Poetry Bookclub 3

[Virgil]

Ok, Quasi asked me to help him out here. Let's get the next poet to be read selected. Here is a listof the nominated potential poets. The way we did it last time I think was a good method. We each select three poets; a first place selection merits three points, second place selection two points, and third place one point. We'll add up the points and the highest of course will be the poet nominated. Here is the list:

Philip Larkin
Alan Ginsberg
Medbh McGuckian
Elizabeth Bishop
Earle Birney
Ann Herbert
Ali Ahmad Said Asbar (Adunk)
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Ann Carson
Boris Pasternak
Seamus Heaney
Thom Gun

Ok, voting will end in two weeks from today, January 9th.

link to Poetry Bookclub 2
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=37623

[Dori]

I've never done this before, but I figured I might give it a go. My votes:

1) Boris Pasternak
2) Ali Ahmad Said Asbar
3) Alan Ginsberg

[Dark Muse]

1. Philip Larkin
2. Elizabeth Bishop
3. Seamus Heaney

[mayneverhave]

1. Pasternak

2. Heaney

3. Larkin

[quasimodo1]

Although translation both adds and detracts from the essence of a poem, I'll have to include Pasternak in this group. And Virgil, regarding the math...I can't imagine why I didn't simplify it in this way. 1. Bishop 2. McGuckian 3. Pasternak

[mortalterror]

1.Rilke
2.Pasternak
3.Heaney

[stlukesguild]

1. Pasternak
2. Heaney
3. Bishop

[Virgil]

Oh Quasi, I just couldn't remember your voting scheme and I didn't want to try to find it, and so I came up with whatever popped into my head.

1. Bishop
2. Moore
3. Heaney

[JBI]

Hebert
Birney
Adunis

Sorry I have been away guys - I am in Israel right now and internet access is scarce.

[Saladin]

How do you join this bookclub?

[Dark Muse]

Anyone can just come in and coment on whatever poem and poets we happen to be discussing. You can join just be jumping into the discussion. Right now we are voting for who to do next so you can add in your own vote if you would like to partake.

[Saladin]

Oh ok. If so here are my vote:

Pasternak
Ginsberg
Adunk

[Virgil]

Ok, as the vote now stands, we have the following:

Pasternak 15
Bishop 9
Heaney 7
Larkin 4
Adunis 4
Ginsberg 3
Herbert 3
McGukian 2
Birney 2

Mortalterror voted for Rilke who wasn't nominated. We can include him or have Mortal vote again.

[Pensive]

I've never done this before, but I figured I might give it a go. My votes:

1) Boris Pasternak

If I remember correctly, isn't this the author of Doctor Zhivago? And if it is really so, I second this nomination.

[stlukesguild]

Yes... Pasternak is the author of Doctor Zhivago... but he is far more known is Russia as their greatest poet of the Modern era. His book, My Sister-Life, has been described as holding a status such as that held by Harmonium and The Wasteland. Personally, I have found that the closest comparison I can find to Pasternak's poetry (obviously based upon translations) is with the poetry of Rilke. Perhaps this should not be surprising considering that Rilke was an influential figure upon Pasternak. Certainly a worthy poet.

[mortalterror]

Yes... Pasternak is the author of Doctor Zhivago... but he is far more known is Russia as their greatest poet of the Modern era. His book, My Sister-Life, has been described as holding a status such as that held by Harmonium and The Wasteland. Personally, I have found that the closest comparison I can find to Pasternak's poetry (obviously based upon translations) is with the poetry of Rilke. Perhaps this should not be surprising considering that Rilke was an influential figure upon Pasternak. Certainly a worthy poet.

I picked up a copy of My Sister Life at the library with some more Rilke yesterday. He doesn't remind me of The Wasteland at all. He's good but he's certainly no Rilke.

[Virgil]

Hmm, should be an interesting read. I hope I can find a good copy.

[stlukesguild]

Mortal... I did not intend a stylistic comparison with Eliot. Rather I meant to point out that the Russian critics rank Pasternak's book as being as central or seminal to modern Russian poetry as is Eliot's Wasteland or Steven's Harmonium. Personally, I prefer Rilke myself... but then I have a lot more Rilke to compare with... and I have Rilke in some very good translations... and if I am truly motivated I can even fudge my way through the original with a good dictionary. But there is something of the same stark or even crystalline language that I so admire in Rilke to be found in Pasternak.

[Kafka's Crow]

I can see my candidate is leading the race. Give it another push Boris!

Boris Pasternak
Seamus Heaney
Adonis

[mayneverhave]

Yes... Pasternak is the author of Doctor Zhivago... but he is far more known is Russia as their greatest poet of the Modern era. His book, My Sister-Life, has been described as holding a status such as that held by Harmonium and The Wasteland. Personally, I have found that the closest comparison I can find to Pasternak's poetry (obviously based upon translations) is with the poetry of Rilke. Perhaps this should not be surprising considering that Rilke was an influential figure upon Pasternak. Certainly a worthy poet.

Amazon.com product description:

In Russian poetry, Boris Pasternak's "My Sister-Life" is the equivalent of "The Waste Land", "Spring", and "Harmonium". Written in 1917, the cycle of poems in "My Sister-Life" concentrates on personal journeys and loves, but is permeated by the tension and promise of the impending October revolution. Pasternak is an uncompromisingly complex poetic stylist, and his meticulous attention to structure, etymology, and phonetic qualities of words makes his poetry a formidable challenge for the translator.

[TheFifthElement]

Oh, now I'm torn. I'd like to read Larkin but I just realised that Pasternak was the first poet to really get me into poetry with this little gem:


Don't touch: Fresh paint. The soul ignored
or thought itself too wise.
Now memory's streaked with hands and cheeks,
thighs and lips and eyes.

More than all good fortune and bad
I loved you for the light
that washed the sallow and yellow world
whiter than white.

And even in my glooms, I swear, my dear,
will gleam more whitely now
than delirium or lampshade
or bandage on the brow.

So, I vote:

1. Larkin
2. Pasternak
3. Ginsberg

[quasimodo1]

The Nobel Prize in Literature 1958
Announcement
Announcement by Anders Österling, Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen:

This year's Nobel Prize for Literature has been awarded by the Swedish Academy to the Soviet-Russian writer Boris

Pasternak for his notable achievement in both contemporary poetry and the field of the great Russian narrative

tradition.

As is well known, Pasternak has sent word that he does not wish to accept the distinction. This refusal, of course,

in no way alters the validity of the award. There remains only for the Academy, however, to announce with regret that

the presentation of the Prize cannot take place.

From Les Prix Nobel en 1958, Editor Göran Liljestrand, [Nobel Foundation], Stockholm, 1959


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On October 25, 1958, two days after the official communication from the Swedish Academy that Boris Pasternak had been

selected as the Nobel Prize winner in literature, the Russian writer sent the following telegram to the Swedish

Academy: "Immensely thankful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed." This telegram was followed, on October 29, by

another one with this content: "Considering the meaning this award has been given in the society to which I belong, I

must reject this undeserved prize which has been presented to me. Please do not receive my voluntary rejection with

displeasure."
--- --- http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1958/press.html

[quasimodo1]

“Man is born to live and not to prepare to live.” --- “Surprise is the greatest gift which life can

grant us.” --- "Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates

life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.” ...Boris Pasternak

[JBI]

We ready to select a volume/translation?

[Virgil]

Ok, I got the following tally for the final vote:


Pasternak 20
Bishop 9
Heaney 9
Larkin 7
Adunis 5
Ginsberg 4
Herbert 3
McGukian 2
Birney 2

I guess the clear winner is Pasternak. Should be interesting. It was recommended that Andrei Navrozov translation of Second Nature be used. I have no expertise in this area. If anyone has a better recommendation, please bring it forth. You can find the Narozov edition at Amazon and Barnes & Noble:
http://www.amazon.com/Second-Nature-Poems-Boris-Pasternak/dp/072061192X/ref=sr_1_30?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1230999193&sr=1-30

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Second-Nature/Boris-Pasternak/e/9780720611922/?itm=1.

It will take me a week or so to get the book. We'll start discussion next week. I guess first to get the book can post the first poem. ;)

[JBI]

The volume you suggested seems to be a bit on the pricey side for its length - with shipping it would cost me an arm and a leg - and sadly, I would have to pass on the discussion - given that my trip has essentially bankrupted me.

[Virgil]

The volume you suggested seems to be a bit on the pricey side for its length - with shipping it would cost me an arm and a leg - and sadly, I would have to pass on the discussion - given that my trip has essentially bankrupted me.

Well, suggest a different volume JBI. That was recommended. I didn't even look at the price. Is there a better deal out there? Let's do some research.

[Virgil]

Here's a different volume that's more affordable: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Selected-Poems/Boris-Pasternak/e/9780393336566/?itm=7

I'm not sure why we all have to get the same edition. That might be difficult in some cases.

[JBI]

That seems like the most promising edition, and seems to be also available from Penguin:
http://www.amazon.com/Pasternak-Selected-Penguin-Twentieth-Century-Classics/dp/014018466X/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231022505&sr=1-7

[Virgil]

That seems like the most promising edition, and seems to be also available from Penguin:
http://www.amazon.com/Pasternak-Selected-Penguin-Twentieth-Century-Classics/dp/014018466X/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231022505&sr=1-7

Good deal. I think that's what I'll get. :)

[Dori]

I have Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago, and within the volume there's a good deal of poetry (all at the end).

[Saladin]

Good deal. I think that's what I'll get. :)

So did we go for that one or? The local library doesn`t of course have Pasternak poetry (poorly on all russian literature). So i have to buy it if that is the one we are going for?:D

[Kafka's Crow]

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/072061192X/ref=dp_olp_new/279-2237087-2853167?ie=UTF8&condition=new

I couldn't imagine it to be cheaper than 70p (around 1 US$). Even including delivery to Canada or the US it shouldn't me more than £5.00 (around $7.00).

[JBI]

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/072061192X/ref=dp_olp_new/279-2237087-2853167?ie=UTF8&condition=new

I couldn't imagine it to be cheaper than 70p (around 1 US$). Even including delivery to Canada or the US it shouldn't me more than £5.00 (around $7.00).

