Prosperity and Adversity,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Prosperity and Adversity by Albery Allson Whitman
When first the young year inhales the sweetened air,
And painted landscapes kiss her tender feet,
The constant throat of music everywhere
Is burdened with her meed of praises sweet.
The clear brook panting from the ivied steep,
A crystal tribute sings within the dell;
And in the branchy wood secluded deep
Soft echo marks the sounds that please her well.
Till blooming Summer drops her latest charms,
Contentment tunes her reed in labor’s ear;
Till russet plenty crowns the joyous farms,
The tongue of greetings hails the jovial year.
But when the sullen North begins to wail,
Old friends forsake her, leaving one by one;
Till all untended in her leafless vale,
The naked year is left to die alone.
Then saddened blasts convey her snowy bier,
And only blustry storm above her weeps,
While mournful woods attempt a feeble cheer,
And cold drear suns but glance at where she sleeps.
Pashepahos Speech to the Young Men,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Pashepahos Speech to the Young Men by Albery Allson Whitman
Pashepaho heard the young men
Till their lofty words had ended,
And in accents stern, thus answered:
“For your presents, I am thankful.
By your speeches I’m encouraged.
Peace now lighteth all the Nations
As a noon sun lights the prairies.
Time once was when peace was broken
Up in all our Western borders.
Horsed on fire, bloody battle
Rode throughout our ancient forests.
From his home within the sunrise,
From his land of bells and steeples,
From the regions of the East wind,
The hoar dwelling place of Wabun,
Then Spake the Great Father to us,
To his red tribes spake in loud tones
As of thunder in the forests.
“Now be peaceable, my children,
Dwell in friendship’s tents together,
You, my red sons and my white sons.”
Then he took his great war hatchet,
That could strike with blows of thunder,
And into the mountains wandered,
Went forth in the deepest valleys,
And at one blow hewed a pine down,
Fell a great pine of the valleys,
That looked upward into Heaven,
With the East winds in his left hand,
And the West winds in his right hand,
And the noon-beams in his forelocks;
Took this old pine of the valleys,
And to make a war-post, reared it.
Then he spake again, in this wise:
“Lo! the war-post now ascendeth!
See the war-post of the nations,
Now the Great Spirit beholds it;
See it pointing into Heaven
Like the finger of a giant!
Bury now your hatchets neath it,
And be peaceable my children,
Dwell in friendship’s tents together.”
Then the sky above the war-post,
Grew as clear as any crystal,
And the dreamy air was softened,
And the dazing blue seemed higher,
And the far off hills seemed farther,
And all sounds were low and solemn.
Then the red sons and the white sons,
Neath the war-post sat together.
When the red sons spake in this wise:
“Raise your eyes and look now, brothers,
See it now is Indian Summer.
Lo! the sky is all serene now,
And the hills are all a sleeping,
How the brown woods now are yawning?
Now the slow streams sing in whispers.
And the South wind passeth softly
In her moccasins of damp moss.
Lo! this now is Indian Summer,
And the time to go a hunting.
We wlll leave you now, and hasten
To the mountains for a bear hunt.
Our light canoes are waiting
By the waters. Brothers, farewell.
Then spake the Great Father to us,
As we stood beside the waters,
By the moorings of our canoes,
And shook hands with all our brothers.
“Thus your hunting grounds, my red sons,
Shall extend; my white sons know them.
From Kaskaskia to Cahokia,
From St. Vincennes to St. Louis,
Up the Wabash, Illinois,
The Wisconsin, and Great Water,
To the regions of the North wind,
Where the bold St. Lawrence spreadeth
Out the fingers of his right hand;
Where the dun moose snuffs the lake fog,
Snuffs the cold breath of the North Lakes,
And the slow bear baffles Winter,
In his sullen reign of deep snows;
Where the son of Giant waters
Rocks the earth as in a cradle,
And sings lullabys of thunder
In the ear of old Forever,
Till the darkness sighs and shudders,
And the white hills quake and whisper,
“Lo, Niagara is waking!”
