It is extraordinary to think that such writing could inspire such fear in a whole regime to warrant banishment and exile. Have we lost the feeling for powerful words? It is so good, no!, necessary, essential to be reminded that words can move mountains, bring down regimes and move us to tears. Thanks for this.
I am reading the translations of Osip by Clarence Brown and poet W.S. Merwin published by New York Review of Books. There is a good intro by Brown written in 1973 in Princeton, excellent notes, and Osip's thoughts on Dante. Moving beyond words, Pasternak was haunted by Osip's fate under Stalin and Beria.
history frightens with the wretched and destitute slung like weapons against beauties balms. the poet coerces with caresses of the smithy hammer all into shapes out of shadow. here was one. who did not bend. and was broken upon his own words. yet the words remain. songs sung by echo and resolve. for generation after generation. it gathers like a forest. long after the last tree is felled. it waits for us with fingers of long nails. in shroud, it watches all. sightless eyes unblinking. it points and draws the mark where the dagger must go. and always. Macbeth must follow. we must follow. stagger along in the long twisting halls. such is the gravity of poets. we must follow. though seldom do we learn.
It is extraordinary to think that such writing could inspire such fear in a whole regime to warrant banishment and exile. Have we lost the feeling for powerful words? It is so good, no!, necessary, essential to be reminded that words can move mountains, bring down regimes and move us to tears. Thanks for this.
I am reading the translations of Osip by Clarence Brown and poet W.S. Merwin published by New York Review of Books. There is a good intro by Brown written in 1973 in Princeton, excellent notes, and Osip's thoughts on Dante. Moving beyond words, Pasternak was haunted by Osip's fate under Stalin and Beria.
Thank you for these powerful poems about the human experience.
Interesting, thanks
Poetry. Always yours to discover.
history frightens with the wretched and destitute slung like weapons against beauties balms. the poet coerces with caresses of the smithy hammer all into shapes out of shadow. here was one. who did not bend. and was broken upon his own words. yet the words remain. songs sung by echo and resolve. for generation after generation. it gathers like a forest. long after the last tree is felled. it waits for us with fingers of long nails. in shroud, it watches all. sightless eyes unblinking. it points and draws the mark where the dagger must go. and always. Macbeth must follow. we must follow. stagger along in the long twisting halls. such is the gravity of poets. we must follow. though seldom do we learn.