Only one is .70p, the rest are 5pounds to 10 pounds, plus delivery, which comes to close to the same as the American ones.

[stlukesguild]

I do highly recommend the volume, My Sister-Life which is quite reasonably priced:

http://www.amazon.com/My-Sister-European-Poetry-Classics/dp/0810119099/ref=pd_sim_b_1

I also have the Penguin volume and found that quite decent. Beyond that I also have a number of poems by Pasternak in Yevgeny Yevtuschenko's anthology, 20th Century Russian Poetry. I can't speak for any of the other translations... few of which seem readily available.

http://www.amazon.com/Twentieth-Century-Russian-Poetry-Anthology/dp/0385051298/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231081664&sr=1-3

[TheFifthElement]

My library has only one Pasternak collection which is none of the above. I'll pick it up tomorrow and see what's in there. I'm not entirely sure which collection it is we're supposed to be getting. Hmm.

[Virgil]

Well, I'm still not sure which collection to get. I don't think it absolutely necessary that we all have the same edition. It seems difficult to do so given our geographical locations and that Pasternak wrote in Russian and we have to deal with translators. I'm going to just order one of them. If someone has a collection already, how about that person posting a poem and starting the discussion? Anyone have a collection yet?

[Dark Muse]

Well I do not have a collection, but I found some of his poems online. I can be brave and go first. I don't know anything about this poet, and well this is the frist I have heard of him, but reading some of his works, this one just really jumped out at me.

The Earth

Spring bursts violently
into Moscow houses.
Moths flutter about
crawl on summer hats,
and furs hide secretly.

Pots of wallflowers and stock
stand, in the window, just,
of wooden second storeys,
the rooms breathe liberty,
the smell of attics is dust.

The street is friends
with the bleary glass,
and white night and sunset
at one, by the river, pass.

In the passage you’ll know
what’s going on below
and April’s casual flow
of words with drops of thaw.

It’s a thousand stories veiled
in a human sadness,
and twilight along the fence
grows chill with the tale.

Outside, or snug at home
the same fire and hesitation:
everywhere air’s unsure.
The same cut willow twigs,
the same white swell of buds,
at crossroads, windows above,
in streets, and workshop-doors.

Then why does the far horizon weep
in mist, and the soil smell bitter?
After all, it’s my calling, surely,
to see no distance is lonely,
and past the town boundary,
to see that earth doesn’t suffer.

That’s why in early spring
we meet, my friends and I,
and our evenings are – farewell documents,
our gatherings are – testaments,
so the secret stream of suffering
may warm the cold of life.


I do not have long to stay so I will have to come back later to really coment, but thought I would kick things off.

[Dark Muse]

Spring bursts violently
into Moscow houses.
Moths flutter about
crawl on summer hats,
and furs hide secretly.

The start of this poem really catches my attention. Spring and violence are not really paired together, I love the image which is conveyed in these lines. I can see how living in somewhere cold, and snowy, the spring could see more chaotic. I can see the sun breaking through the darkness and shining in the windows. Grass and plants breaking through their icy prisons, as snow beginning to melt and thaw.

And the mention of the moths suggests clothing which has been locked away in the closet forgotten for a long time.


the rooms breathe liberty,
the smell of attics is dust.

These two lines are just spectacular. It gives the feeling of coming alive again, or waking from a long sleep.


In the passage you’ll know
what’s going on below
and April’s casual flow
of words with drops of thaw.

I love the play upon words here, the double meaning this stanza gives. It alludes both to the poem itself, as well as the passage and changing of the seasons. It adds a touch of humor.


It’s a thousand stories veiled
in a human sadness,
and twilight along the fence
grows chill with the tale.

Just beautiful! I love the feeling and imagery portrayed in these words, and they mark a shift within the poem. It moves from the joy and renewal brought by spring, to the loneliness and cold marked by the long winter months.

And I think I will stop here for the moment.

[Virgil]

Oh my gosh, this is a fine poem Muse. Thanks for starting. I was really captivated by that "liberty" line as well. There is an intricate metaphor running through this but before I really add my thoughts, I wish to absorb it a little more. Can you provide the link where you found the poem?

Great that we got this going!! Thanks again. :)

[Dark Muse]

Yes, I also really like how the persepctive of the poem shifts twords the end.

Sure, here it is:

http://www.tonykline.co.uk/PITBR/Russian/Pasternak.htm

[Quark]

Good poem, DM.

I'm a little confused by these lines, though:


After all, it’s my calling, surely,
to see no distance is lonely,
and past the town boundary,
to see that earth doesn’t suffer. (32-35)

Why does the speaker believe he's only supposed to see what's optimistic and joyful?

[Dark Muse]

That is an interesting line

Maybe it is an allusion to his work as a poet. Perhaps he feels as a poet it his his calling to see the other side to things. To see beauty where others see only darkness.

[Quark]

Maybe it is an allusion to his work as a poet. Perhaps he feels as a poet it his his calling to see the other side to things. To see beauty where others see only darkness.

I thought of that, but put a little different spin on it. I supposed that as a poet he would be expected to see the rejuvenation of nature as a happy time. I don't know if were on the right track, though, with this poet theory. It could be a number of things. Perhaps, it's simply a societal pressure to be optimistic? Or, maybe it has something to do with the utopian views of Communism?

[JBI]

Good poem, DM.

I'm a little confused by these lines, though:



Why does the speaker believe he's only supposed to see what's optimistic and joyful?

I think he is alluding more along the lines to a social responsibility as a human being, than as portraying things as an optimist.

His ending alludes to a desire to see good within the destructive scene that is Moscow, but an inability, and thus, he seeks company, to be bitter amongst friends, and therefore unbitter, as the presence and reassurance of development and unaloneness remove him from the desolation.

[Quark]

I think he is alluding more along the lines to a social responsibility as a human being

You mean his responsibility to interact or sympathize with others?


His ending alludes to a desire to see good within the destructive scene that is Moscow, but an inability, and thus, he seeks company, to be bitter amongst friends, and therefore unbitter, as the presence and reassurance of development and unaloneness remove him from the desolation.

This certainly works for the conclusion. The speaker finds solace in company.

[Dark Muse]

I think he is alluding more along the lines to a social responsibility as a human being, than as portraying things as an optimist.

His ending alludes to a desire to see good within the destructive scene that is Moscow, but an inability, and thus, he seeks company, to be bitter amongst friends, and therefore unbitter, as the presence and reassurance of development and unaloneness remove him from the desolation.

Going along those lines, perhaps the reference to spring in this poem is meant to be symbolic. A reference to some rebrith in humanity, to try and see some hope coming out of the gloom of the situation.

I was currious about the last lines of the poem



and our evenings are – farewell documents,
our gatherings are – testaments,


I was currious by what was meant by farewell documents

[JBI]

Going along those lines, perhaps the reference to spring in this poem is meant to be symbolic. A reference to some rebrith in humanity, to try and see some hope coming out of the gloom of the situation.

I was currious about the last lines of the poem





I was currious by what was meant by farewell documents

I suspect a translation problem, or perhaps a lack of clarity of translation, having read other translations by this translator, his/her work seems to be rather mediocre in conveying connotations of words, and seems done with machine more than by human.

As for the farewell documents, I suspect something along the lines of goodbye letters, or something like that. The theme of spring and rebirth, given probably the social connotation of the Russian revolution and the beginning of the 5 year plans and such seem to connote a sense of leaving behind the old dreary for the new, progressive. Testaments could very easily be a mistranslation for something like manifestos, or visions of the future. I think though the central point is the companionship or to use a better term, comradery (cheeky :)) and a vision of togetherness within the unforeseen new birth.

[Quark]

I was currious by what was meant by farewell documents

As for the farewell documents, I suspect something along the lines of goodbye letters

I agree with JBI. "Farewell" is the important word, and most likely "documents" is rough translation. In any case, "farewell documents" contrasts with the togetherness we would picture in a meeting of friends. This goes along with much of the rest of the poem which explores opposites: budding spring is really terrible, secret springs of suffering warm life, etc.

[Virgil]

Just put in an order to Amazon. I wound up getting My Sister-Life. It was a important publication, and I thought the Anthology was pricey still. Hopefully I'll get it in a week or so.

[JBI]

I got the selected poems from Penguin, and can get My Sister-life from the library if the discussion bends towards there, but lets try to discuss a poem, this time by a seemingly excellent translators:

The Weeping Garden

It's terrible: dripping and listening
If it's as much alone as ever -
Crumpling a lacy branch at the window -
Or if there's an eavesdropper.

But audibly the porous earth
Is choking with so much growth
And in the distance, as in August
Midnight ripins with the harvest.

No sound. And no one hiding.
Having made sure it's on its own
It returns to its old game - sliding
From gable to gutter and down.

........


But all is quiet. Not a leaf stirs.
Nothing anywhere to be seen,
Except the gulps and splashing galoshes
And sighs and tears in between.

From Selected Poems, section: My Sister Life, Trans. Jon Stallworthy and Peter France.

[Dark Muse]

There is something quite desolate about this poem. His works seem to speak of a certain despair, and sadness. I find it interesting how the presence of human life is suggested within this poem, particularly with the mention of the splashing galoshes, and yet at the same time, a feeling of emptiness is captured.

[stlukesguild]

The Weeping Orchard

It's eerie- how the orchard drips and listens:
is it the only one in the world
to crumple a branch on this window like lace
or is there a witness?

The spongy, bruised earth heaves
and chokes under the burden.
In the distances, you can hear, as in August,
midnight ripen in the fields.

Not a sound. No one looks on.
Assured there's no one there
it reverts to old tricks- rolls down roof
to gutter, and spills over.

I will bring it to my lips and listen:
am I the only one in the world,
ready to weep on the slightest occasion,
or is there a witness...

excerpted from the collection My Sister- Life
tr. Mark Rudman and Bohdan Boychuck

[stlukesguild]

Perhaps rather than suggesting the presence of human life... through absences... I am struck by the manner in which nature... the orchard... is animated: its drips and listens... the earth chokes... with no onlooker, it reverts to it old tricks.

[Virgil]

I have yet to receive my book. Seems like Amazon is taking longer than usual. I will catch up, I promise.