From this birth-place of the hoar blasts,
To the wigwam of the South wind,
In the myriad-voiced prairies,
Where the wild goose sounds her pibroch,
And the wild duck talks her nonsense,
And the heron shoots her slant flights,
From her dreamings in the long grass;
These shall be — then loud he uttered —
Hunting grounds for you forever.”
Then said Pashepaho, turning
From his audience, and smoking,
“Peace now lighteth up our forests,
And our wigwams all are cheerful.”
Moses by Alfred de Vigny,Alfred de Vigny,Alfred, the Comte de Vigny, was a 19th century French poet who was at the forefront of the Romantic movement in arts and literature in his country. He was also a novelist, playwright and translator of many of Shakespeare’s works into French. At the age of seventeen his noble background enabled him to be appointed as an army second lieutenant in the privileged King’s Guard (the Maison du Roi ).
Moses by Alfred de Vigny
Moses, man of God, surveys without pride the Land of Canaan .
The Promised Land, where his tomb shall not lie. . .
He contemplates, hand outstretched, the Hebrews . . .
Then climbs on up the mountain.
Six hundred thousand Hebrews intone in a single voice
The hymn of the King of Kings.
And, at last, at the summit,
Moses, standing before God, speaks.
Lord, will it never end?
Where yet do you want that I trudge?
Shall I live then ever in power and solitude?
Let me finally sleep the sleep of the earth.
What have I done that you choose me?
I have led your people as you wished.
Behold! they broach the very promised land.
. . . .
Alas, you have made me a sage among sages,
And taken from me the solace of ignorance.
Alas, I am, Lord, mired in power and solitude
Let me finally sleep the sleep of the earth. . . . .
The waters part . . . and the voice of the sea stills
before my voice
Your angels are jealous and treat me as one
And yet, Lord . . . .
To grow old in power and solitude is to be so alone
Let me finally sleep the sleep of the earth.
The people, my Lord, in my eyes see the flame
As I march before all, sad and alone in this glory
And I feel deep within, “What to seek beyond this?”
My burden is too heavy to lean upon any breast
The brush of my hand strikes fear at the touch
O! Lord! I have borne the power and solitude,
Let me finally sleep the sleep of the earth.
Now the people waited, and dared not look
Upon the mount of the jealous God.
Lightning and thunder averted every gaze
Until the mount cleared . . . and Moses was no longer there.
The people mourned,
And Joshua led
Pensive, pale
For he was already the elected of God.
The Gray Notebook selections,Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky Alexander (Aleksandr) Ivanovich Vvedensky was a radical Russian poet of the first half of the 20th century who belonged to the “Russian Futurism” movement of artists and writers. Their aim was to jettison the “old ways” and the old style of literature in favour of a new direction in keeping with the ever-increasing industrialisation of the country.
The Gray Notebook selections by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky
Above the dark good sea
the boundless air rushed here and there,
it flew like a blue falcon,
silently swallowing night’s poison.
And the air thought: everything passes,
rotted fruit hangs by a string.
Like a dream, the star arises,
the bee immortal sings.
Why shouldn’t man, like death or stone,
watch the sand without a word.
The flower longs with its petals
and thought descends upon the flower.
(And the air swept up the sea
as if the sea of metal be).
This hour the flower understands
the forest, sky and diamond.
The flower is a jerk, a leafy grove,
we watch it on our right,
as long as we are still alive
we’ll snip it with a knife.
(And the air swept up the sea
as if the sea of metal be).
The flower’s wiser than the man,
it asks to be given a name.
We named the flower andrei
he is our peer in matters of the mind.
The bugs and birds around the flower
moaned aloud like forest cups,
a river ran around him
sticking out its stinger,
and the ants and the butterflies
ring like bells above the flower,
pleasantly the swallows cry,
tenderly flying over the fields.
