Hesse wrote some fine poetry. Here is a favourite of mine. Indeed, I liked it so much that I set it to music for tenor, clarinet and cello, the same scoring as Philip Grange's "On this bleak hut".

Wie sind die Tage schwer!
An keinem Feuer kann ich erwarmen,
Keine Sonne lacht mir mehr,
Ist alles leer,
Ist alles kalt und ohne Erbarmen,
Und auch die lieben klaren
Sterne schauen mich trostlos an,
Seit ich im Herzen erfahren,
Daß Liebe sterben kann.

hank you Peter Grimes. It is a nice poem (and short).

Mr Sydney Grew. I know Belyi. He is poet symbolist and is difficult to understand.
      БЕССОННИЦА                                 Insomnia
       
       Мы -- безотчетные: безличною             We - with no control: impersonal
       Судьбой Плодим                                    by Fate bear
       Великие вопросы;                                  Great quastions;
       И -- безотличные -- привычною                 And --- impersonal- habitual
       Гурьбой                                                  Crowd
       Прозрачно                                               transperantly
       Носимся, как дым                                         rushing like smoke
       От папиросы.                                               from the cigaret.       
       Невзрачно                                                   Plainly (or ill looking?)
       Сложимся под пологом окна,                          stash under slop of the window
       Над Майей месячной, над брошенною брызнью, --    over May spread like drops
       Всего на миг один --                                          only for one moment--
       -- (А ночь длинна --                                       --(and night is long--
       Длинна!) --                                                       Long)--
       Всего на миг один:                                           ONly for one moment:
       Сияющею жизнью.                                           By bright life.
       Тень, тихий чернодум, выходит                        Shadow quietly comes
       Из угла,                                                        out from the corner,
       Забродит                                                       wander around
       Мороком ответов;                                           with problems of answers:
       Заводит --                                                     turns on---
       Шорохи...                                                       rustles....
       Мутительная мгла                                            In Darknes
       Являет ворохи                                                appear stashes of       
       Разбросанных предметов.                               scattered things.



I am not a good translator, I am affraid, Mr Grew, but I tried to translate to give you some idea what his poetry like. This poem was written in Berlin in 1921. I don't know when he left Russia.

He is not translated into English to my knowledge. May be he is not interesting enough, or may be there is no market for this kind of things.

I am glad you liked it, martle. This is the second half of the poem. It is written in Hospital in Moscow, not Berlin as I said. I was wrong.  The rest says that time threw indifferently all scrap into dresser and in all different guises his doubts are looking on his spoiled days (or something).
I am happy with my translation actually. I think it is good.     


 Из ниши смотрит шкаф: и там немой арап.       
       Тишайше строится насмешливою рожей...
       Но время бросило свой безразличный крап.
       Во всех различиях -- все то же, то же, то же.
       И вот -- стоят они, и вот -- глядят они,
       Как дозирающие очи,
       Мои
       Сомнением
       Испорченные
       Дни,
       Мои
       Томлением
       Искорченные
       Ночи...
       
       Январь 1921, Москва    January, 1021, Moscow
       Больница               Hospital


Those symbolists were popular before Revolution. It is actually very exciting and interesting topic.

I did not think I knew poetry, but apparently I know something.
     

Familiar from Madeleine Dring's setting, which seems ever less appropriate as those final lines become ever closer to the truth about life... A poem whose setting shouldn't draw chuckles from the audience.

We thank Madame Pianiste so much for her great kindness in translating the example of Byely's work. What pleasure she has given us all!

The extreme brevity of some of the lines conveys the impression of a kind of impassioned panting, which we remember from Scryabine's Poem of Ecstasy; it is a quality we see much less often in English poetry.

Andrey Byely's real name was Boris Bougaeff and he was the son of Bougaeff the mathematician. He himself attended advanced studies at the faculty of sciences, and always dreamed of bringing together the exact sciences and music.

He assumed a pseudonym ("Byely" means "candid" we are told) so as not to shock his father by the publication of decadent verse. He was a mystic and idealist who came under the influence of "Solovieff" (presumably not the same person as Sologub). His "Symphonies" (1902 to 1908), constructed on leitmotifs, inaugurated modernism in Russia. Although the symbol was for him a method of access to the mystery of life, he did not exclude the hope of changing life.

Here he is in a photograph from 1899:



And here is a little extract from the Poem of Ecstasy to show Members what we mean about the similar brevity of the lines.

"I summon you to life,
Hidden longings!
   You, sunken
   In the sombre depths
   Of creative spirit,
   You timid embryos
   Of life,
   To you bring I
   Daring!

Henceforth, you are free!
Fragment and flower
Each separately
Poise up one against another
Flee to the summits
That in sweetest bliss
You may know your oneness
Annihilated within me!
Rise up one against another,
Strike against me,
Negate yet love!
Turn against me, all peoples and elements,
Horrors lift up your heads
Try to destroy me,
Caverns of dragons' mouths,
Serpents twist round me
Constrict me and bite me!

When all is risen
   Against me,
   Then I begin
   My
   Play.

O waiting world,
Weary world!
You are thirsting to be created
You seek the creator.
Your tenderly sweet sigh,
   Calling
Has been wafted to me.
   I will come.
Already I dwell in you
O world of mine!"

Here is a favourite of mine...

"Feet that print on virgin snow,
 Feet that know which way to go
 Hands that cast a fishing line
 Hands of lovers that entwine
 Ears that catch the cuckoo's cry
 Ears that can detect a lie
 Eyes that see the world entire
 From cradle rock to funeral pyre
 These the things one must achieve
 Before with wisdom one must leave."

"Wisdom" by David Corcoran (1948-1999)

Five years ago, I heard a radio interview with the poet Richard Cadel:

http://www.vpro.nl/programma/deavonden/afleveringen/4746552/

In this interview, Mr Caddel was talking about Basil Bunting and I became interested. Mr Caddel served as Director of the Basil Bunting Poetry Centre at Durham University for a number of years up to his death a few years ago.

If you want to listen to the interview, please open the first audio clip on the page. The interview starts in the thirty ninth minute.

I now see that the interview continues in the second clip. It's a rather complicated website. Please ask me for help if you have a problem with opening the clips!