I could have loved the winter, But the burden is heavy. Even smoke cannot Escape into the clouds.
The sharply etched lives, The unweildly flight, The pauperish blue Of the tear-swollen ice.
But I love snow, weakened By the easy life above, Sometimes glistening white, Sometimes purple lilac…
And particularly thawing, When, revealing the peaks, It settles down weary On a sliding precipice.
Immaculate dreams, Like cattle in the mist, On the agonizing brink On spring’s holocaust.
by Иннокентий Фёдорович Анненский (Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky) (1909) translated by Lubov Yakovleva and Daniel Weissbort
Снег
Полюбил бы я зиму, Да обуза тяжка… От нее даже дыму Не уйти в облака.
Эта резанность линий, Этот грузный полет, Этот нищенский синий И заплаканный лед!
Но люблю ослабелый От заоблачных нег — То сверкающе белый, То сиреневый снег…
И особенно талый, Когда, выси открыв, Он ложится усталый На скользящий обрыв,
Точно стада в тумане Непорочные сны — На томительной грани Всесожженья весны.
Annensky, renowned for his great learning, was the director of the lycee in Tsarskoye Selo near St. Petersburg where many poets from Aleksandr Pushkin to Anna Akhmatova were educated. His poems are refined and somewhat cold recalling the autumnal severity of that town and reflecting themes of weariness and futility, conquerable only through ove or art. Though Annensky was not celebrated in his own time, his lack of mysticism and his clarity of expression, which became important to the Acmeists (in contrast to the reigning Symbolists), influenced many Russian poets, in particular Vladislav Khodasevich and to some extent Boris Pasternak.
Biographical information about Annensky, p.6, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).
It is a winter’s tale That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales, Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes, The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail,
And the stars falling cold, And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl In the river wended vales where the tale was told.
Once when the world turned old On a star of faith pure as the drifting bread, As the food and flames of the snow, a man unrolled The scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and head, Torn and alone in a farm house in a fold
Of fields. And burning then In his firelit island ringed by the winged snow And the dung hills white as wool and the hen Roosts sleeping chill till the flame of the cock crow Combs through the mantled yards and the morning men
Stumble out with their spades, The cattle stirring, the mousing cat stepping shy, The puffed birds hopping and hunting, the milkmaids Gentle in their clogs over the fallen sky, And all the woken farm at its white trades,
He knelt, he wept, he prayed, By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light And the cup and the cut bread in the dancing shade, In the muffled house, in the quick of night, At the point of love, forsaken and afraid.
He knelt on the cold stones, He wept form the crest of grief, he prayed to the veiled sky May his hunger go howling on bare white bones Past the statues of the stables and the sky roofed sties And the duck pond glass and the blinding byres alone
Into the home of prayers And fires where he should prowl down the cloud Of his snow blind love and rush in the white lairs. His naked need struck him howling and bowed Though no sound flowed down the hand folded air
But only the wind strung Hunger of birds in the fields of the bread of water, tossed In high corn and the harvest melting on their tongues. And his nameless need bound him burning and lost When cold as snow he should run the wended vales among
The rivers mouthed in night, And drown in the drifts of his need, and lie curled caught In the always desiring centre of the white Inhuman cradle and the bride bed forever sought By the believer lost and the hurled outcast of light.
Deliver him, he cried, By losing him all in love, and cast his need Alone and naked in the engulfing bride, Never to flourish in the fields of the white seed Or flower under the time dying flesh astride.
Listen. The minstrels sing In the departed villages. The nightingale, Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wings And spells on the winds of the dead his winter’s tale. The voice of the dust of water from the withered spring
Is telling. The wizened Stream with bells and baying water bounds. The dew rings On the gristed leaves and the long gone glistening Parish of snow. The carved mouths in the rock are wind swept strings. Time sings through the intricately dead snow drop. Listen.
It was a hand or sound In the long ago land that glided the dark door wide And there outside on the bread of the ground A she bird rose and rayed like a burning bride. A she bird dawned, and her breast with snow and scarlet downed.
Look. And the dancers move On the departed, snow bushed green, wanton in moon light As a dust of pigeons. Exulting, the grave hooved Horses, centaur dead, turn and tread the drenched white Paddocks in the farms of birds. The dead oak walks for love.