And the air swept up the sea
as if the sea of metal be.
KOLOKOLOV:
I’d gladly drink another shot of water
to the health of this bird in the air,
who flies like a fanatic
circling over bushes of excitement like a lunatic,
her eyes’ magnetic shine
takes in rays of the highest level.
She hovers, this bird candle,
above a drop of water, over river, over mountain,
often adopting the look of a psalm,
possessing the image of a hollow thing,
she does not snag the hill’s wing,
an earthly man pines for her.
She is a goddess divine.
She is God’s paper, sweet and kind,
to her life’s crowded desert
is not all so pleasant.
You, little bird, are suicide,
or you are renunciation.
KUKHARSKY:
I would very much like to touch a heavenly body
that has perspired overnight like a maiden,
and I’d like so very much to see all
of night’s figure as it is inexplicable,
this night, a dying-out-er,
this croaking daughter,
like heavenly sand it is palpable,
now wilting away into Tuesday,
I’d lift a particle of this night like a petal,
but I feel just the same.
SVIDERSKY:
Kukharsky, have you been breathing ether?
KUKHARSKY:
I touch a stone. But the hardness of the stone
does not convince me anymore.
Let the sun shine in like a palm tree in the sky
but that light doesn’t do anything for me.
Every single thing has color,
every single thing has length,
every single thing has length,
has width, and comet’s depth,
every single thing now fades
and everything remains the same.
KOLOKOLOV:
Why are we sitting here like little children,
wouldn’t it be better to sit down and sing something,
a song, for instance.
KUKHARSKY:
Let’s sing the surface of a song.
The Song of the Notebook
Sea, oh sea, you’re the homeland of waves,
the waves are sea-children.
The sea is their mother
and their sister’s the notebook
it’s been that way now for many a century.
And they lived very well.
And prayed often.
The sea to God
and the children to God.
And after they resettled in the sky.
From where they sprayed rain,
and on that rainy spot a house grew.
The house lived well.
It taught the doors and windows to play
shore, immortality, dream and notebook.
Once upon a time.
SVIDERSKY:
Once upon a time I walked poisoned down a road,
and time walked in step by my side.
Baby birds sang variously in the bushes,
and the grass lay low in many places.
Like a battlefield in the distance rose the mighty sea.
It goes without saying that it was hard to breathe.
I thought about why only verbs are
subjugated to the hour, minute, and year,
while house, forest and sky, like Mongols of some kind,
have suddenly been released from time.
I thought about it and I understood. We all know it,
that action becomes an insomniac China,
that actions are dead, they stretch out like dead men,
and now we decorate them with garlands.
Their mobility is a lie, their density a swindle,
and a dead fog devours them.
Things are like children that sleep in their cradles.
Like stars that move in the sky just a little.
Like drowsy flowers that soundlessly grow.
Things are like music, they stand still.
I stopped. Here I thought,
my mind could not grasp the onslaught of new tribulations.
And I saw a house, like winter, diving.
And I saw a swallow signifying a garden
where the shadows of trees like branches make sound,
where the branches of trees are like shadows of the mind.
I heard music’s monotonous gait,
I tried to catch the boat of words.
I tested the word in cold and in fire,
but the hours drew in tighter and tighter.
And the poison reigning inside me
wielded power like an empty dream.
Once upon a time.
“The Meaning of the Sea” by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky is a haunting and enigmatic poem that defies conventional interpretation, embodying the surreal and absurdist aesthetic characteristic of the Russian avant-garde. Vvedensky, a central figure of the OBERIU group, constructs a world where logic collapses, language fractures, and meaning becomes fluid—much like the sea itself. The poem does not offer a linear narrative or clear moral, but rather invites the reader into a metaphysical and philosophical reflection on existence, perception, and the unknowable. In this introductory discussion, we shall explore the poem’s themes, language, and structure, aiming to uncover how Vvedensky uses the sea as both a literal and symbolic element to express the ambiguity and complexity of human consciousness.
