free for so long.
We are all captured beasts,
And we howl - as we might.
We can't open the doors,
For the doors are locked tight.
|
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
Sydney Grew
Guest
|
|
« Reply #99 on: 13:09:32, 27-04-2007 » |
|
Poem by Sologub (he is also symbolist like Balmont and Bely). Another memorable work Madame T.P.; we thank you! The poet and novelist Fedor Sologub lived from 1863 to 1927. His best-known novel is said to be his second, "The Pitiful Demon," which describes the paranoia of a teacher struggling against a vice-ridden and limited society. His major theme was, as for Baudelaire, that of Evil. "In poetic creation," he wrote, "I distinguish two aspirations; one is positive, ironic, which says 'Yes' to the world and, by so doing, throws light on the contradiction of life, and the other is negative, lyrical, which says 'No' to the known world, and creates in so doing another world, desired, indispensable, and impossible without the transformation necessary to the known." |
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
Sydney Grew
Guest
|
|
« Reply #100 on: 13:12:58, 27-04-2007 » |
|
Here is rather a good one written by Lionel Johnson in 1894.  It is sound psychologically, is it not? A PROSELYTE
Heart of magnificent desire:
O equal of the lordly sun!
Since thou hast cast on me thy fire,
My cloistral peace, so hardly won,
Breaks from its trance:
One glance
From thee hath all its joy undone.
Of lonely quiet was my dream;
Day gliding into fellow day,
With the mere motion of a stream:
But now in vehement disarray
Go time and thought,
Distraught
With passion kindled at thy ray.
Heart of tumultuary might,
O greater than the mountain flame,
That leaps upon the fearful night!
On me thy devastation came,
Sudden and swift;
A gift
Of joyous torment without name.
Thy spirit stings my spirit: thou
Takest by storm and ecstasy
The cloister of my soul. And now,
With ardour that is agony,
I do thy will;
Yet still
Hear voices of calm memory.
|
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
Bryn
|
|
« Reply #101 on: 13:15:47, 27-04-2007 » |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
time_is_now
|
|
« Reply #102 on: 13:48:11, 27-04-2007 » |
|
"[...] says 'No' to the known world, and creates in so doing another world, desired, indispensable, and impossible without the transformation necessary to the known." That sounds like an orchestral piece by one of our distinguished Members. |
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
|
|
|
|
Sydney Grew
Guest
|
|
« Reply #103 on: 14:09:21, 27-04-2007 » |
|
The Member has given us two most useful links there! How different these two portraits of Sologub are! One would be hard pressed to recognise that they portray - as they nevertheless do - the same man.   |
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
|
|
|
|
time_is_now
|
|
« Reply #104 on: 15:26:54, 27-04-2007 » |
|
Usthinks the second one looks a bit like Julian Fellowes does it not?
|
|
|
|
|
Logged
|
The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
|
|
|
|
