Take from my palms, to soothe your heart,
a little honey, a little sun,
in obedience to Persephone's bees.
You can't untie a boat that was never moored,
nor hear a shadow in its furs,
nor move through thick life without fear.
For us, all that's left is kisses
tattered as the little bees
that die when they leave the hive.
Deep in the transparent night they're still humming,
at home in the dark wood on the mountain,
in the mint and lungwort and the past.
But lay to your heart my rough gift,
this unlovely dry necklace of dead bees
that once made a sun out of honey.
― Osip Mandelstam, The Selected Poems (NYRB Classics; 1st edition, August 31, 2004) Originally published 1972
Слово -- чистое веселье, / Исцеленье от тоски !
Osip MandelstamI do not know how it is elsewhere, but here, in this country, poetry is a healing, life-giving thing, and people have not lost the gift of being able to drink of its inner strength. People can be killed for poetry herea sign of unparalleled respectbecause they are still capable of living by it.
Osip MandelstamIl vento
Il vento a noi consolazione portò
e nell'azzurro fiutammo
ali assire di libellule
vibrazioni d'angolosa tenebra.
E di minaccia di guerra ottenebrò
lo strato inferiore dei cieli rabbuiati,
bosco micaceo membranoso
di corpi volanti a sei braccia
Nell'azzurro c'è un angolo cieco
e nei beati meriggi c'è sempre,
come accenno di notti che si condensi,
una tremula stella densa di fato.
E a fatica aprendosi la strada
nella squama delle ali storpiate,
sotto la sua mano dall'alto prende
l'universo sconfitto Azrail.
Perhaps the whisper was born before lips,
And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew,
And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss,
Acquire their forms before we do
I don't know how it is with others, but for me the charm of a woman increases if she is a young traveler, has spent five days on a scientific trip lying on the hard bench of the Tashkent train, knows her way around in Linnaean Latin, knows which side she is on in the dispute between the Lamarckians and the epigeneticists, and is not indifferent to the soybean, cotton, or chicory.
Osip MandelstamOnly in Russia poetry is respected – it gets people killed. Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a motive for murder?
Osip MandelstamI love my poor earth because I have seen no other.
Osip MandelstamPerhaps my whisper was already born before my lips.
Osip MandelstamEverything is moved by love.
Osip MandelstamTags: poetry-love
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