I think it says he's alone, no?
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I think it says he's alone, no?
It never really specifes a "he" or a "who" it is rather vauge as to who the pressence is within the poem.
Quote:
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.
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.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
Still though, without someone who speaks Russian or a direct translation, the ambiguous poem seems even more ambiguous.
I think we're ready for another poem - someone please pick one.
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:.
Well, I definitely have snow. I've enjoyed quite a few myself. Ok, you go next StLukes.
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.
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.
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/...1788fcca_o.jpg
http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3110/...1cef9e0a_o.jpg
http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3398/...78bf3c13_o.jpg
http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3475/...1a1488f0_o.jpg
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
as these repeats two or three times in the poem.Quote:
The huge garden wrestles in the room, in the mirror
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:
"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. :)Quote:
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.
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 synęsthesia, 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
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.
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
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
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'}
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.Quote:
Originally Posted by Kafka's Crow
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.Quote:
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.
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.
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.
Thanks StLukes. I'll check out that poem.
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?Quote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
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.
".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.Quote:
Originally Posted by JBI
"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.
Ah we posted at the same time StLukes. Yes I think we see it similar.
Actually what it sounds like is that she is an experienced woman and he lost his virginity to her.
Bingo!:thumbs_up
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".
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.
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.Quote:
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'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.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
Yes I would like to have the 8th stanza
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.
Quote:
When did stars grow so close to the ground,
and midnight dive into weeds,
and sopping muslin shiver,
clinging, cuddling, craving the end?
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:
"Judge," "forgive," "in the beginning" all suggest it.Quote:
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.
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 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.Quote:
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!
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!! :)
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. :DQuote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
Bump! If no one has any more comments on The Steppe, I will be glad to post another.
Post on 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.Quote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
Well, here's a new poem to discuss. I found it very interesting. There are seven stanzas, and I snipped the fourth.
Quote:
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.