[stlukesguild]

No rush, Virgil. I've owned both the book JBI quoted, and My Sister-Life for more than 10 years. I think I bought them while living in New York right after art school... doing my starving artist thing... and heavily into Russian literature.:lol:

[JBI]

I'm not to familiar with the background to Pasternak's verse, so can someone answer one question - it seems that he functions on symbols, similar to the generation of French poets right before him, would it then be accurate to read him as a symbolist, in other words, to dig at him by treating his poems the way one would treat a symbolist's, or is he functioning on a level beyond that?

[Dark Muse]

I am quite new to Pasternak, but from the research I have done it appears he was associated with the Acmeists. And from what I have been able to gather, Acmeism was a movement away from symbolists and was created as a response to the symbolist movement.

[Virgil]

:banana:I finally got the amazon shipment. I will read the poem and try to comment tomorrow.

[JBI]

I don't know - I still stay with my initial gut reaction - he seems to function far more on symbols than the acmeist images.

[stlukesguild]

From what I remember reading of Pasternak he was certainly rooted far more closely with Symbolism. He was exposed to all the arts as a child... his father was an important painter and his mother had been a successful concert pianist. He grew up literally surrounded with the arts. Leading intellectuals frequently visited the family home. Scriabin and Rachmaninoff would perform their latest works. Pasternak clearly remembered his sense of a nascent artistic consciousness first coming to life one day upon awakening to a performance of Tchaikovsky's piano trios being performed in the family home for Tolstoy and other family friends. The most important of his early poetic influences was the young poet, Rilke, another guest of the family.

Such an artistic upbringing was quite in line with certain aspects of Symbolism... the aestheticism... the blurring of boundaries between senses and between art forms... the almost musical preference for suggestion... mood... atmosphere... over literal meaning. Pasternak studied as a painter and a composer (among other disciplines) before settling upon his true calling as a poet. His poetry was greatly informed by his studies of and love of other artistic forms. His imagery is often quite visually suggestive, and his language musical.

Symbolism was perhaps the most important poetic movement in Russia prior to the Revolution. Among the major practitioners were Fyodor Sologub, Ivan Bunin, Valery Bryusov, and Aleksandr Blok. Acemism and Futurism were perhaps the two leading early Modernist schools in Russian poetry... but Pasternak never seems to embrace these aspects of Modernism quite as much as Mandelshtam or Mayakovsky. Perhaps a portion of his reluctance was due to a a sense of personal doubt with regard to sweeping notions of "better living through technology" and the Revolution. In the final poem of My Sister-Life, The Higher Sickness... Pasternak makes clear some of his doubts about the role of art... art in support of politics.

[JBI]

Lets get back to the poem for a minute - the question of the observer within the weeping garden, in light of symbolism provokes interesting things.

Firstly, the garden as a symbol, which is clearly the centre of the poem, no matter how you look at it - the description of the garden though, is inverted. The garden, generally representing Eden, or at least always touching on Eden, is here transformed into a "weeping" garden, a desolate place, an almost Eliotic inversion that darkens the poem.

The notion of pores coming out of the earth, and a fecundity of weeds create dark images of desolation - in addition to the sense of abandonment - the weeds have devoured this weeping garden, this somewhat anti-Edenic symbol.

Yet the strangeness is in the role of the poet here - he refers to himself more as an observer and as an eavesdropper - against the expanse of abandonment - of, and again I am drawn to wasteland parallels - of Dante's vision on boarding the ferry to Inferno;

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

A very dark, and often common symbol of the time - it most certainly seems to be charged with that sense of unfulfillment - meaninglessness.

[Virgil]

I guess it's somewhat symbolist, though that's not what occured to me. The central controling image is the weeping orchard, which strikes me quite melodramatic. If this were a poem by a lit netter I would applaud the control, but I would say what exactly is it that you're saying? It's a moment captured. One can make the assumption that this is the projection of the poet's emoton unto nature. The "witness" -which in my version the word gets repeated-feeling tears and so see the orchard weeps and drips. What's the rhetorical term for the projection of one's feelings reflected in nature? I can't remember and I tried looking it up. That to me is the whole of this poem. The fourth stanza strikes me as key:


I will bring it to my lips and listen:
am I the ony one in the world,
ready to weep on the slightest occaision,
or is there a witness?

Frankly we have no idea why the poet feels this way. It just seems like a pure expression. Is there anything other than that that I'm missing?

[stlukesguild]

Certainly any garden image leads one to make connections with the Garden of Eden... but Pasternak seems to begin much of his poems with personal experiences... the places he knows... the people. The poem strikes initially as contrasting the absence of any human presence... emphasized in the repeated question: "is there a witness?"... with the animated aspect of the garden or nature. I get the feeling of the experience of the poet who has come upon a scene of an abandoned estate... perhaps somewhere that he once knew when it was full of life... perhaps somewhere that he knew as a child... where the orchard has gone to seed... the very earth "chokes under the burden" and dead branches scrape against the windows. Vegetation sprawls over the house... down the roof and spills over the gutter. The poet takes "it"... the orchard... an apple to his mouth... almost is a communal act... perhaps in an attempt to recapture what has been lost... and then the sense of desolation overcomes him... he is ready to weep. The sense of loss reminds me in a manner of Shelley's Ozymandias... or even more so of Tu Fu's Jade Flower Palace:

The stream swirls. The wind moans in
The pines. Gray rats scurry over
Broken tiles. What prince, long ago,
Built this palace, standing in
Ruins beside the cliffs? There are
Green ghost fires in the black rooms.
The shattered pavements are all
Washed away. Ten thousand organ
Pipes whistle and roar. The storm
Scatters the red autumn leaves.
His dancing girls are yellow dust.
Their painted cheeks have crumbled
Away. His gold chariots
And courtiers are gone. Only
A stone horse is left of his
Glory. I sit on the grass and
Start a poem, but the pathos of
It overcomes me. The future
Slips imperceptibly away.
Who can say what the years will bring?

I am also reminded of the melancholia of some photos of abandoned country homes from the pre-Revolutionary days let go to ruin:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3300/3218719685_a072faf2ba_o.jpg

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3090/3219570158_56c01411d6_o.jpg

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3128/3218719531_be2a01a77d_o.jpg

[Dark Muse]

Oh wow those are really cool houses

[JBI]

I guess it's somewhat symbolist, though that's not what occured to me. The central controling image is the weeping orchard, which strikes me quite melodramatic. If this were a poem by a lit netter I would applaud the control, but I would say what exactly is it that you're saying? It's a moment captured. One can make the assumption that this is the projection of the poet's emoton unto nature. The "witness" -which in my version the word gets repeated-feeling tears and so see the orchard weeps and drips. What's the rhetorical term for the projection of one's feelings reflected in nature? I can't remember and I tried looking it up. That to me is the whole of this poem. The fourth stanza strikes me as key:



Frankly we have no idea why the poet feels this way. It just seems like a pure expression. Is there anything other than that that I'm missing?


I'm going to have to disagree - I don't think he's doing any such thing as using images to create a moment - the thing is called the Weeping Orchard, I think the title is drawing direct focus to the Orchard, as a symbol. And as such, the symbol is allowed to expand - it is naive to assume he would write a poem just about a simple Orchard, or a certain moment - he is a poet of more skill than that, and as such, the Orchard must not be taken on surface value - the rest of the poem seems to suggest it can't be anyway. Have you noticed the vagueness in addressing the actual concreteness and physicality of the Orchard? The orchard is more a feeling than a physicality - it is a symbol, and to use a fancy phrase, Objective Correlative, as are all the images, to create a sense of the state of the poet, and the state of the perhaps nation, or society, or meaningfulness, or world, depending on your reading.

[stlukesguild]

it is naive to assume he would write a poem just about a simple Orchard, or a certain moment - he is a poet of more skill than that

Why is it naive? Are we to assume that only some subject matter of great profundity is worthy of the artist's efforts? Czeslaw Milosz writes of the poet, "Pasternak... did not pluck fruits from the tree of reason, the tree of life was enough for him. Confronted by argument, he responded with his sacred dance... Pasternak's poetry is anti-speculative, anti-intellectual... His worship of life meant a fascination with what can be called nature's moods- air, rain, clouds, snow in the streets, a detail changing thanks to the time of the day or night, or the season." The translator of My Sister-Life, Mark Rudman, writes, "Pasternak has a radically original way of looking at the world- as though it were born again every day. There is nothing he does not marvel at." Certainly he is not merely presenting a simple literal representation of an experience... but there is no reason to believe that his work is not still rooted in experience... albeit the poet's unique impression or feeling of the experience. This does not negate the symbolic. Rather there seems to be a suggestion that experience is composed of a fusion of elements: memory, imagery, thought, fantasy, emotion, etc...

[Dark Muse]

Though I do not know much about Pasternak and his theories of writing I agree with Stlukes point here. I do not see what is wrong or invalid in writing a poem about a garden for the gardens sake, or writing a poem about nature just for nature's sake. It could be a refection of a moment, a personal experience which had touched him. Expressing both the beauty, solitude and as well as somberness of nature. I do not think that everything must have some greater perplexing and complicated intent or reason behind it. That is not to say that symbolism does not play into his work as well, but I think perhaps sometimes people have a tendency to over analyze things and want to find something where perhaps there is not.

As well it seems a bit harsh to suggest that he would be a lesser poet if he merely wished to capture the feeling and mood of a garden as you stated


he is a poet of more skill than that,

suggesting that to write a poem capturing the essence of nature, would mean they would have to be of lesser skill. I think the beauty of prose itself should speak of the writers talent as much as the intent and meaning the poet is trying to convey.

