Osip Mandelshtam (1891-1938)
- Tristia
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- I have learnt by heart the lesson
of goodbyes
- In bareheaded laments in the night.
- Oxen chew, waiting lengthens,
- The last hour of the watch in the
city.
- And I bow to ceremonial cock-crowing
nights
- When lifting their lading of grief
for the journey
- Eyes red with crying search the horizon
- And singing of Muses blends with the
weeping of women.
-
- Who can know from the word 'goodbye'
- What kind of separation lies before
us,
- Or what the cock's clamour promises
- When a light burns in the acropolis
- And in his stall the lazy ox chews:
- Why the cock,
- The herald of new life,
- Beats on the city walls with his wings?
-
- And I like the way of weaving:
- The shuttle comes and goes, the spindle
hums,
- And--flying to meet us like swan's
down--
- Look, barefooted Delia comes!
- Oh how meagre the basis of life,
- How threadbare the language of elysium!
- Everything existed of old, everything
recurs anew,
- The flash of recognition is all that
we welcome.
-
- So be it: a translucent manikin
- On a clean clay plate--
- A squirrel's stretched-out skin:
- Bent over the wax, a girl examines
it.
- Not for us to guess at Grecian Erebus:
-
- For women wax, what bronze is for
men.
- On us our fate falls only in battles;
- Their death they die in divination.
-
- When Psyche, Who is Life,
Descends Among The Shades
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- When Psyche, who is life, descends
among she shades,
- Following Persephone into half-transparent
forest,
- The blind swallow hurls itself at
her feet
- With Stygian affection and green twig.
-
- Phantoms in a throng speed towards
their new companion,
- They meet the fugitive with lamentations.
- In front of her they wring thin hands,
- Perplexed with diffident expectations.
-
- One holds out a mirror, another a
phial of perfumes--
- The soul likes trinkets, after all
is feminine.
- And dry complainings, like fine rain,
- Sprinkle the leafless forest with
transparent voices.
-
- And not knowing what to do in this
friendly hubbub,
- The soul senses weight and size no
longer.
- She breathes on the mirror and is
slow to hand over
- The lozenge of copper to the master
of the ferry.
-
-
- Lightheartedly Take From
The Palms Of My Hands
-
- Lightheartedly take from the palm
of my hands
- A little sun, a little honey,
- As Persphone's bees commanded us.
-
- Not to be untied, the unmoored boat;
- Not to be heard, fur-shod shadows;
- Not to be silenced, life's thick terrors.
-
- Now we have only kisses,
- Bristly and crisp like bees,
- Which die as they fly from the hive.
-
- They rustle in transparent thickets
of night,
- Their homeland thick forest of Taigetos,
- Their food--honeysuckle, mint, and
time.
-
- Lightheartedly take then my uncouth
present:
- This simple necklace, of dead, dried
bees
- Who once turned honey into sun.
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- Translations by James Greene
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