Deep in the mountain the idol rests in sweet repose, infinite and blest, the fat of necklaces dripping from his neck protects his dreams of flood tide and of slack.
As a boy, he buddied with a peacock, they gave him rainbow of India to eat and milk in a pink clay dish, and didn't stint the cochineal.
Bone put to bed, locked in a knot, shoulders, arms and knees made flesh, he smiles with his own dead-silent lips, thinks with his bone, feels with his brow, and struggles to recall his human countenance...
by Осип Эмильевич Мандельштам (Osip Emilyevich Mandelshtam.) His surname is commonly latinised as Mandelstam) from the first of the Voronezh Notebooks (10-26 December 1936) translated by Andrew Davis
I have a friend whose Estrela Mountain dog has unfortunately suffered a luxated hip and needs to raise funds for the surgery. Please have a look at the campaign page and if you can donate anything it would be appreciated. Thank you.
Here is some information about the injury and what the donations are going towards.
Hi, this is Kyuubi (pronounced Queue-bee). She is a 14 month old Estrela mountain dog, originally from Portugal, that lives in Wales with her owner.
About a month ago (5/03/19) while out on her daily walk, she was playing in a river by her house when out of nowhere she yelped in excrutiating pain. She jumped out of the river but refused to put her right paw down. We carried her to the vets as an emergency and they told us she had a luxated hip – her right femur popped out of its socket. We were shocked this was so random, she didn’t fall and we didn’t see her slip.
She is insured but as the incident happened within the first 2 weeks of the policy starting, as written in the agreement, the insurance will not pay out. We managed to scrape the funds together to cover the cost of popping her hip back in (closed reduction), and understood there was a 50/50 chance of the procedure being successful. During the recovery process, we ensured that Kyuubi was on bed rest in her crate and as an extra precaution, we went for a weekly visit to the vets to check on her well-being and to make sure she was recovering well. Everything seemed fine until last weekend (23/03/19) during our weekly visit to the practice, the new vet we saw thought there was something wrong and asked for more X-rays.
The new x-rays showed that Kyuubi’s hip is still luxated and her femur is out of the socket and grinding against her hip, which is very bad for her and will require surgery to fix. The vets we use told us they offer a type of surgery called femoral head osteotomy where they cut the head of the femur, but if she had it she would never run again. Alternatively we could go to a specialist .
She has been referred to see an orthopaedic specialist next week (01/04/19), where we will be briefed on the best surgical procedure for her case.
We asked for an estimate of how much it would cost and were met with the following: “The cost of investigations and treatment can vary widely from £800-1000 for closed (non-surgical reduction) through surgical stabilisation (circa £3500) right through to total hip replacement if the damage is severe (£5800-6000)”. We already know that the damage will require surgery which is ridiculously expensive.
We are trying desperately hard to round up the money to both pay for the consultation and surgery to follow by selling anything of value around the home, selling the car and working overtime. On such a small time frame we are struggling to make the cost of the consultation, let alone the surgery.
Kyuubi has her whole life ahead of her and loves to run about and play. She means everything to us and any donation big or small would be so overwhelmingly appreciated, from the bottom of our hearts. The proceeds will go towards the cost of surgery. Anything over that will go towards her recovery which will likely require physical therapy.
Updates will be posted regularly on her wellbeing and progress and to everyone who reads this pledge, thank you for your time.
Quote from the GoFundMe page
Here, again is a link to the donations page should you want to make a contribution towards the cause. Please, even if you cannot donate, share the link to the page to raise awareness as every little bit helps.
Goldfinch, friend, I'll cock my head - let's check the world out, just me and you: this winter's day pricks like chaff; does it sting your eyes too?
Boat-tailed, feathers yellow-black, sopped in colour beneath your beak, do you get, you goldfinch you, just how you flaunt it?
What's he thinking, little airhead? - white and yellow, black and red! Both eyes check both ways – both! - will check no more – he's bolted!
by Осип Эмильевич Мандельштам (Osip Emilyevich Mandelshtam.) His surname is commonly latinised as Mandelstam) (9-27 December 1936) translated by Andrew Davis
The original Russian Cyrillic version of the poem
Мой щегол, я голову закину — Поглядим на мир вдвоем: Зимний день, колючий, как мякина, Так ли жестк в зрачке твоем?
Хвостик лодкой, перья черно-желты, Ниже клюва в краску влит, Сознаешь ли — до чего щегол ты, До чего ты щегловит?
Что за воздух у него в надлобье — Черн и красен, желт и бел! В обе стороны он в оба смотрит — в обе!— Не посмотрит — улетел!
