#vladislav khodasevich

[derangedrhythms]

Vladislav Khodasevich, 20th Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Steel, from 'Through the Window', tr. Yakov Hornstein

#vladislav khodasevich #20th century russian poetry #through the window #poetry #excerpts #u

[martyncrucefix]

Poetry in Translation Reading - Crouch End Literary Festival

Rather late notice – not wholly down to my own tardiness – but I will be reading work in translation at the inaugural Crouch End Literary Festival this weekend. Do come along if you can. There are plenty of other events scheduled in the Festival, but this one is at 4pm on Saturday 24th February in the Gallery upstairs at the Hornsey Library Haringey Park, London N8 9JA (see map on location and…

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#Caroline Maldonado #Crouch End Literary Festival #Hornsey Library #Laura Fusco #Peter Daniels #Peter Huchel #Pushkin Press #Rainer Maria Rilke #Robert Desnos #Rocco Scotellaro #Shearsman Books #Tim Ades #Victor Hugo #Vladislav Khodasevich

[ilovewillsolace]

“...From streets and yards they’ll all come running out to see,

Like swarming ants, and stand between his corpse and me.

They’ll question me on how I killed him, and what for. —

Not one will understand the love for him I bore.”

— Vladislav Khodasevich

Will as a Poet from Igor Grom

#riordanverse #pjo #hoo #will solace #rrverse #toa #my art #heroes of olympus #the tsats #bubble #igor grom

[89rooms]

I regain my private hell in its former symmetry.

Vladislav Khodasevich, translation Yakov Hornstein, from “Through the Window,”

[corydon8]

L AVEUGLE

Son bâton palpe la sente

Là où le hasard l’entraîne,

Prudemment l’aveugle avance,

Bredouillant avec lui-même.

Et la blancheur de ses yeux

Au monde tend un miroir :

Le pré, la vache, des pieux,

De grands lambeaux de ciel bleu –

Tout ce que lui ne peut voir.

Vladislav Khodasevich

[d-dormant]

me on my way to assure every foreigner encounter that i am not a "putin apologist, slaviccore, kalinka-malinka, romanov, bears in the streets, xenophobia, hardbass, united russia, federal channels, adidas, crimea is russian, birch trees and balalaikas" russian but a "leonid gaidai's films, tangerines in winter, khrushchevkas at night, "old hotel" by zhanna aguzarova, alla pugacheva's old albums, 27219 literature aphorisms, smeshariki, "nu pogodi", pasternak and khodasevich, movies about the three musketeers, glukoza's old songs, wolf memes, "irony of fate" every new year's eve, car tire exterior design, “your mind and works are immortal in russian memory, but why has my love outlived you?”, ")))))))))0)0))", taking eurovision seriously, 90s movies nasal one-voice dubs, high school lermontov phase, valery meladze, bondarchuk's "war and peace", german 80s europop, vysotskiy's songs, tea after every meal, fresh milk, waiting for a route taxi at 6am" russian

#i spent an hour listing everything i like about russia in notes and now it's everybody's problem #don't know why just felt so disconnected from my country and our politics and everything #felt like i needed a reminder #Russia #Russian #russiacore #soviet union #??!! i guess?? #танцуй россия #valeriy meladze #alla pugacheva #mikhail lermontov #alexander griboyedov #boris pasternak #vladimir vysotsky #leonid gaidai #glukoza #smeshariki #vladislav khodasevich #no i am not crying

[ineedtoreadmorepoetry]

Twilight by Vladislav Khodasevich

The snow has drifted. Quietness descends. Blind walls beside the alley here, and empty ground. Here comes a man. To take the knife and stab him now! --Without a sound he’ll lean against the fence, Then slowly sink onto his knees, and lie face down. The snowy breath that stirs among the trees, The smoke that softly hazes evening skies-- Those heralds of a deep and perfect peace-- Will lightly whirl about him where he lies. From streets and yards they’ll all come running out to see, Like swarming ants, and stand between his corpse and me. They’ll question me on how I killed him, and what for.-- Not one will understand the love for him I bore.

#Vladislav Khodasevich #translated by Michael Frayn #August 22

[yr-bed]

Symbolism was not simply a literary movement, it was an attempt to translate art (mythopoetic 'plot') into life ('life creation'), not only on a personal level but on a national one as well, hence its fatal embedding in revolutionary politics and apocalyptic thinking.

From the foreword of Necropolis by Vladislav Khodasevich

#necropolis #literature #quotes #symbolism #vladislav khodasevich

[finita--la--commedia]

Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich (Russian, 1886-1939), in a letter to Mikhail Gerzhenzon, describing his trauma of emigration from Russia after the 1917 Russian revolution: first, to Berlin, then -- to Paris: Being the Russian emigrant myself, I so relate to these heartbreaking words and if there are the Russian emigrants among my followers, they will understand them ... For you, I post it: “ We are all here anomalously, inappropriately, we can’t breathe as we would wish—we won’t die from this, of course, but we will damage something in ourselves, we will experience a dilation of the lungs. A plant kept in darkness doesn’t grow green, but white: that is, everything about it is as it should be, but it is a freak. Here I am not the equal of myself; instead, here I am myself minus something left behind in Russia, and that something is aching and itching, like an amputated leg that I can feel intolerably and distinctly, but for which I can in no way compensate. ... God grant that this will all pass, but for the time being, it is frightening.” Saarow, November 29, 1922 During the émigré period Khodasevich lacked a sense of the wholeness of his personality. He was initially hostile to the Russian diasporas in Berlin and Paris. In 1922 he viewed many of the emigrés who settled in Berlin as “big-bellied boors” and “idlers” and characterized the local Russian-language literature as provincial. “Russian” Paris, according to his observations of 1924, was up to its neck “in unadulterated Blackhundredism.” ( the black-hundredists, was an ultra-nationalist movement in Russia in the early 20th century.) “ Мы все здесь как-то несвойственно нам, неправильно, не по-нашему дышим - и от этого не умрем, конечно, но - что-то в себе испортим, наживем расширение легких. Растение в темноте вырастает не зеленым, а белым: то есть все в нем как следует, а - урод. Я здесь не равен себе, а я здесь я минус что-то, оставленное в России, при том болящее и зудящее, как отрезанная нога, которую чувствую нестерпимо отчетливо, а возместить не могу ничем... Бог даст - пройдет это все, но пока что - жутко.”

Vladislav Khodasevich in 1931

#Vladislav Khodasevich #letters #correspondence #epistolary #письма #корреспонденция #эмиграция #эпистолярный жанр #emigration

[pandaemoniumpancakes]

He hung, but was not swinging, upon a slender band.  His fallen hat, a spot of black,  was lying on the sand.  His nails had dug into the palms  of each clenched hand.  The sun continued rising,  striving to reach its noon:  and with unblinking eyelids under that shining sun,  there rose above Petrovsky Park this elevated man.  And staring, he outstared the east,  so sharp a stare had he; the people clustered round below  in taciturnity;  the slender band that held him was very hard to see.

Vladislav Khodasevich, ‘In Petrovsky Park’ in Vladislav Khodasevich: Selected Poems, tr. Peter Daniels. 

#vladislav khodasevich

[derangedrhythms]

Vladislav Khodasevich, 20th Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Steel, from 'To A Guest', tr. Michael Frayn

TEXT ID: Bring visions when you ring my bell, Or all the loveliness of hell,

#vladislav khodasevich #20th century russian poetry #to a guest #poetry #excerpts #u

[forsoothsayer]

Janus by Vladislav Khodasevich

In me things end, and start again. I am, although my work is slight, a link in an unbroken chain - one joy, at least, is mine by right.

And come the day my country’s great again, you’ll see my statue stand beside a place where four roads meet with wind, and time, and spreading sand.

#vladislav khodasevich #russian poetry

[graywyvern]

( "astral plane" via / "winter heat" via )

60s Jazz Albums that Shook the World.

"There was a fecklessness, a lack of symmetry and order in the clouds as they thinned and thickened. Was it their own law, or no law, they obeyed? Some were wisps of white hair merely. One, high up, very distant, had hardened to golden alabaster; was made of immortal marble. Beyond that was blue, pure blue, black blue; blue that had never filtered down; that had escaped registration. It never fell as sun, shadow, or rain upon the world, but disregarded the little coloured ball of earth entirely. No flower felt it; no field; no garden." --Between the Acts

Junk.

Vladislav Khodasevich: "Nights” (tr Peter Daniels)             for Sergei Krechetov

"A thin howl from the dogs on guard. Tonight still camped in the same place, no-good vagabond orphans, we are warming our hands at the bonfire.

A sullen look beneath the brows from empty nights of far-fetched sleep. The smoke is full of ruby floaters whirled from flames that whistle and crack.

The waste says nothing. Silent, barbed, a distant wind pursues the dust; we sing with an evil dreariness that's chafing at our curling lips...

A thin howl from the dogs on guard."

"Unconsciously, I am compelled to fill up every space as an act of reparation. A repair job that never quite gets the job done. I am trying to fill the holes in my life. Trying to close the gap."

Vienna (from the balcony): "Spin the wheel, Eddie."

Eddie (at the roulette table): "What for? There's no customers."

Vienna: "I like to hear it spin."

--Johnny Guitar

First Aid Kit Leonard Cohen tribute.

#johnny_guitar

[phaedoe]

Look for me in spring's transparent air. I flit like vanishing wings, no heavier than a sound, a breath, a sunray on the floor; I'm lighter than that ray — it's there: I'm gone. But we are friends for ever, undivided! Listen: I'm here. Your hands can feel the way to reach me with their living touch, extended trembling into the restless flame of day. Happen to close your eyelids, while you linger… Make me one final effort, and you might find at the nerve-ends of each quivering finger brushes of secret fire as I ignite.

Vladislav Khodasevich, Look for Me

#words #lit

[ineedtoreadmorepoetry]

Twilight Was Turning by Vladislav Khodasevich

Twilight was turning to darkness outside. Under the eaves a window banged wide.

A curtain was lifted, a light briefly shone, A swift shadow fell down the wall and was gone.

Happy the man who falls head first to death: At least for a moment his viewpoint is fresh.

#Vladislav Khodasevich #translated by Michael Frayn #August 12

[finita--la--commedia]

So, look for me in spring light’s threading fingers. I am it all: the sweep of subtle wings; A sound; a sigh; a parquet-ray that lingers, I’m lighter than it: for to where I was it clings.

Vladislav Khodasevich (Russian, 1889-1936), from “Look For Me” (1918), translated from the Rusian by Rupert Moreton

#Russian poetry #Russian poet #poetry #quotes