My Translation: *** Her neck is lifted—young and free, Like spring in reverie. Who knows her name—who knows her age, Who—home, who—century? There is no light on these curved lips— Capricious and gentle— Yet I am blinded and eclipsed By her Beethoven's temple. It makes me tender—clear and lit, Her face, a melted oval, Her hand, in which a whip would fit, And—in the silver—opal. A violin bow could serve her hand, But into silks it went, How unrepeatable—this hand, Unique, beloved hand. (January 10, 1915)Continue reading “My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 7”
Are you interested in digital poetry? Do you want to know how technology transforms literary art? Then, this podcast is for you! Hosted by Veronika Sizova, “The Poetics of Digital Media” episode evaluates the advantages and disadvantages of posting poetry on social media, illustrates the concept of E-Poetry, and explains how digital media liberates literature through a combination of verbal, visual, and musical expressions. Finally, it provides a reminder that social media, despite its creative benefits, may also cause significant distress.Continue reading “~ The Poetics of Digital Media ~ Podcast”
My Translation: *** How merrily the snowflakes brightened Your—grey, my—sable fur, How at the Christmas fair excited We looked for ribbons—best of all. How rosy-pink and very savoury I ate too many waffles—six! How every ginger horse delighted me— In honour of Your noble deeds. How vendors traded garments—full like sails— They sold the cheapest shreds and swore, How at the Moscow ladies, young and strange, The country women gaped in awe. How in the evening, when the crowds had left, We entered the cathedral, bored, How on the Virgin Mary's face bereft Your gaze fell like a solemn sword. How gloomy was her countenance and gentle The love in her exhausted eyes, Locked in the icon case with chubby angels From the Elizabethan times. How You let go of my hand tenderly And whispered: "Oh, I want her so!" How you have placed a candle carefully In candelabrum - yellow, tall… —O, with an opal ring mysterious Your Hand! —O, all my wretched plight— How I have promised You, my dearest, To steal this masterpiece tonight! How to the inn of this grand monastery —The rumbling bells and setting sun— Blessed like two baptized girls with honesty Like a battalion, we have come. How I have told You—to remain as beauteous— With age—and always spilled the salt, How for three times—You were so furious— In cards, my King of Hearts had won. How You have squeezed my hair in sweet reproach, Caressing every single curl— How cold was Your enamel flower brooch Which made my lips tremble and burn. How I, against Your slender fingers. Have brushed my tired, sleepy head, How You have teased me like an infant, How You have loved me just like that… (December 1914)Continue reading “My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 6”
*** I want to ask the looking glass With dusty, mistful dreams, Which road - which country shall You pass, And where Your shelter gleams. Here, I behold: the ship's tall mast, And You - on deck alone... You - in the train's steam... Fields at dusk Are gloomy and forlorn... The dusky meadows bathe in dew, Above - the ravens soar... To the four winds I scatter You And bless Your soul! May 3, 1915
My distant angel, Only you can decipher This secret message. Deep in the shadows Where summer turns to autumn Once a year, we meet. Two star-crossed lovers Separated by darkness, United by light. The sky will show you Our celestial counterparts: Vega and Altair.
If you were a rose, You would hide in the dark Until I discovered your delicate spark. If you were a rose, Every flower would fade, Entranced by the perfume which you radiate. If you were a rose, Your soft, velvety skin Would cover my eyes with the raptures unseen. If you were a rose, I would kiss your wild thorns, Crimson with blood, as it lingers and burns. If you were a rose, You would bloom all year long, Drinking my tears when I cry, all alone. If you were a rose, You would grow in my heart, Entwining it gently, as you tear me apart. My garden has blossomed With sorrow and loss. Why didn't you tell me that you were a rose?
“Шторм надвигается!” – глухо шипят волны прилива, разбиваясь о скалы и разбрызгивая свои яростные объятия по стонущему берегу. Среди подступающей воды в неподвижном ожидании замер мрачный силуэт. Юная девушка с тёмными глазами, устремлёнными на край Земли, поёт, а её волосы цвета воронова крыла развеваются в мощных порывах ледяного океанического воздуха…Continue reading “Бесконечность Судеб”
I am profoundly delighted that my kind friend, Kevin Morris, whose imaginative poetry inspires me with its wittiness and creativity, has composed a guest post for my site. Please, do not hesitate to follow his excellent blog: K Morris – Poet
My sincere thanks to Veronica for her kindness in allowing me to write a guest post for The Waves of Poetry. I am an admirer of Veronica’s work, and I’m delighted to be hosted on her excellent blog.
In August 2019, I published my “Selected Poems,” https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/.
“The Selected Poems of K Morris” comprises a selection of poems composed by me between 2013-2019, most of which deal with serious matters of life, the passage of time and nature.
In contrast, my soon to be released collection, “Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems” does, as the title suggests, contain both serious and humorous verses.Continue reading ““Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems” – a Guest Post by Kevin Morris”
“To arts unknown he bends his wits, and alters nature.”
― Ovid, Metamorphoses.
Myriads of evocative images permeate the debut novel of the most influential Irish modernist, conveying the entire spectrum of feelings ranging from religious fervour to the ardour of lust. A master of intertextuality, Joyce intermingles philosophical discussions (unfortunately, often one-sided, despite their doubtless intellectual splendour) with “scraps of poetry and madness” – playful allusions to ancient myths and historical events. Nevertheless, a vivid combination of excessive naturalism and vague surrealism may be exhausting for the reader, as the rigorous author does not attempt to ease the acute transitions from one state of consciousness into another. It is only for the literary adventurers themselves to decide whether this egocentric coming-of-age journey is worth the effervescent, yet turbulent ride.Continue reading ““A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce (1916) ★★★★”