Twentieth Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Steel
Daniel Weissbort, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Albert Todd, Max Hayward
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
selected by Yevgeny Yevtushenko; edited by Albert Todd, Max Hayward, and Daniel Weissbort
many many other authors--the field above ran out of space...the most comprehensive introduction to 20th century Russian/Soviet poetry that I am aware of....
A massive, comprehensive anthology of poetry from the politically turbulent Russia of this century. This collection introduces Americans to a number of astonishing poets virtually unknown outside of Russia, as well as presenting the work of some of the most prominent Russian poets of the past 90 years.
stop now, we’ll let you off.” The tank sergeant, a Siberian youth, ran in the direction of the megaphone, armed with a pistol. I le shot once and a young man near the megaphone fell to Compiler s Introduction Ixv the ground. This was twenty-two-year-old Ilya Krichevsky, the unknown poet who had foretold his own fate in a poem: REFUGEES On and on we go over steppes, forests, swamps, and grasslands, still yet a long, long way to go, still yet many who will lie in ditches. Fate is harsh: you
“Panmongolism” as the epigraph to his poem “The Scythians” (see page 81). P A N M O N G O L ISM Panmongolism! The word’s barbaric, Yet still falls sweetly on my ear, As if it were a mighty portent O f God’s great destiny for man. When, in Byzantium’s corruption, The sacred altars’ fire grew cold, And the Messiah was abjured By priest and people, prince and tsar, Then from the East by it was summoned A people alien and unknown, And under destiny’s dread weapon There fell in dust the second Rome.
with a scythe. To feed to Reproaches and Furies All your heart, all your strength to the last, So your humpback daughter, umbrella in hand, Can follow a brocade-covered coffin. Night o f2 1 -2 2 M ay 1906 Griazobets Translated by Lubov Yakovleva with Daniel Weissbort SNO W I could have loved the winter, But the burden is heavy. Even smoke cannot Escape into the clouds. The sharply etched lines, The unwieldy flight, The pauperish blue O f the tear-swollen ice. But I love snow, weakened By the
Only that we are part of each other. Did the tsar’s decree create us? Did the Swedes forget to drown us? Instead of a fairy tale our past contains Only stones and terrible happenings. The magician gave us only stones And the brownish-yellow Neva And deserts of squares that are mute Where executions were held till dawn. And what went on in our land, What raised our two-headed eagle on high, In dark laurels, the giant on a rock,1 Will tomorrow be game for the workers? Even he who was furious and
actions were entangled with a sentimental romanticism char acteristic of Russian terrorists of his time. A single book of poetry was published in 1931 in an edition of one hundred copies. T H E G U I L L O T I N E ’S ... The guillotine’s Sharp blade? Well then, just what? I’m not afraid of the guillotine, I laugh at the executioner, At his steel blade. The guillotine is my life, Every day they execute me . . . Every day two gentlemen In old-fashioned frock coats Sit with me as guests. And