The Meaning Of The Sea by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky
to make everything clear
live backwards
take walks in the woods
tearing hair
when you recognize fire
in a lamp a stove
say wherefore you yearn
fire ruler of the candle
what do you mean or not
where’s the cabinet the pot
demons spiral like flies
over a piece of cake
these spirits displayed
legs arms and horns
juicy beasts war
lamps contort in sleep
babes in silence blow the trumpet
women cry on a pine-tree
the universal God stands
in the cemetery of the skies
the ideal horse walks
finally the forest comes
we look on in fear
we think it’s fog
the forest growls and waves its arms
it feels discomfort boredom
it weakly whispers I’m a phantom
maybe later I’ll be
fields stand near a hillock
holding fear on a platter
people montenegrins beasts
joyfully feast
impetuous the music plays
finns have fun
shepherds shepherdesses bark
barks are rowed across tables
here and there in the barks
mark the minutes’ haloes
we are in the presence of fun
I said this right away
either the birth of a canyon
or the nuptials of cliffs
we will witness this feast
from this bench this trumpet
as the tambourines clatter
and flutter, spinning like the earth
skies will come and a battle
or we will come to be ourselves
goblets moved among mustaches
in the goblets flowers rose
and our thoughts were soaring
among curled plants
our thoughts our boats
our gods our aunts
our souls our breath
our goblets in them death
but we said, and yet
there’s no meaning in this rain
we beg, pass the sign
the sign plays on water
the wise hills throw
into the stream all those who feasted
glasses flourish in the water
water homeland of the skies
after thinking we like corpses
showed to heaven our arses
sea time sleep are one
we will mutter sinking down
“Snow Lies” by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky is a surreal and enigmatic poem that challenges conventional forms of logic, time, and poetic structure. Written during a period of political repression and artistic experimentation in early Soviet Russia, the poem reflects Vvedensky’s association with the avant-garde literary group OBERIU, which sought to dismantle traditional narrative and linguistic norms. Through disjointed imagery, fractured syntax, and a deliberate refusal of linear meaning, Snow Lies presents a vision of existence that is at once absurd, disorienting, and deeply philosophical. In this essay, I will explore how Vvedensky uses language, imagery, and structure to convey a world where meaning is elusive and time becomes a strange, fluid entity.
Snow Lies by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky
snow lies
earth flies
lights flip
night walks in
night lies on a rug of stars
night how are you spelled?
like an inane lever
sleeps the insane river
she 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
in the vicinity of stars
dashes weeping like a swallow
seeks a home a nest
there’s no nest a hole
the universe is alone
maybe rarely will pass
time as poor as a knight
yes or will pass
away a bedridden miss
then a crowd of relations
will rush in and cry alas
in steel houses
will howl loudly
she’s dead 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 askance aslant
numbers houses and seas
which perceived
the accidental is amiss
there God languished behind bars
with no eyes no legs no arms
so that maiden in tears
sees all this in the heavens
sees various eagles
appear out of night
and fly inane
and flash insane
this is so depressing
the dead maiden will say
serenely surprised
God will say
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 breast like two pears
you swell like music
you’re swell like a statue
then the wood howled
in final despair
it spies through the trees
a meandering ribbon
little ribbon an eight
slinky Lena of fate
Mercury was in the air
spinning like a top
and the bear
sunned his coat
people also walked around
bearing fish on a platter
bearing on their hands
ten fingers on a ladder
while this was occurring
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 dying at all
no I was lying
I was eyeing
I was gaping I was crying
I was aping and replying
a fit of lethargy
was had by me among the effigies
let’s partake in entertainment
let’s gallop to the cinema
and she sped off like an ass
to satisfy her innermost
here’s the shining of the world
night how are you spelled.