Extra information: The RSPB website has information, a bird identifying ‘questionnaire’ if you’ve seen any you don’t recognise, sound clips of bird calls, videos and more about goldfinches and many other species of birds. It might be an interesting distraction if you haven’t looked at it before.
The image of a goldfinch or starling is a repeated motif in the poetry of Mandelstam. (if you can’t read Russian then just put the text of the linked page, or it’s page address, into GoogleTranslate which gives a surprisingly eloquent translation).
Sound, too? The recorder that picks up everything picked up nothing but the natural background. What language does the god speak? And the camera's lens, as sensitive to an absence as to a presence, saw what? What is the colour of his thought? It was blank, then, the screen, as far as he was concerned? It was a bare landscape and harsh, and geological its time. But the rock was bright, the illuminated manuscript of the lichen. And a shadow, as we watched, fell, as though of an unseen writer bending over his work. It was not cloud because it was not cold, and dark only from the candlepower behind it. And we waited for it to move, silently as the spool turned, waited for the figure that cast it to come into view for us to identify it, and it didn't and we are still waiting.
Once we all used to abide together with God, side by side, He didn't dwell in the sky, we'd see him from time to time alive, on the mausoleum. He was much more clever and evil than that other God, the old one, known to the world as Jehovah, whom he overthrew with a crash and reduced to a heap of ash, then subsequently restored and recruited to serve the cause. For once we all used to abide together with God, side by side.
One day as I wandered around in the Arbat, I met God on parade with five limousines and surrounded by guards wearing mousy grey overcoats, hunched in dread. It was early and late – overhead the grey light of morning was showing as he grazed with his cruel, all-knowing eyes through the hearts of men, unmasking deviants and traitors.
For we lived in an era when God himself was our neighbour.
by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий (Boris Abramovich Slutsky) (1955) translated by Stephen Capus
Here is the poem in the original Cyrillic Russian.
Мы все ходили под богом. У бога под самым боком. Он жил не в небесной дали, Его иногда видали Живого. На мавзолее. Он был умнее и злее Того — иного, другого, По имени Иегова, Которого он низринул, Извел, пережег на уголь, А после из бездны вынул И дал ему стол и угол.
Мы все ходили под богом. У бога под самым боком. Однажды я шел Арбатом. Бог ехал в пяти машинах. От страха почти горбата, В своих пальтишках мышиных Рядом дрожала охрана. Было поздно и рано. Серело. Брезжило утро. Он глянул жестоко, мудро Своим всевидящим оком, Всепроницающим взглядом.
Мы все ходили под богом. С богом почти что рядом.
Additional information: Slutsky was an atheist but he didn’t forget his Jewish cultural roots regarding not only Yiddish but also the Hebrew he had learned as a child which remained important to him even if only as deeply felt absences. This poem can be read as Slutsky reflecting on how the cult of persona arose in the Soviet era. Communist iconography of Lenin replaced Imperial Russia’s religious iconography in the day to day lives of Russian citizens in Moscow’s historical Arbat street and the surrounding area. Then he reflects, in the second part of the poem, how imagery of Stalin eventually replaced Lenin’s image and he was even worse than him.
‘They flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
from ‘The Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth
An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed with daffodils. The sun treads the path among cedars and enormous oaks. It might be a country house, guests strolling, the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.
I am reading poetry to the insane. An old woman, interrupting, offers as many buckets of coal as I need. A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic
on a good day, they tell me later. In a cage of first March sun a woman sits not listening, not feeling. In her neat clothes the woman is absent. A big, mild man is tenderly led
to his chair. He has never spoken. His labourer’s hands on his knees, he rocks gently to the rhythms of the poems. I read to their presences, absences, to the big, dumb labouring man as he rocks.
He is suddenly standing, silently, huge and mild, but I feel afraid. Like slow movement of spring water or the first bird of the year in the breaking darkness, the labourer’s voice recites ‘The Daffodils’.
The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect. Outside the daffodils are still as wax, a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables unspoken, their creams and yellows still.
Forty years ago, in a Valleys school, the class recited poetry by rote. Since the dumbness of misery fell he has remembered there was a music of speech and that once he had something to say.
When he’s done, before the applause, we observe the flowers’ silence. A thrush sings and the daffodils are flame.
By Gillian Clarke from Letter from a Far Country (1982)
Gillian remarks on her site: “All you need to know about this poem is that it is a true story. It happened in the ’70s, and it took me years to find a way to write the poem.“