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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

Spiral 
by Ron Mohring

“He kicked free. Climbed out, coughing. Told no one. And took the lesson
into himself like a rusty nail to the foot: secret wound, slow poison.”

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How quick you are   Little wheel To appear on the page As if You were Going somewhere To me You are still That gasp of horror O  or  OH You think You created a clever disguise Loitering next to the number NO But I know a real alias when I see one Noose   Noose   Noose Return to table […]

My Father Is the Sea, the Field, the Stone
by Ruth Awad

I don’t know what makes a country a country. If the sea softening an edge of land is enough to say, this is mine and that is yours. There were nights in Tripoli when there was room for us. When the sky pulled up the wings of gulls and we watched their bodies rise from […]

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