[quasimodo1]

Not wanting to change the subject...but one term that comes up with Pasternak, both poetry and prose, is ekphrasis (and Stlukes may correct me) where the poet makes more of a unit the joining of poem and painting (or image). In this limited example, I think there is something to it. You might even add sound to the collage. "Ekphrasis has been considered generally to be a rhetorical device in which one medium of art tries to relate to another medium by defining and describing its essence and form, and in doing so, relate more directly to the audience, through its illuminative liveliness. A descriptive work of prose or poetry, a film, or even a photograph may thus highlight through its rhetorical vividness what is happening, or what is shown in, say, any of the visual arts, and in doing so, may enhance the original art and so take on a life of its own through its brilliant description. One example is a painting of a sculpture: the painting is "telling the story of" the sculpture, and so becoming a storyteller, as well as a story (work of art) itself. Virtually any type of artistic media may be the actor of, or subject of ekphrasis. One may not always be able, for example, to make an accurate sculpture of a book to retell the story in an authentic way; yet if it's the spirit of the book that we are more concerned about, it certainly can be conveyed by virtually any medium – which in itself is challenging and interesting – and thereby enhance the artistic impact of the original book through synergy." dictionary.com

[Virgil]

Coming from someone who may be naive, JBI is just wrong. He may speculate all he wants on what the weeping orchard symbolizes, but there is no suggestion in the text of this poem of anything other than an internal feeling. Why the internal feeling? I defy anyone to quote from anywhere in this poem anything that would suggest his nation or his society or the world in general. It may be that a cross textual assumption can be made but this poem as it stands does not suggest anything JBI thinks it does.

[JBI]

....

You forget the heavy context of this poem - it is the summer of 1917, in three months the Soviet Union will be born, and Russia is currently engaged heavily in a prolonged, violent war. There is smell of revolution in the air, there is context, Pasternak is in love with a girl - what moment then, is Pasternak trying to create?

It's terrible: dripping and listening
If it's as much alone as ever -
Crumpling a lacy branch at the window -
Or if there's an eavesdropper.

The key word that creates the stanza is "terrible" - it is so heavily subjective that it cannot be ignored - and therefore forms the tone of the poem; what is terrible? who is terrible, what state is terrible?

The answer is followed on the same line - "Dripping and listening." Dripping here implies a gradual, slow paced anticipation, a slow, almost painful procession, and listening - as if in anticipation, awaiting something. Of course, it can be assumed Pasternak is addressing the Weeping garden here, but then we must question what is dripping, what is so terrible, what is listening, and why is the garden "as much alone as ever", or if Pasternak is suggesting something, "[there is] and eavesdropper [present]". The eavesdropper here implies a sense of change, especially when we consider a "Crumpling [of] a lacy branch at the window", a disturbance, an answer, a sound.

But Audibly the porous earth
Is choling with so much growth
And in the distance, as in August,
Midnight ripens with the harvest.

The problem here is the inversion of growth and fecundity to a negative image - the earth here is "audibly""choking", is bursting "with so much growth" out of its pores, a strange term surely, providing an image of a plant pore, one which is used for gas exchange, taking in Carbon Dioxide, and releasing Oxygen, but is set off with a sense of choking, as if the emotion, the tears, the state of the Orchard is too full of emotion, has to much going on, or has too dreary a growth, a disease, almost fungus like.

Again though, Pasternak switches his focus:

No sound. And no one hiding.
Having made sure it's on its own
It returns to its old game - sliding
from gable to gutter and down/

The reference to the gable brings back the image of the window, and the slow drip of the weather, or perhaps, if we take it further, the Garden's weeping, making its way off the rof, and "to [the] gutter and down." The speaker senses no sound outside of the sound of the orchard, he is here distinguishing from the sound of the "porous earth" to the sound of the human, the sound of the exterior, of what is not part of the Garden. The poem here is suggesting an abandonment, an emptiness, a return to routine, to anticipation.

But the speaker finally takes a direct stand:

I'll raise it to my lips and listen
If I'm as much alone as ever -
Ready to sob if I have to -
Or if there's an eavesdropper.

The poet now is willing to engage - to listen within the coldness, the dripping stillness, to the orchard, despite being alone in doing so. He is "ready to sob if [he] has to -" ready to engage in the notion of the weeping orchard, to listen to the orchard, as it functions, and to pity, or connect with it, or gain feeling, or sympathize with it - to feel, and perhaps empathize with it.
"Or if there's an eavesdropper." again the return to the sense of loneliness and helplessness within the poet - he is still looking for something else within the Garden, someone else who is listening, someone to relate to, to connect to, to see what he sees - to recognize the weeping of the orchard, to listen to it.

But all is quiet. Not a leaf stirs.
Nothing anywhere to be seen,
Except the gulps and splashing galoshes
and sighs and tears in between.

The curious image here is the gulps (plural) and splashing galoshes (plural). I think, if we are at least going to humor the idea of the garden as symbol, we must take into account the fact that the galoshes seem to be out of place with a purely image-rendering, the galoshes take the poem to the level of symbol, because they challenge the poem itself, and pour onto it a subjectivity.

Whose galoshes can the speaker possibly be referring to? Whose gulps? whose sighs? and whose tears? They are other people, who seem outside, while inside of the garden. The galoshes splashing imply that the speaker is the only one listening, as the rest of the passers by are merely that, passers by, consumed by the acts of gulping and splashing in the tear-soaked (metaphorically of course) ground, within the sighs and tears, seeming to emanate from both garden and passerby, but no one is eavesdropping, no one is paying attention, no one, but the speaker, the poet, and that seems to be the fundamental part of the poem, which creates the, I would argue, necessity to view the garden symbolically. The poem can no longer be just about him viewing something, a specific moment, the subjectivity and the calculative ending I would argue won't allow that. Those galoshes and sighs need to belong to someone. It is then that the Garden is transformed, into a state of being, or even a state, or a life, or a condition. The poem is ambiguous, and invites the reader in, but it hardly is about a moment, because of the sense of perpetual within the poem. The constant references to routine suggest that the poet is referring to something continuous, something which, though anticipating change, has been going on for a long time.

Yes, there are many ways to read this poem, and many possible meanings, given the nature and vagueness, and ambiguity, but I think the sense of the state of the garden needs to be treated as referring to something, needs to be read as a symbol, to what, I can only guess, as I have done before - I would, for instance, draw a mention towards the fact that the poet specifies the month as August, implying perhaps a decline of the old, a time for harvest, a time for the beginning of death, in keeping with Frye's structuralist notions, but also on a darker level, a sense that this has been going on, and carried out to maturity, and that summer is fading away.

What is going through the 27 year old poet's mind? Who can say, I think the fact that there is such a wide trace, from title to end, is what makes the poem somewhat special, being that it invites speculation, but still, as just a moment, I can't agree with that sort of reading, I think it ignores the metaphoric subjectivity within the poem, call that arrogance, or whatever, I still cannot budge from my viewing of the garden as symbol.

[stlukesguild]

I do agree that considering the situation of Russia in 1917 (and also taking into account some more explicit references to the Revolution in other poems in My Sister-Life) it is a distinct probability that the poet was intending a sense of loss... a sense of returning to a once fruitful place that has grown ill... diseased. Of course I question whether he began with the "larger" idea of conveying a sense of loss as a result of the current political turmoil... or rather, he merely responded to an actual experience of stimuli with a sense of loss. In other words... did he intend that the work be "symbolic"... a symbol of something larger, or is that but a result of his response to the subject/orchard? Was the orchard invented as a symbol... or was it a real place that he felt driven to write about? I might note that Maxim Gorky criticized Pasternak for being too elusive and obscure and not immediately comprehensible. I am made to think of some of the poems by Rimbaud or Paul Valery (the classic French Symbolists) in which there is no immediately clear literal or symbolic meaning. Rather, the work seems to function almost abstractly... conveying a mood or atmosphere through accumulated images.

[Virgil]

Like I said, that's all specualtion. I can read almost anything into it. My translator doesn't use the word "galoshes." Here's how he translates the last stanza:


Silence. No breath of leaf, nothing
in the dark but this weird
gulping, and flapping of slippers,
and sighs, broken by tears.

versus the translation from your teext:


But all is quiet. Not a leaf stirs.
Nothing anywhere to be seen,
Except the gulps and splashing galoshes
and sighs and tears in between.

The galoshes makes it more striking I admit but nonetheless I can't draw any solid conclusions from either.

By the way, I'm glad you quoted me. I thought for a while there that my emotions would go unnoticed.

[JBI]

Not wanting to change the subject...but one term that comes up with Pasternak, both poetry and prose, is ekphrasis (and Stlukes may correct me) where the poet makes more of a unit the joining of poem and painting (or image). In this limited example, I think there is something to it. You might even add sound to the collage. "Ekphrasis has been considered generally to be a rhetorical device in which one medium of art tries to relate to another medium by defining and describing its essence and form, and in doing so, relate more directly to the audience, through its illuminative liveliness. A descriptive work of prose or poetry, a film, or even a photograph may thus highlight through its rhetorical vividness what is happening, or what is shown in, say, any of the visual arts, and in doing so, may enhance the original art and so take on a life of its own through its brilliant description. One example is a painting of a sculpture: the painting is "telling the story of" the sculpture, and so becoming a storyteller, as well as a story (work of art) itself. Virtually any type of artistic media may be the actor of, or subject of ekphrasis. One may not always be able, for example, to make an accurate sculpture of a book to retell the story in an authentic way; yet if it's the spirit of the book that we are more concerned about, it certainly can be conveyed by virtually any medium – which in itself is challenging and interesting – and thereby enhance the artistic impact of the original book through synergy." dictionary.com

I don't think Ekphrasis is really applicable here, though it is very interesting in terms of comparison. The problem I think, is that this Orchard is either real or immagined, and not an exterior item, like Keats's Urn, or Mussorgsky Pictures. The images function on nature, or perhaps the unnatural, instead of images of images, or a picture of a weeping orchard.

[Virgil]

In fact it doesn't even make sense. If Pasternak wishes for an image associating with the war, why not boots out right. One translator translated it as galoshes and one slippers, so obviously the actual Russian is not boots, but something less.

[stlukesguild]

With Ekphrasis I think especially of something like Dante Rossetti's poem to the Mona Lisa... a poem about a painting... a work of art about a work of art... or in response to a work of art. Shelley's Ozymandias, which I mentioned in connection with this poem... is a poem about a sculpture... but I would venture it is more intentionally symbolic (although Shelley may certainly have been inspired by engravings of Egyptian ruins... or even the fragments of the colossal sculpture of Constantine. I'm not certain that this poem... even if in response to a real orchard or Russian estate in ruin... is quite an example of Ekphrasis... but I can see some of the similar emotive response to an existing place... perhaps a place once seen as being of great culture and civilization... now grown ill.