The Joyful Man Franz,Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky Poems, Alexander (Aleksandr) Ivanovich Vvedensky was a radical Russian poet of the first half of the 20th century who belonged to the “Russian Futurism” movement of artists and writers. Their aim was to jettison the “old ways” and the old style of literature in favour of a new direction in keeping with the ever-increasing industrialisation of the country.
The Joyful Man Franz by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky
the joyful man Franz
maintained protuberance
from start to finish
he never came down the porch
measured stars named flowers
believed I am you
affixing number to time
humming in rhyme
he died and was deceased
like the shotgun and the cyst
frightened, he would see a skirt
as he fantasized asleep
and would sail at the helm
to a melancholy elm
where squads of beetles
performed about-faces
showed their mustaches to gods
pronounced themselves to be clocks
gods howled out of tune
and tumbled down from the moon
there in luxurious grass
an ant was being stamped
and the glowworm, unkind king
lit up a large lamp
silently the lightnings flashed
languid animals snorted
unhurriedly growled
the waves that lay on the sand
where? where did all this happen
where did this location roam
I forgot, the sun will say
sinking into the unknown
all we see is the exit
from the schoolbag of Franz
of the contemporary of man
the psychologist of the divine
this wizard announces
the party begins
idle stars crowd in
boring people smoke
lonely thoughts run around
everything is sad and pointless
God what kind of party is this
it’s the christmas of death or something
hens step around gulfs
the hall hops with cupids
and the iron steam-engine
meditates on cow-patties
Franz awoke from his nightmare
why are all these things here?
the valet stood here like a palm
before the meadows of eternity
short as a reed
the collar sleeps upon a chair
a branch of kerosene
overlooks the twilight
answer me wizard
is this a dream? I’m a fool
but where is that wizard
where is the psychologist of the divine
he counts songs in his sleep
growing bald as a tree
he can’t come here
where the real world stands
he calmly multiplies the shades
he does not shimmer in the sky
Turks give me my carriage
the joyful Franz called
give me the rocket of Ober
give me horsepower
I will ride around the world
in this fascinating cab
I will orchestrate a race
of the star with the prisoner earth
touch the ceiling with my head
I’m a bluebird
meanwhile out of the acute night
out of the abyss of the bad dream
appears a crown
and the ramified scythe
you’re an irate serpent
my childless death
hello Franz will sadly say
each of your hairs holds
more thoughts than a pot
more sleep than a powder
take out your saber
and open my shirt
and then open my skin
glue me to the bed
all the same shall learning triumph
I’ll announce as I gurgle
and create a grandson
my substitute in the form of a lamp
he will stand and glow
write essays for school
death said you are a flower
and fled to the east
Franz remained alone
to contemplate protuberance
measure stars name flowers
compose I and you
lying in absolute silence
in the empty heights.
Kuprianov and Natasha,Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky Alexander (Aleksandr) Ivanovich Vvedensky was a radical Russian poet of the first half of the 20th century who belonged to the “Russian Futurism” movement of artists and writers. Their aim was to jettison the “old ways” and the old style of literature in favour of a new direction in keeping with the ever-increasing industrialisation of the country.
Kuprianov and Natasha by Alexander Ivanovich Vvedensky
Kuprianov and his dear lady Natasha after walking those swinish guests to the door prepare for bed.
kuprianov
said, taking off his majestic tie
Frightening the dark the candle burns,
it has silver bones.
Natasha,
why do you stroll about yearning,
the guests are probably for certain long since gone.
I even forgot, Marousia,
Sonia,
o darling let us go to bed,
I want to dig around in you
in search of interesting things.
It’s not for nothing they say we have different constitutions.
natasha
(taking off her blouse)
Kuprianov, there’s little sense in this candle,
I fear it wouldn’t have lit up a poodle,
and there’s two of us here.
I fear I will howl
from anguish, passion, terror, thought,
I fear you o mistress shirt,
you that hides me within,
I am entangled in you like a fly.
kuprianov
(taking off his jacket)
Soon you and I, Natasha
will embark on our funny recreation.
