Poetry Bookclub 3

[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...

[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."

[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.