[JBI]

I think we need a sense of authority on the text - the two versions seem to read completely differently - can we agree on one, or perhaps figure out somehow which is more literal, or something? Slippers and Galoshes are two different terms - slippers evokes a cottage where it is raining, where as Galoshes evokes that statue of Chekhov in Siberia.

[stlukesguild]

Another translation I found on-line suggests that Rudman's version may be closer to the original:

Deep silence. Not even a leaf is astir.
No gleam of light to be seen.
Only choking sobs and the splash of slippers
And sighs and tears between.

http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/30441-Boris-Pasternak-The-Weeping-Garden

[Virgil]

Well, slippers and galoshes are not really that far apart. I slip on galoshes on my nice shoes to avoid them getting muddy. Galoshes are a kind of slippers, slippers for outside and over shoes.

[stlukesguild]

Certainly every translation suggests footsteps on wet ground. Another's? Or the poet's own?:confused:

[Virgil]

I think it says he's alone, no?

[Dark Muse]

It never really specifes a "he" or a "who" it is rather vauge as to who the pressence is within the poem.


But all is quiet. Not a leaf stirs.
Nothing anywhere to be seen,
Except the gulps and splashing galoshes
And sighs and tears in between.

[JBI]

In fact it doesn't even make sense. If Pasternak wishes for an image associating with the war, why not boots out right. One translator translated it as galoshes and one slippers, so obviously the actual Russian is not boots, but something less.

I don't know if it is the war he is trying to invoke in his symbol - I think more a perspective of the land, in terms of the rainy, stormy, lonesome landscape. We get all sorts of nightmarish scenes in Russian symbolism to suggest such a thing was contemporary thought at the time, and I think, if we go with Galoshes, they are meant to fit with the rain, and weeping imagery, as if one is splashing through the tear-soaked streets.

Still though, without someone who speaks Russian or a direct translation, the ambiguous poem seems even more ambiguous.

[JBI]

I think we're ready for another poem - someone please pick one.

[stlukesguild]

I've been reading the entire volume again and have a few in mind... but my mind is somewhat mush right now. I have observations tomorrow... yet I'm sitting up due to the possibility of a snow day. I've spent too long debating the merits of Shakespeare... who certainly does not need my support. I'll post something tomorrow:nod::wave:.

[Virgil]

Well, I definitely have snow. I've enjoyed quite a few myself. Ok, you go next StLukes.

[stlukesguild]

The Mirror

Steam from a cup of cocoa floods the mirror,
the sheer curtains stretch and yawn.
Down the straight path, past storms and chaos,
the mirror runs towards the swings.

There pines toss, impregnating the air
with resin, and the garden
scatters its eyeglasses in the grass
where shadows read a book.

Toward the gate, toward dusk in the steppes,
toward the heavy odor of drugged air,
hot quartz shimmers and flows over the road
laced with snails and branches.

The huge garden wrestles in the room, in the mirror,
but doesn't break the glass -
as though its collodion flowed above the dresser
to the noise of tree bark.

The mirrored tide glazes the world
with sweatless ice, knocking
bitterness into knots, smell into lilacs,
reigning through mesmerism.

The weird world walks in its sleep,
and only the wind can bind
what breaks into life, breaks in a prism,
and gladly plays in tears.

You can't blast the soul with saltpeter
or dig for it, like treasure.
The huge garden wrestles in the room, in the mirror
but doesn't break the glass...

excerpt from My Sister-Life
tr. Mark Rudman and Bohdan Boychuk

entire text of the poem can be seen here:
http://www.markrudman.com/books_sister.html

Reading this and a number of other poems from the volume I come to doubt even more the suggestion that the first poem we discussed was an intentional expression of loss related to the Revolution. It seems that Pasternak had recently suffered from a love affair that ended and the loss of his poems may have much more to do with that. Rudman notes that "... most of the poems are located in very specific places- the train station, the Moochkap teahouse (the Orchard?)- objects and nature enact the drama. In a manner I think of a painter such as Van Gogh... or Bonnard... both Post-Impressionists working contemporaneously with the Symbolist poets/writers... often speak enact dramas through the most innocuous details: a chair, pair of shoes, fruit in a bowl sitting on a dresser and reflected in the mirror. I am fascinated by how this poem begins... as our attention is drawn to the very surface of the mirror steamed over... and then we rush back... back... through the surface into the reflected world: the curtains blowing in he wind, and out beyond... into the garden (the same as the Weeping Orchard?). Like that earlier discussed poem, every inanimate detail is animated: the pine trees toss and impregnate the air, the garden scatters eyeglasses, and the shadows read a book... and further... further... out to the road beyond the gate... and then suddenly we are back in the room and the entire garden wrestles... is but a reflection... in the mirror. In many ways the shifting perspectives reminds me of the use of montage in the then nascent art form of film.

[Dark Muse]

This one is certinatly more surreal then the other two we have discussed, and while some of the imagery here I do not fully grasp the meaning of and I might have to read this one over a few more times, there is something about it that does feel more personal.

I did find the the contradiction and contrast of the glass of the mirror never breaking, considering the usual fragile nature of mirrors, this one remains intact no matter the turmoils that is suffers through.

[stlukesguild]

The opening stanzas strike me as almost cinematic. The camera zooms in on a mirror... the surface of which is partially clouded with steam from a hot cup of cocoa. The camera then zooms closer... further into the mirror... into the world reflected... through the curtains blowing in the wind and down the straight path through the wild and overgrown garden and toward the swings where the pine trees sway and a shadow creeps across the ground toward an abandoned book and a pair of reading glasses... and back even further... through the gate and out into the road strewn over with twigs and leaves and snails... And then a sudden cut in the film... and we are now viewing the mirror from inside the room and the garden is reflected in the mirror so that it seems as if the outside is inside... and the garden sways in the wind... as if it were wrestling in the mirror.

As I stated above... I find myself thinking of the paintings of Pierre Bonnard and Edouard Vuillard... where the distinctions between exterior and interior are blurred... where one is often uncertain of what one is seeing directly... or in refection:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3094/3235943098_961788fcca_o.jpg

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3110/3235943210_931cef9e0a_o.jpg

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3398/3235943262_cf78bf3c13_o.jpg

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3475/3235943324_2a1a1488f0_o.jpg

[Dark Muse]

I found the joruney the the mirror took to be quite interesting. Upon reading this poem again, you moved from the room, out down the path into the garden, and it seemed to be expanding more and more, or getting gradually farther away. It made me think of those paintings, that will have the same painting wihtin the paitning, constantly repeating itself unitll it is too small to distinqush anymore.

I did not quite understand


The huge garden wrestles in the room, in the mirror

as these repeats two or three times in the poem.

[Virgil]

I did enjoy this poem, and I've been reaading it to try to grasp some movement from the first stanza to the last. I can't seem to find any direction, narrative or conceptual. What I see is the return to the phrase of "The huge garden wrestles in the room" in the fourth, seventh, and tenth stanzas, alost like a refrain. The mirror is the controlling image of the poem, acting to distort reality, distort perception, and effect the internal state of the narrator who one assumes is looking at the mirror. Or is it the other way around, the internal state of the narrator that sees life distorted by his emotions through the mirror? I think it's the former, though I haven't come to a concrete conclusion. I think the sixth stanza is where the poet explains the poem:

The weird world walks in its sleep,
and only the wind can bind
what breaks into life, breaks in a prism,
and gladly plays in tears.
"Only the wind can bind/what breaks into life," that's very striking, the use of the verb "bind" here. It's not the wind that breaks into life, but it binds what ever that which breaks into life may be. It's very metaphysical. So what breaks into life? Well, judging by the refrain, the huge garden keeps breaking into the poem. Is that what Pasternak is suggesting? And if so what does the huge garden represent? Good questions. I just don't have the answers. :)

[stlukesguild]

I think that part of what strikes me as similar to Rilke in Pasternak is his Symbolist penchant for blurring of multiple art forms... or rather the fact that certain musical elements and images are so strong in the work. This is not exactly surprising considering Pasternak's history. Symbolism was perhaps the dominant literary trend in Russia at the start of the 20th century and it can be seen in the work Aleksandr Blok and Andrei Bely (both of whom explored the relationship between poetry and music) as well as Pasternak. A similar exploration of the arts across the spectrum can be seen in the work of the French Symbolists such as Gautier, Mallarme, Baudelaire, and Verlaine. The Russians brought to it a unique notion of spirituality which may be best seen in the experiments of the composer, Alexander Scriabin and the artist, Wassily Kandinsky.

Pasternak was close to Scriabin... he was both a neighbor and friend of the Pasternak household... but also gave lessons and advise to Pasternak during his youth when the young man was leaning toward becoming a composer. Scriabin held perhaps some of the most unconventional notions of the relationship between the arts. He reportedly experienced synæsthesia, or the "neurologically based phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway." Scriabin claimed to see sounds or musical notations as having definite colors. Scriabin had plans for the creation of a grandiose multi-media work to be performed in the Himalayas, that would bring about the armageddon, "a grandiose religious synthesis of all arts which would herald the birth of a new world." This work, entitled Mysterium, was to surpass Wagner's achievement of the Gesamtkunstwerk in his Ring cycle and later operas. The performance was to combine music, color, light, sound, images... even scent. Such ideas must surely have intrigued the young poet, Pasternak.

I am struck by the notion that Pasternak's poems... not unlike those of Rimbaud... especially from the Illuminations... may be impossible to pin down to a clear narrative "meaning". Perhaps more like music... or even art... there is something more of a flow of sounds and images which are more suggestive... allusive... conveying mood and atmosphere... but quite open-ended as far as the narrative "meaning" or clear symbolic/allegorical expression.

Just some thoughts...:p

[Kafka's Crow]

Yes, these poems are marked by the absence of one dominant 'meaning' or theme. I am finding Pasternak increasingly difficult because of his unfocussed vision. His poems have different movements like musical compositions and a haziness like those French impressionist painters, Monet or Renoir, specially the former. You can't pin-point one thing and say, the poem is about 'that.' Although the title gives a clue but it does not lead to much as poems ends up as a 'heap of broken glass' reflecting totally different things.