The two of us, the two of us
will occupy ourselves with procreation.
We will become like tuna.
natasha
(taking off her skirt)
O God, I’m left without a skirt.
What am I to do in my painted pants.
Meanwhile on chairs stood goblets, rather silver and pert,
wine blackened like a monk
and the moribund worm twitched.
I resume.
I feel even shame.
I’m becoming naked like the sky,
nothing is visible as yet,
but soon a star will glitter.
It’s so disgusting.
kuprianov
(taking off his pants)
Soon I will rise by your side
almost naked like the tide.
As I recall,
at instances like these I felt enraptured
when I beheld a woman’s fountainhead
green or blue
but it was red.
I’d giggle myself blind
stroking the satin hemispheres of her behind.
Yes, I was happy.
And I thought woman is a reed,
she is almost human,
an unattainable duck.
Hurry up please.
natasha
(taking off her pants)
Shedding my plumage
I think of how I’m causing stimulation
to your olfactory glands
and optical nerves.
You gorge yourself upon my earthly image
and can foretaste the pleasure
of standing upon me like a tower two o’clock.
You glimpse the hair through my shirt,
divine the beating of my wave,
but why then does my mind cloud up,
I’m half asleep like boredom.
kuprianov
(taking off his lower pants)
I’ll take these off too, I suppose,
to make me differ from a corpse,
to bring our skins close.
Let us examine our faces in the glass:
I’m moderately mustachioed.
This flush
is caused by passion.
My eyes flash and I tremble.
And you are beautiful and clear,
your breasts are like two basins,
maybe we’re devils.
natasha
(taking off her shirt)
Look, I’m absolutely naked,
I have become one long face,
that’s how I get in the bathtub.
Here from my sides two brown shoulders
stick out like candles,
beneath them swell two breasts,
the nipples lie on them like medals,
a belly sits below, deserted,
and also my modest furry entrance
and two extremities, significant and sparkling,
between which we are left darkling.
Perhaps you wish to see the landscape of my dark,
perhaps you wish to see the landscape of my back.
Here are two pleasant shoulder blades
like soldiers slumbering in tents
and further on the wondrous seat,
its heavenly sight
must strike you.
And the moribund worm twitched,
nothing sang
as she displayed her intricate body.
kuprianov
(taking off his shirt)
How everything is boring
and monotonously nauseating,
look, like a naked herring
I stand before you, luxuriating,
and my fourth arm
points mightily to the skies.
If only someone came to look at us,
we are alone alone with Christ
upon this icon.
It’s interesting to know how long we took to undress.
Half an hour, I reckon. What’s your guess?
Meanwhile they embraced
and approached the marriage bed.
“You are definitively dear to me Natasha,”
says Kuprianov.
She lies below and lifts her legs
and tongueless the candle burns.
natasha
So, Kuprianov, I am down.
Make the dark come.
The last ring of the world
that isn’t yet pried apart
is you upon me.
And the black apartment
smirked momentarily above them from afar.
Lie down lie down Kuprianov,
we’ll die soon.
kuprianov
No, I don’t want to. (Exits).
natasha
How horrible, I am alone,
I am a stone, I am a moan,
I am so sad, I am so lonely
moving my hand only. (Cries.)
kuprianov
(indulging in solitary pleasure on a chair)
I entertain myself.
OK, it’s over,
get dressed.
The moribund worm nods off.
natasha
(putting on her shirt)
I took you off for the act of love
because the world is not enough,
because the world does not exist,
because it’s above me.
So here I am a solitary ape
with my insane shape.
kuprianov
(putting on his shirt)
Look Natasha it’s getting light out.
natasha
(putting on her pants)
Leave me alone. Get out of my sight.
I tickle myself.
I swell with marvelous joy.
I am my own fountainhead.
I love another.
I silently put on slumber.
From my state of nakedness
I will pass to the conflagration of clothes.
kuprianov
(putting on his lower pants)
I have no hopes.