The carved limbs in the rock Leap, as to trumpets. Calligraphy of the old Leaves is dancing. Lines of age on the stones weave in a flock. And the harp shaped voice of the water’s dust plucks in a fold Of fields. For love, the long ago she bird rises. Look.
And the wild wings were raised Above her folded head, and the soft feathered voice Was flying through the house as though the she bird praised And all the elements of the slow fall rejoiced That a man knelt alone in the cup of the vales,
In the mantle and calm, By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light. And the sky of birds in the plumed voice charmed Him up and he ran like a wind after the kindling flight Past the blind barns and byres of the windless farm.
In the poles of the year When black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row And over the cloth of counties the far hills rode near, Under the one leaved trees ran a scarecrow of snow And fast through the drifts of the thickets antlered like deer,
Rags and prayers down the knee- Deep hillocks and loud on the numbed lakes, All night lost and long wading in the wake of the she- Bird through the times and lands and tribes of the slow flakes. Listen and look where she sails the goose plucked sea,
The sky, the bird, the bride, The cloud, the need, the planted stars, the joy beyond The fields of seed and the time dying flesh astride, The heavens, the heaven, the grave, the burning font. In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide,
And the bird descended. On a bread white hill over the cupped farm And the lakes and floating fields and the river wended Vales where he prayed to come to the last harm And the home of prayers and fires, the tale ended.
The dancing perishes On the white, no longer growing green, and, minstrel dead, The singing breaks in the snow shoed villages of wishes That once cut the figures of birds on the deep bread And over the glazed lakes skated the shapes of fishes
Flying. The rite is shorn Of nightingale and centaur dead horse. The springs wither Back. Lines of age sleep on the stones till trumpeting dawn. Exultation lies down. Time buries the spring weather That belled and bounded with the fossil and the dew reborn.
For the bird lay bedded In a choir of wings, as though she slept or died, And the wings glided wide and he was hymned and wedded, And through the thighs of the engulfing bride, The woman breasted and the heaven headed
Bird, he was brought low, Burning in the bride bed of love, in the whirl- Pool at the wanting centre, in the folds Of paradise, in the spun bud of the world. And she rose with him flowering in her melting snow.
High up at the head of the valley where the stream’s face hardened
under the breath of December and where the mountain guardians
received their delivery of white cloaks fashioned by swirling winds
and moonlight flooded the land
the mining village nestled in new disguise
frost nibbling away at its feet
by Geoff Jones
Nantyglo
Uchel i fyny ar flaen y cwm lle caledai wyneb y nant
dan anadl mis Rhagfyr a lle câi ceidwaid y mynydd
eu rhodd o fentyll gwynion wedi’u llunio gan wyntoedd troelli
a llifai’r lloergan y wlad
nythai’r pentref glofaol dan rith newydd
cnoai llorrew ar ei draed
translated by Nigel Thomas from Poetry Mine (2009)
Additional information: The poet notes ‘Nantyglo: stream of coal’. There are a number of Geoff Jones’ on the internet so it was a little hard to find details about him. Here is a link to his Twitter account as, unfortunately, it seems his website is gone now. Here is a newspaper/news website article about him.