[stlukesguild]

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I have always found myself able to appreciate Pasternak... (or similar Symbolists and later Surrealists: Mallarme, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Gautier, Eluard, Valery, etc...). As a visual artist (and as a great lover of music) I am more than intrigued with the notion that art can communicate "content" without a clear literal narrative meaning. It certainly makes analysis of such poetry quite challenging. Then again... it reminds me of the old aphorism: "Writing (talking?) about art is like dancing about architecture.":D

[stlukesguild]

Perhaps we might look at a "simpler" poem from My Sister-Life:

...I won't go to my grave
stained by rented rooms

I settled here the second time
from superstition.
The wallpaper's brown as oak
and the door sings.

I wouldn't let go of the doorknob.
You tried to wriggle free.
My hair touched your forehead,
my lips touched - violets.

O gentle one, to honor what is gone
your dress is chirping
like a snowdrop to April:
"It's good to see you!"

I know you are no virgin, yet
you entered with a chair,
took my life down from the shelf
and blew off the dust.

excerpt from Superstition from My Sister-Life
tr. Mark Rudman and Bohdan Boychuck

[quasimodo1]

While trying to pull a visual on "dancing about architecture," it occured to me... it's possible ...in a theatre of

the absurd production. Still, Stlukes comments stand as the best explanation of why alot of Pasternak's poems don't

lend themselves to traditional analysis. Virgil sent me a text of "The Steppe" ...an unusual piece that has a way

of giving the reader the exact feel of that particular wilderness. More than that "you are here" kind of experience,

Pasternak adds his own extreme fondness for the steppe which in this case is not the "riddle wrapped in an enigma",

with which Russians are so skillful at creating.

How lovely those walks into silence!
The steppe wide and quiet, like a bay,
Feathergrass sighs. Ants shimmer.
And mosquitoes wail.

Haystacks and clouds form a row
darkening the singed ochre volcanoes.
The steppe, hushed and wet, goes on
rocking, nudging, pushing,

Haystack in midst? Who can tell?
Is it a tent? Closer, closer: yes!
Found it at last! Our very own tent.
The steppe and fog on all four sides.

Fog walls us in on all four sides.
Thistles clutch and tug at our socks.
It's eerie to wade across the steppe
rocked, nudged, and pushed.

The Milky Way lays a path to Kerch,
like a dusty cattletrodden road.
Step out--it takes your breath away--
space--open--all four sides!
{from 'The Steppe'}

[Virgil]

Yes, these poems are marked by the absence of one dominant 'meaning' or theme.
First I don't find that surprising. A ppoem is usually a self contained entity. It is not typical for a collection of poems to center around a common theme.


I am finding Pasternak increasingly difficult because of his unfocussed vision. His poems have different movements like musical compositions and a haziness like those French impressionist painters, Monet or Renoir, specially the former. You can't pin-point one thing and say, the poem is about 'that.' Although the title gives a clue but it does not lead to much as poems ends up as a 'heap of broken glass' reflecting totally different things.
It is hard to "pin-point" a theme in some of the poems. I can't say I'm finding them hard, just mysterious. Perhaps your impressionist example is fairly apropos.

What I find interesting, and actually surprising becasue I was expecting different, is the lack of social commentary given the events of the years around the writing of these poems. I haven't read them all but I haven't found any poem that makes any comment on his nation or politics or social circumstance. I would say that Pasternak's main concern is strictly aesthetics, at least in this collection.

[stlukesguild]

Virgil, the final poem, The Highest Sickness, most surely does make direct reference to the tumultuous events of the era... but Pasternak actually expresses something of a sense of disgust for the notion of art... poetry... being employed for utilitarian purposes and political sloganeering.

[Virgil]

Thanks StLukes. I'll check out that poem.

[JBI]

Perhaps we might look at a "simpler" poem from My Sister-Life:

...I won't go to my grave
stained by rented rooms

I settled her the second time
from superstition.
The wallpaper's brown as oak
and the door sings.

I wouldn't let go of the doorknob.
You tried to wriggle free.
My hair touched your forehead,
my lips touched - violets.

O gentle one, to honor what is gone
your dress is chirping
like a snowdrop to April:
"It's good to see you!"

I know you are no virgin, yet
you entered with a chair,
took my life down from the shelf
and blew off the dust.

excerpt from Superstition from My Sister-Life
tr. Mark Rudman and Bohdan Boychuck

I particularly liek that one - its simplicity, yet emotional range, and language of metaphor is striking, though the last stanza is a bit over-the-top. Anyone else feel the "I no you are no virgin" bit, though perhaps referring to The Virgin, still a little much?

[Virgil]

I don't think he's referring to the Virgin directly but perhaps as a slant allusion that I can't quite make out. I would imagine that referring to a girl's virginity, or lack thereof, in 1920-ish Russia would be a shocking thing. StLukes considered this a "simpler" poem, but frankly I don't understand it.

I will get to Quasi's selection of "The Steppe" tomorrow. I really loved that one.

[JBI]

".I won't go to my grave
stained by rented rooms"

That can only really mean one thing - Virgin/whore dichotomy. That sets the mood for what follows - the woman as some sort of pure force, blowing off his filth into some sort of, almost religious cleanliness. Kind of reminds me of Dolce Stil Novo in a way, though I think on a less religious, and vaguer way.

[Virgil]

".I won't go to my grave
stained by rented rooms"

That can only really mean one thing - Virgin/whore dichotomy. That sets the mood for what follows - the woman as some sort of pure force, blowing off his filth into some sort of, almost religious cleanliness. Kind of reminds me of Dolce Stil Novo in a way, though I think on a less religious, and vaguer way.

I don't see how that can only mean "Virgin/whore dichotomy". In fact I don't see how that even alludes to the Virgin. What does he (not the Virgin) refusing to go to his grave stained have to do with the Virgin? What does rented rooms refer to? I take "My hair touched your forehead,/my lips touched - violets." to refer to a real woman and real touch and the lack of virginity she may have. And then when he says, "O gentle one, to honor what is gone," I take what is gone to be her virginity or actually perhaps his. The more I read this, the less I see even an allusion to Virgin Mary. The implication of the last two lines I might make as he being the one who engaged in a trist with her, but even that's not clear. Actually what it sounds like is that she is an experienced woman and he lost his virginity to her.

[stlukesguild]

"I won't go to my grave
stained by rented rooms"

That can only really mean one thing - Virgin/whore dichotomy.

I didn't immediately pick up on something along those lines... but the poem certainly suggests a relationship, now ended, with a more experienced (older?) woman. I know Pasternak was coming down from a love affair at the time (no time to look up specifics). I can certainly see that the opening lines... the presentation of the imagery of the poet settled into an old battered apartment... (and note I corrected the misprint of "here" as "her") ...may suggest a refusal to continue with a "used" woman.

I won't go to my grave
stained by rented rooms

I settled here the second time
from superstition.
The wallpaper's brown as oak
and the door sings.

On the other hand... it also suggests the notion that the artist/poet's life was but a dusty ruin prior to the woman who inspires a sudden passion in him.

I wouldn't let go of the doorknob.
You tried to wriggle free.
My hair touched your forehead,
my lips touched - violets.

This image almost suggests the scene of Paolo and Francesca from the Comedia. The couple struggles... and in the process their mutual passions are awakened: his hair brushes against hers... and then? The last line here... with the pause... suggests the poet's surprise at what seems to have been their first kiss... perhaps his own first real sexual awakening. It also suggests perhaps the poet's inability to described just what his lips touched.

The final stanza seems to clearly denote the idea of the woman who is most assuredly more experienced who takes him down off the shelf... like a dusty forgotten tome... and blows off the dust... brings him to life.

[Virgil]

Ah we posted at the same time StLukes. Yes I think we see it similar.

[stlukesguild]

Actually what it sounds like is that she is an experienced woman and he lost his virginity to her.

Bingo!:thumbs_up

[stlukesguild]

And then when he says, "O gentle one, to honor what is gone," I take what is gone to be her virginity or actually perhaps his.

Or perhaps it "merely" refers to the love... what they once had or shared... which is now gone.

O gentle one, to honor what is gone
your dress is chirping
like a snowdrop to April:
"It's good to see you!"

The image of the dress chirping is almost surreal... but then again the very word "chirping" suggests the joyous singing of birds... which seems repeated in the image of the snowdrop speaking to the arrival of April and spring. Again, I think that Pasternak anchors his poems in very real experiences: people, places, things... but through the intensity of the experience... his memories... his passions... these experiences are seen in an almost magical manner. At the most literal I can imagine the poet referring to an actual dress that this woman has left behind which to his mind almost sings to him like a bird in Spring churning up memories in him of "what is gone": their passion/love. The more I read it the less I think it is intended as about something so "vulgar" as a simple one night stand with an older "whore".

[JBI]

Rented Rooms, I would think can only refer to prostitutes. Then the line about the her not being a virgin, though that is true, tries to suggest that she is somehow purer, and more substantial, by contrasting her with the prostitutes at the beginning. What I meant by the virgin/whore dichotomy, is that Pasternak is juxtaposing the notions, to try and make the girlfriend/addressee seem cleaner, and their relationship more religious/spiritual/love-based.

[Virgil]

I do wish to get to the poem Quasi posted, The Steppe. I find this a emarkable poem and perhaps the best I've read in the collecton. Here it is again. There are ten stanzas in al, and I've eliminated the 9th.


The Steppe

How lovely those walks into silence!
The steppe wide and quiet, like a bay,
Feathergrass sighs. Ants shimmer.
And mosquitoes wail.

Haystacks and clouds form a row
darkening the singed ochre volcanoes.
The steppe, hushed and wet, goes on
rocking, nudging, pushing,

Haystack in midst? Who can tell?
Is it a tent? Closer, closer: yes!
Found it at last! Our very own tent.
The steppe and fog on all four sides.

Fog walls us in on all four sides.
Thistles clutch and tug at our socks.
It's eerie to wade across the steppe
rocked, nudged, and pushed.