I feel myself grow smaller,
airless and angrier.
The eyes of such emotional ladies
send fires through my body’s alleys.
I’m not myself.
The moribund worm yawns.
natasha
(putting on her skirt)
What shame, what shamelessness.
I’m with a total bastard.
He is the ordure of humanity
and the likes of him will also become immortal.
It was night. There was nature.
The moribund worm yawns.
kuprianov
(putting on his pants)
O natural philosophy, o logic, o mathematics, o art,
it’s not my fault I believed in the force of the last emotion.
O how everything goes dark.
The world definitively chokes.
I make it nauseous,
it makes me nauseous.
Dignity sinks into clouds.
I never believed in a quantity of stars.
I believed in one star.
It turned out I was a solitary rider
and we didn’t become like tuna.
natasha
(putting on her blouse)
Look idiot look
at the extremities of my breasts.
They vanish, they retreat, they float off,
touch them you fool,
they are on the edge of a long sleep.
I turn into a cottonwood,
I swell.
kuprianov
(putting on his jacket)
I said that the female is almost human,
she is a tree.
What’s there to do.
I’ll smoke, I’ll sit around, I’ll think.
It seems stranger and stranger
that time still moves,
that it breathes.
Can time be stronger than death,
maybe we’re devils.
Farewell dear Natasha cottonwood.
The sun rises violent as light.
I understand nothing.
He gets smaller and smaller and disappears.
Nature indulges in solitary pleasure.
Theology in Extremis Or a soliloquy,Alfred Comyn Lyall was an English poet and historian who had a distinguished civil service career, much of which was spent serving in India and which led to his eventual appointment to the Privy Council. His time there prompted him to write a great deal about the history of the Indian sub-continent and his literary achievements won him a number of decorations and honorary degrees.
Theology in Extremis Or a soliloquy by Alfred Comyn Lyall
MORITURUS LOQUITUR.
Oft in the pleasant summer years,
Reading the tales of days bygone,
I have mused on the story of human tears,
All that man unto man had done,
Massacre, torture, and black despair;
Reading it all in my easy-chair.
Passionate prayer for a minute’s life;
Tortured crying for death as rest;
Husband pleading for child or wife,
Pitiless stroke upon tender breast.
Was it all real as that I lay there
Lazily stretched on my easy-chair?
Could I believe in those hard old times,
Here in this safe luxurious age?
Were the horrors invented to season rhymes,
Or truly is man so fierce in his rage?
What could I suffer, and what could I dare?
I who was bred to that easy-chair.
They were my fathers, the men of yore,
Little they recked of a cruel death;
They would dip their hands in a heretic’s gore,
They stood and burnt for a rule of faith.
What would I burn for, and whom not spare?
I, who had faith in an easy-chair.
Now do I see old tales are true,
Here in the clutch of a savage foe;
Now shall I know what my fathers knew,
Bodily anguish and bitter woe,
Naked and bound in the strong sun’s glare,
Far from my civilized easy-chair.
Now have I tasted and understood
That old world feeling of mortal hate;
For the eyes all round us are hot with blood;
They will kill us coolly — they do but wait;
While I, I would sell ten lives, at least,
For one fair stroke at that devilish priest
Just in return for the kick he gave,
Bidding me call on the prophet’s name;
Even a dog by this may save
Skin from the knife, and soul from the flame;
My soul! if he can let the prophet burn it,
But life is sweet if a word may earn it.
A bullock’s death, and at thirty years!
Just one phrase, and a man gets off it;
Look at that mongrel clerk in his tears
Whining aloud the name of the prophet;
Only a formula easy to patter,
And, God Almighty, what can it matter?
“Matter enough,” will my comrade say
Praying aloud here close at my side,
“Whether you mourn in despair alway,
Cursed for ever by Christ denied;
Or whether you suffer a minute’s pain
All the reward of Heaven to gain.”