snow lies earth flies lights flip to pigments night has come on a rug of stars it lies is it night or a demon? like an inane lever sleeps the insane river it is not aware of the moon everywhere animals gnash their canines in black gold cages animals bang their heads animals are the ospreys of saints the world flies around the universe nearby the white hot stars flits imperishable bird seeks a home a nest there’s no nest a hole the universe is alone maybe rarely will pass time as poor as a night or a daughter in a bed will grow sleepy and then dead then a crowd of revelations enter in and cry alas in steel houses howl loudly she’s gone and buried hopped to paradise big-bellied God God have pity good God on the precipice but God said Go play and she entered paradise there spun any which way numbers houses and seas in the inessential they what exists in vain perceived there God languished behind bars with no eyes no legs no arms so that maiden in tears sees all this in the heavens sees sundry eagles appear out of night and fly sullen and flash silent this is so depressing the dead maiden will say serenely amazed God will inquire what’s depressing? what’s depressing, God, life what are you talking about what O noon do you know you press pleasure and Paris to your impetuous breast you dress like music you undress like a statue the forest then roared in lonely despair it saw through earth’s tares a meandering ribbon a strip curvilinear curvy Lena you are Mercury was in the air spinning like a top and the bear in the bush sunned his coat people also walked around bearing fish on a platter bearing on their hands ten fingers on a ladder while all this went on that maiden rested rose from the dead and forgot yawned and said you guys, I had a dream what can it mean dreams are worse than macaroni they make crows double over I was not at all dying I was gaping and lying undulating and crying I was so terrifying a fit of lethargy was had by me among the effigies let’s enjoy ourselves really let’s gallop to the cinema she sped off like a she-ass to satisfy her innermost lights glint in the heaven is it night or a demon
by Александр Иванович Введенский (Alexander Ivanovich Vvendensky) (January 1930) translated by Eugene Ostashevsky
The poem set to music. Исполняют: Владимир Кузнецов и Константин Учитель / Performed by: Vladimir Kuznetsov and Konstantin Uchitel
Снег лежит…
снег лежит земля бежит кувыркаются светила ночь пигменты посетила ночь лежит в ковре небес ночь ли это? или бес? как свинцовая рука спит бездумная река и не думает она что вокруг неё луна звери лязгают зубами в клетках чёрных золотых звери стукаются лбами звери коршуны святых мир летает по вселенной возле белых жарких звёзд вьётся птицею нетленной ищет крова ищет гнёзд нету крова нету дна и вселенная одна может изредка пройдёт время бледное как ночь или сонная умрёт во своей постели дочь и придёт толпа родных станет руки завивать в обиталищах стальных станет громко завывать умерла она – исчезла в рай пузатая залезла Боже Боже пожалей Боже правый на скале но ответил Бог играй и вошла девица в рай там вертелось вкось и вкривь числа домы и моря в несущественном открыв существующее зря там томился в клетке Бог без очей без рук без ног так девица вся в слезах видит это в небесах видит разные орлы появляются из мглы и тоскливые летят и беззвучные блестят о как мрачно это всё скажет хмурая девица Бог спокойно удивится спросит мёртвую её что же мрачно дева? Что мрачно Боже – бытиё что ты дева говоришь что ты полдень понимаешь ты веселье и Париж дико к сердцу прижимаешь ты под музыку паришь ты со статуей блистаешь в это время лес взревел окончательно тоскуя он среди земных плевел видит ленточку косую эта ленточка столбы это Леночка судьбы и на небе был Меркурий и вертелся как волчок и медведь в пушистой шкуре грел под кустиком бочок а кругом ходили люди и носили рыб на блюде и носили на руках десять пальцев на крюках и пока всё это было та девица отдохнула и воскресла и забыла и воскресшая зевнула я спала сказала братцы надо в этом разобраться сон ведь хуже макарон сон потеха для ворон я совсем не умирала я лежала и зияла извивалась и орала я пугала это зало летаргический припадок был со мною между кадок лучше будем веселиться и пойдём в кино скакать и помчалась как ослица всем желаньям потакать тут сияние небес ночь ли это или бес
Additional information: Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky (Алекса́ндр Ива́нович Введе́нский; 6 December 1904 – 19 December 1941) was a Russianpoet and dramatist with formidable influence on “unofficial” and avant-garde art during and after the times of the Soviet Union. Vvedensky is widely considered (among contemporary Russian writers and literary scholars) as one of the most original and important authors to write in Russian in the early Soviet period. Vvedensky considered his own poetry “a critique of reason more powerful than Kant’s.”
In Tufanov‘s sound-poetry circle he met Daniil Kharms, with whom he went on to found the OBERIU group (in 1928). Together Kharms and Vvedensky, along with several other young writers, actors, and artists, staged various readings, plays, and cabaret-style events in Leningrad in the late 1920s. Vvedensky, as written in the OBERIU manifesto, was considered the most radical poet of the group.
Vvedensky, like Kharms, worked in children’s publishing to get by, and was also quite accomplished in the field. He wrote vignettes for children’s magazines, translated books of children’s literature, and wrote several children’s books of his own.
Editor’s note: If you are reading this on 1 January 2023 then Happy New Year! С новым годом! Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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