Contributed By: Alistair Noon, Osip Mandelshtam
Against the pale-blue enamel
that April makes conceivable,
the branches of the birch-trees stand
and gradually turn into evening.
Their pattern is sharp and complete,
the stiffened gauze is fine,
like a drawing that someone has neatly
traced out on a plate of china.
Some merciful artist has performed
that design on the glassy heavens,
knowing the transience of such force,
oblivious to the sorrow of death.
1909
Return to table of contents for Issue 3 Fall 2010
A strange conjoining of forces—as against BlurbMart Kent Johnson’s short essay is about reviewing, but I’ve chosen to focus on the blurb, which I believe has relevance to the topic. I should start by saying that I’m genuinely interested in the making of blurbs: how to lend (—wait, not “lend”, but freely give) the book or author’s […]
In the terracotta urn,
you have severed
yourself,
“He reeks of last night’s wine!” That’s off the mark. He drinks until dawn clarifies the dark. Hesterno fetere mero qui credit Acerram, fallitur: in lucem semper Acerra bibit. Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