Not for a moment faltereth he,
Sure of the promise and pardon of sin;
Thus did the martyrs die, I see,
Little to lose and muckle to win;
Death means Heaven, he longs to receive it,
But what shall I do if I don’t believe it?
Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh,
Fain would I speak one word and be spared;
Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die,
If I were only sure God cared;
If I had faith, and were only certain
That light is behind that terrible curtain.
But what if He listeth nothing at all
Of words a poor wretch in his terror may say?
That mighty God who created all
To labour and live their appointed day;
Who stoops not either to bless or ban,
Weaving the woof of an endless plan.
He is the Reaper, and binds the sheaf,
Shall not the season its order keep?
Can it be changed by a man’s belief?
Millions of harvests still to reap;
Will God reward, if I die for a creed,
Or will He but pity, and sow more seed?
Surely He pities who made the brain,
When breaks that mirror of memories sweet,
When the hard blow falleth, and never again
Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat;
Bitter the vision of vanishing joys;
Surely He pities when man destroys.
Here stand I on the ocean’s brink,
Who hath brought news of the further shore?
How shall I cross it? Sail or sink,
One thing is sure, I return no more;
Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be
Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea?
They tell fair tales of a far-off land,
Of love rekindled, of forms renewed;
There may I only touch one hand
Here life’s ruin will little be rued;
But the hand I have pressed and the voice I have heard,
To lose them for ever, and all for a word?
Now do I feel that my heart must break
All for one glimpse of a woman’s face;
Swiftly the slumbering memories wake
Odour and shadow of hour and place;
One bright ray through the darkening past
Leaps from the lamp as it brightens last,
Showing me summer in western land
Now, as the cool breeze murmureth
In leaf and flower — And here I stand
In this plain all bare save the shadow of death;
Leaving my life in its full noonday,
And no one to know why I flung it away.
Why? Am I bidding for glory’s roll?
I shall be murdered and clean forgot;
Is it a bargain to save my soul?
God, whom I trust in, bargains not;
Yet for the honour of English race,
May I not live or endure disgrace.
Ay, but the word, if I could have said it,
I by no terrors of hell perplext;
Hard to be silent and have no credit
From man in this world, or reward in the next;
None to bear witness and reckon the cost
Of the name that is saved by the life that is lost.
I must be gone to the crowd untold
Of men by the cause which they served unknown,
Who moulder in myriad graves of old;
Never a story and never a stone
Tells of the martyrs who die like me,
Just for the pride of the old countree.
Studies at Delhi 1876,Alfred Comyn Lyall was an English poet and historian who had a distinguished civil service career, much of which was spent serving in India and which led to his eventual appointment to the Privy Council. His time there prompted him to write a great deal about the history of the Indian sub-continent and his literary achievements won him a number of decorations and honorary degrees.
Studies at Delhi 1876 by Alfred Comyn Lyal
I.–The Hindu Ascetic.
Here as I sit by the Jumna bank,
Watching the flow of the sacred stream,
Pass me the legions, rank on rank,
And the cannon roar, and the bayonets gleam.
Is it a god or a king that comes?
Both are evil, and both are strong;
With women and worshipping, dancing and drums,
Carry your gods and your kings along.
Fanciful shapes of a plastic earth,
These are the visions that weary the eye;
These I may ‘scape by a luckier birth,
Musing, and fasting, and hoping to die.
When shall these phantoums flicker away?
Like the smoke of the guns on the wind-swept hill,
Like the sounds and colours of yesterday:
And the soul have rest, and the air be still.
II.–Badminton.
Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed,
Under the Moree battlement’s shade;
Close to the glacis our game was formed,
There had the fight been, and there we played.
Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt,
Merrily capered the players all;
North, was the garden where Nicholson slept,
South, was the sweep of a battered wall.
Near me a Musalmán, civil and mild,
Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell;
And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled,
“God smite their souls to the depths of hell.”
Learning English, English Speaking, English Language, English Prose, English Poetry, English Dictionary
