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UNTITLED by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Tony Brinkley and Raina Kostova)

October 1, 2010 Contributed By: Osip Mandelshtam, Raina Kostova, Tony Brinkley

In the raw, moist forest, with a freezing measure,
an impoverished light-beam sows the light-world.
I am lingering—like the gray bird
in my heart—incurring sorrow.

What do I do with this wounded bird?
The dying firmament fell silent—
from its clouded tower,
someone had taken the bell—

and there height stands,
mute and orphaned,
like a white, vacant tower
in the clouds and quiet . . .

Morning, its unfathomed tenderness,
caresses—half-real, half-dreamed—
insatiable unconsciousness—
obscured, clouded carrilons of thinking  . . .

1911, Petersburg

Скудный луч холодной мерою
Сеет свет в сыром лесу.
Я печаль, как птицу серую,
В сердце медленно несу.

Что мне делать с птицей раненой?
Твердь умолкла, умерла.
С колокольни отуманенной
Кто-то снял колокола,

И стоит осиротелая
И немая вышина,
Как пустая башня белая,
Где туман и тишина.

Утро, нежностью бездонное,
Полу-явь и полу-сон —
Забытье неутоленное —
Дум туманный перезвон . . .

Return to table of contents for Issue 3 Fall 2010

Filed Under: Poetry, Translation Posted On: October 1, 2010

Further Reading

HOMETOWN 故乡 by Xiao Qiao (translated by Cindy M. Carter)

A hometown is a nose bleed (or construction-site cement coursing through your parents’ veins) a warm current that even time cannot resolve Picking up a piece of the past is like picking up a fragment of bone, unearthing night’s dark flesh A hometown isn’t fertile soil (but it is a ferry) a poor and humble […]

WITH THE MEMORY, WHICH IS ENORMOUS by Tony Trigilio

from WITH THE MEMORY, WHICH IS ENORMOUS Main Street Rag, 2009 by Tony Trigilio     AVIARY —for my brother   I wanted to evict the pigeon who snuck in the living room window three weeks ago. Its fat tiptoe around the baby (not ours) laughing at the ceiling.  I wish I could’ve loved the bird […]

Nothing Bad Part 3: Opening the Door
by Mary Grimm

At the end of the path, just before the turn that would take her to the convent, she stood facing the hedge, running her hands along the bushes. “Here,” she muttered to herself, “here, here,” pushing a little at the dense green branches. And finally, her hand went in, a space big enough for a slender girl to push through.

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