The Milky Way lays a path to Kerch,
like a dusty cattletrodden road.
Step out--it takes your breath away--
space--open--all four sides!

Feathergrass, honey, reveries, fog.
Feathergrass scattered over the Milky Way.
The fog lifts, and darkness surrounds
the tent and steppe on all four sides.

Midnight stands darkly on the road,
and burdened by stars, tumbles down.
You can't step beyond your fence
without trampling the universe.

......[SNIP].......

Let the steppe judge. Let the night forgive,
when and when not: In the Beginning
The Wailing of the Mosquitoes, Rustling of Ants,
And Thistles Clutching at Socks.

Close the tent, love! There's too much dust!
The steppe's as pure as before the Fall:
wrapped in the universe like a parachute,
like an apparition, rising.

I'll give some thoughts on this later. If anyone wants that 8th stanza, just let me know and I'll PM it to you.

[JBI]

I do wish to get to the poem Quasi posted, The Steppe. I find this a emarkable poem and perhaps the best I've read in the collecton. Here it is again. There are ten stanzas in al, and I've eliminated the 9th.



I'll give some thoughts on this later. If anyone wants that 8th stanza, just let me know and I'll PM it to you.

I'm lost there - I cant seem to make out what he's trying to say at all - mind advancing this a little bit? The steppe seems to be achieving a sort of pastoral in silence, and perhaps solitude, amongst the expansive grassland, yet the ending seems very unclear to me, please, if you don't mind, send me the snip - as it is, I can hardly make much sense of the conclusion.

[Dark Muse]

Yes I would like to have the 8th stanza

[Virgil]

Hold on, I'll post my thoughts tonight. I had forgotten about this. Sorry. :blush:

Ok, I think I can put the 8th stanza here. I can always deletee it if someone objects.


When did stars grow so close to the ground,
and midnight dive into weeds,
and sopping muslin shiver,
clinging, cuddling, craving the end?

[Virgil]

I typed the 8th stanza inside my previous post above.

Ok, here some thoughts and observations on "The Steppe." First the situation is the narrator and I think his lover are walking on the steppe in the fog, apparently lost and trying to find their tent. There is an aura about, the images of things seem to come in and out and have a special glow, feathergrass, ants, mosquitoes. He ties a religious connotation to the visual imagery; nature is numinous, and I think that's the theme. That culminates in the 9th stanza:

Let the steppe judge. Let the night forgive,
when and when not: In the Beginning
The Wailing of the Mosquitoes, Rustling of Ants,
And Thistles Clutching at Socks.
"Judge," "forgive," "in the beginning" all suggest it.

But what I find remarkable in thepoem is the aesthetics. The frst four stanza he establishes the situation, a strong visual focus straight ahead. The steppe is a flat plane and the narrator trying to see through ahead and there is fog walling that plane up. And then in the fifth stanza he looks up and sees another plane.

The Milky Way lays a path to Kerch,
like a dusty cattletrodden road.
Step out--it takes your breath away--
space--open--all four sides!
The sky becomes a parallel plane to the steppe, and is a path in itself, and what a marvelous image of the "cattletrodden road," the stars apparently hoof prints, and the adjective dusty returns in the tenth stanza with a lot more power. There is a sort of vertigo here, as if he's flipped up and is walking on a sky road.

And then the two planes, the sky and ground planes, merge in the seventh and eighth stanzas as the sky falls down to meet the ground. And then you get the religious connotation and then the tenth stanza becomes a marvelous image of the steppe rising up to the heavens as the fog lifts. The steppe,accentuated by the rising fog, itself becomes a "parachute," gliding upwards, an inversion of gravity. The laws of nature are in flux in this numinous environment, earth is rising to the heavens.

What a marvelous, top notch poem this is!! :)

[stlukesguild]

I'll try to post some thoughts tomorrow, Virg. Or perhaps Sunday... tomorrow IS Valentine's Day and the wife might be understandably miffed if I spend all evening discussing Pasternak after spending the day trying to finish up the latest painting in the studio.:lol:

[Virgil]

I'll try to post some thoughts tomorrow, Virg. Or perhaps Sunday... tomorrow IS Valentine's Day and the wife might be understandably miffed if I spend all evening discussing Pasternak after spending the day trying to finish up the latest painting in the studio.:lol:

Yeah, I hear ya. I got one myself. :D

[Virgil]

Bump! If no one has any more comments on The Steppe, I will be glad to post another.

[quasimodo1]

Post on Virgil...

[stlukesguild]

Virgil... sorry I haven't gotten back on track here. I would still like to post on The Steppe... marvelous poem... but I am extremely tied up right now. The crappy economy is hitting me as well and so I'm pulling some overtime acting as the coordinator for an after-school peer tutoring program. Lots of paperwork.:( However... don't let me hold you up. Post away...

[Virgil]

Virgil... sorry I haven't gotten back on track here. I would still like to post on The Steppe... marvelous poem... but I am extremely tied up right now. The crappy economy is hitting me as well and so I'm pulling some overtime acting as the coordinator for an after-school peer tutoring program. Lots of paperwork.:( However... don't let me hold you up. Post away...

No problem StLukes. I'll post another poem tomorrow and you can comment on any one you wish.

[Virgil]

Well, here's a new poem to discuss. I found it very interesting. There are seven stanzas, and I snipped the fourth.


Summer

It brought an entourage of thirst,
stingers, butterflies, and stains,
weaving tapestries from its memory
of mayflower, mint, and honey.

Not the ticking of clocks
but the day-long jangle of chains
pierced the air with drowsy thorns
and cast a spell on the weather.

It happened - the sunset,
tired of games, passed
dominion over the kitchen garden
to cicadas, stars, and trees.

[SNIP]

More from dreams than from eaves,
more absent minded than timid,
the light rain shuffled at the door
and smelled of wine-cork.

That's how the dust smelled. And the weeds.
And once you got the point,
that's how the gentry's decrees smelled:
of brotherhood, equality.

They installed councils in the provinces.
Did you, friend, cast your lot with them?
Days glittered in the sorrel,
and smelled of wine-cork.

[Dark Muse]

Currious poem, not quite sure what to make of it. The first half of it seems to be arather quaint, but very vividly and realstictially done, portrayl of a summer day, but then at the end of the poem he tacked on what seems to be a poltical message of some sort.

[Virgil]

Yes that ending does open the poem up to increased meanings. The poem does seem structured into halves, the first four stanzas depicting the natural world and a transition from a summer day into an evening.


It brought an entourage of thirst,
stingers, butterflies, and stains,
weaving tapestries from its memory
of mayflower, mint, and honey.

Not the ticking of clocks
but the day-long jangle of chains
pierced the air with drowsy thorns
and cast a spell on the weather.
The first two stanzas really depict the summer qualities. I love the use of the word "entourage." It's almost as if there is a pagent going on and the summer qualities are marching out in single file. What a cuirous metaphor in the second stanza, summer as a "day-long jangle of chains." I'm not sure I know what to make of it, but it is striking. The next two stanzas have movement, a motion from day to evening:


It happened - the sunset,
tired of games, passed
dominion over the kitchen garden
to cicadas, stars, and trees.

The moon shed beams, not shadows,
and disappeared without a sound,
while quietly the night rippled
from cloud to cloud.

And then the fifth stanza which I see as the critical stanza:

More from dreams than from eaves,
more absent minded than timid,
the light rain shuffled at the door
and smelled of wine-cork.
If I untangle the syntax and write this out in a sentence form, it would be the following: "The light rain shuffled at the door, more from dreams than eaves, more absent minded than timid, and smelled of wine cork." More absent minded than timid is a personification of the rain, which ties into "shufflled at the door", but what about "more from dreams than eaves?" What's that referring to? The rain isn't dreaming, I don't think. I think it's the central conscious of the narrator, so that the rain is somewhere between physical and metaphysical. And that smell of wine cork comes back later, so it is important. It's very tangible. And then the sixth stanza:

That's how the dust smelled. And the weeds.
And once you got the point,
that's how the gentry's decrees smelled:
of brotherhood, equality.
Now there is a lot of going on there. The rain and weeds smelled. And that's how the gentry's decrees smelled. Not the gentry but their decrees. Was this written before the Bolshevik revolution? I think it was after. The gentry are the Bolshvik's enemies. From M-W:

gentry
Main Entry: gen·try
Pronunciation: \ˈjen-trē\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural gentries
Etymology: Middle English gentrie, alteration of gentrise
Date: 14th century
1 aobsolete : the qualities appropriate to a person of gentle birth ; especially : courtesy b: the condition or rank of a gentleman
2 a: upper or ruling class : aristocracy b: a class whose members are entitled to bear a coat of arms though not of noble rank ; especially : the landed proprietors having such status
3: people of a specified class or kind : folks <no real heroes or heroines among the academic gentry — R. G. Hanvey>
Gentry are typically low level aristocracy. But brotherhood and equality are usually not associated with the gentry. Is gentry being used as middle class? Is the use of "smell" a negative or a positive characterization? To be honest I'm not a hundred percent sure I can answer these questions. I think it's positive, the smmer rain and I guess a wine cork is a good smell, but I'm not sure. Weeds instead of grass gives me pause. And the concluding stanza is really enigmattic:


They installed councils in the provinces.
Did you, friend, cast your lot with them?
Days glittered in the sorrel,
and smelled of wine-cork.
Who is "they"? Is that the Bolshviks? If so, then is the use of "gentry" highly ironic? That's the meaning I'm leaning to but I certainly coould be convinced otherwise.

[quasimodo1]

Just under the form and beauty of this poem are two things I find interesting in "Summer". First, the use of the prime triangular number (3) in distinct groups which mirror the trinity of Christianity. This concept gets replaced by the commune and governmental atheism. Muse mentions what may be a comment (opinion) of/on the new regime ..."And once you got the point,/that's how the gentry's decrees smelled:/of brotherhood, equality." If "gentry" is anywhere close to an accurate translaion, it critisizes party officials and the collective in general as just another form of aristocracy. I take the "wine-cork" reference as another indirect critique implying that the people will get the aroma of wine but not the wine itself. This would all depend on the translation being somewhat literal.

[Virgil]

Just under the form and beauty of this poem are two things I find interesting in "Summer". First, the use of the prime triangular number (3) in distinct groups which mirror the trinity of Christianity.
Quasi I have noticed the triangular number three in many of Pasternak's poems. I almost mentioned it in a number of places. But you are quite right.


This concept gets replaced by the commune and governmental atheism. Muse mentions what may be a comment (opinion) of/on the new regime ..."And once you got the point,/that's how the gentry's decrees smelled:/of brotherhood, equality." If "gentry" is anywhere close to an accurate translaion, it critisizes party officials and the collective in general as just another form of aristocracy. I take the "wine-cork" reference as another indirect critique implying that the people will get the aroma of wine but not the wine itself. This would all depend of the translation be somewhat literal.
That's a fascinating thought and I must go back and see for myself. Unfortunately I have to run out in a few minutes but perhaps tonight. :)

[Virgil]

Just under the form and beauty of this poem are two things I find interesting in "Summer". First, the use of the prime triangular number (3) in distinct groups which mirror the trinity of Christianity.
I don't know if he's after suggesting the trinity. Many writers strive for either a dupal rhythm or a triangular, as you nicely call it, rhythm. Dupal rhythms suggesting duality (as in DH Lawrence) or balance and harmony (as in Samual Johnson). Writers that strive for a triple rhythm many times are striving to fill in, complete, as if it's one or two words don't capture the entire meaning and that one more word will complete the sense. Sometimes a writer uses the triple rhythm to trangulate. Virgiia Woolf does that often I've noticed. Now what the triangle suggests may be different for each writer. It is possible that a Christian writer is out to suggest the trinity. There is a religious sense in some of Pastenak's poetry.


This concept gets replaced by the commune and governmental atheism. Muse mentions what may be a comment (opinion) of/on the new regime ..."And once you got the point,/that's how the gentry's decrees smelled:/of brotherhood, equality." If "gentry" is anywhere close to an accurate translaion, it critisizes party officials and the collective in general as just another form of aristocracy. I take the "wine-cork" reference as another indirect critique implying that the people will get the aroma of wine but not the wine itself. This would all depend on the translation being somewhat literal.
I agree. I think "gentry" is ironic and Pasternak equates their decrees of brotherhood and equality with the smell of dust and wet weeds. That's hardly an endorsement.

[quasimodo1]

"Writers that strive for a triple rhythm many times are striving to fill in, complete, as if it's one or two words don't capture the entire meaning and that one more word will complete the sense. Sometimes a writer uses the triple rhythm to triangulate." This point, Virgil, is an accuracy I missed and so true ...it eclipses the religious trinity concept for sure. And it is obvious in this poem, as in Zhivago, that Pasternak is disenthralled with the new collective.

[JBI]

Virgil, do you think you could PM me the poem you're talking about? I'm finding this all a little confusing with the chopped up poetry bits and missing stanzas.

[quasimodo1]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Science and art have that in common that everyday things seem to them new and attractive. - Friedrich Nietzsche
--------------------------------------------------------------------------



Lessons of English

When Desdemona sang a ditty-
In her last hours among the living-
It wasn't love that she lamented,
And not her star-she mourned a willow.

When Desdemona started singing,
With tears near choking off her voice,
Her evil demon for her evil day
Stored up of weeping rills a choice.

And when Ophelia sang a ballad-
In her last hours among the living-
All dryness of her soul was carried
Aloft by gusts of wind, like cinders.

The day Ophelia started singing,
By bitterness of daydreams jaded,
What trophies did she clutch, when sinking?
A bunch of buttercups and daisies.

Their shoulders stripped of passion's tatters,
They took, their hearts a-quake with fear,
The Universe's chilly baptism-
To stun their loving forms with spheres.

1917
Translated by Raissa Bobrova

{quote not included in original text}

[Virgil]

Oh that is a nice one Qasi. I will need to study it some and get back.

[Virgil]

Their shoulders stripped of passion's tatters,
They took, their hearts a-quake with fear,
The Universe's chilly baptism-
To stun their loving forms with spheres.


This is the key to the poem. I understand those first three lines - life's passions drown in cosmic indifference, but that last line I can't quite comprehend. Are they now among the heavens?

[quasimodo1]

Have to say that last line mystifies me as well; the key to the poem I think is the mythology mentioned earlier. A little research might unlock this line. ...

[JBI]

I think the poem rests on the irony of the song - it is tragic yet comical, the phrase for Ophelia especially, Ballad, implies to me a sort of base roughness, a sort of post-modern, if I can use that term, dark laughter at one's own misfortunes and insignificance. I think the term you used Virgil, "Cosmic indifference" is a good one.

I think, personally the poem marks the point when one simply gives up, and doesn't care anymore. The taking of one's life by the end for Ophelia seems more of a sick, perverse joke than anything else. There is no holiness, or romance about it. I think the poem emphasizes the point when they just simply surrender, not caring anymore, and taking the unknown as a sort of joke in itself. The romance ends, the point of life is lost, and death is but a last verse in a song of jokes.

[alyssa1]

nice poem keep posting again I am waiting for your next poem


Thanks and good luck


-----------------------
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[quasimodo1]

With Oars at Rest

A boat is beating in the breast of the lake.
Willows hang over, tickling and kissing
Neckline and knuckles and rowlocks-O wait,
This could have happened to anyone, listen!

This could be used in a song, to beguile.
This then would mean-the ashes of lilac,
Richness of dew-drenched and crushed camomile,
Bartering lips for a start after twilight.
{first two stanzas...for the rest of the poem... http://www.friends-partners.org/friends/culture/literature/20century/pasternak/arsest.html }

[JBI]

I think it's safe to say this discussion is dead?

[quasimodo1]

It is completely safe to say that, let's see what we can do about it. q1

[quasimodo1]

In the next few days, we will be choosing/voting on a new poetry book for discussion on this thread. Anyone withing to choose a poet will please post the writer. I'll be sending a pm to all present and former participants. My vote will be William Matthews so there is the built in prejudice. Thanks you all. q1

[JBI]

Susan Goyette, The True Names of Birds.

[quasimodo1]

If JBI will indulge me a bit, let me request that those posting a new poet/collection for what will be Poetry Bookclub 4... please try to include more than one to a maximum of three poets as this time we have no list ot authors to choose from. This request is to avoid having twenty individual selections with no one poet having clear preference.

[JBI]

Alright, add Margaret Avison, and Fred Wah, I'll think about volumes in a bit. May I suggest we have a rank style vote, where people number their choices in order of desire, and then we tally the totals based on rank with highest number being most important, so for instance

p1
3, x
2, y,
1, Z

p2
3, Y
2, Z
1, X


Would be Y wins, with 5, Z has 3, and X has 4. Or something like that. That way people can choose more fairly.

[Virgil]

You know what ticked me off last vote. A bunch of people voted, skewed the results, and then never participated. Now I will say I really did enjoy the Pasternak, but I bet no one who wanted him ever participated. Perhaps the people who participated should have their vote value doubled.

[quasimodo1]

You know Virgil, there ought to be a way to address that but discipline, even if it were my forte, is as usual, unenforceable... at least here, in this forum.

[Virgil]

You know Virgil, there ought to be a way to address that but discipline, even if it were my forte, is as usual, unenforceable... at least here, in this forum.

We could have it as a rule that if you participated in the previous discussion your vote value gets doubled. Or something more than those that didn't.

[JBI]

We could have it as a rule that if you participated in the previous discussion your vote value gets doubled. Or something more than those that didn't.

Don't look at me :p, I voted for Hebert. Seriously though, I think the big problem was the translation issue. I think one needs one volume of poetry for everyone, and preferably in the original. When we did Montale the volume was perhaps too large. When we did Pasternak, the different versions of poems seemed to be completely different. I think Quasi is right in insisting only English poems this time.

Though it is curious. I wonder how many people voted for Pasternak because they like Russian literature/ found him a familiar name. Perhaps that will be the problem for this next round, since we're dealing with contemporary poetry, and people may not be inclined to research all the poets and merely vote for their own/ the ones they've heard of.


As for participators getting double votes or whatever, that could work, though if it comes down to it, I think I'm up for participators having a discussion on the nominations, then somehow narrowing to a short list of perhaps four or so, before taking the poll public to people who generally post on the poetry forum.

In truth, I think I should have participated more though, which was bad of me. I think it was perhaps though, that Pasternak really didn't work for me, and I guess that it's been a hectic semester, for all that's worth.

But yeah, I'm up for a short list being derived by participators before an actual vote.

[Virgil]

No I'm not blaming anyone that participated. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed Pasternak quite a bit. I'm glad I got to discover him. I don't even think we had any major problems, just a few difficulties. I was just irritated that a bunch could decide the vote and then not participate.

[stlukesguild]

You know what ticked me off last vote. A bunch of people voted, skewed the results, and then never participated. Now I will say I really did enjoy the Pasternak, but I bet no one who wanted him ever participated.

Not entirely true, Virgil. I was certainly one in favor of Pasternak and I participated quite a bit early on. Unfortunately my job has demanded a good deal of overtime recently and this combined with the time I am investing in my own artistic efforts at present have seriously curtailed the time I've been able to spend not only on these discussions but on LitNet as a whole. Hopefull as the school year winds down I will have more free time.

[JBI]

You know what ticked me off last vote. A bunch of people voted, skewed the results, and then never participated. Now I will say I really did enjoy the Pasternak, but I bet no one who wanted him ever participated.

Not entirely true, Virgil. I was certainly one in favor of Pasternak and I participated quite a bit early on. Unfortunately my job has demanded a good deal of overtime recently and this combined with the time I am investing in my own artistic efforts at present have seriously curtailed the time I've been able to spend not only on these discussions but on LitNet as a whole. Hopeful as the school year winds down I will have more free time.

Yeah, but the 4-5 or so others...? It was actually a pretty good discussion, all things considered. I doubt I would have read Pasternak's verse otherwise. But still, one would have hoped for more close readings (though I'll admit, I didn't participate much). Only have language courses this summer though, so I should be able to get in at least four hours of reading and whatnot daily again. Just this last semester has been hectic with 4 courses that required big reading, one course that required much language study, and another one that was painstakingly annoying.