Graeme Davis - Eleven Poems of Osip Mandelstam

Eleven Poems of Osip Mandelstam translated by Graeme Davis Part three in the series Selected Poems of the Russian Symbolists: Bryusov, Akhmatova and Mandelstam

Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938) was a member of a Polish Jewish family, born in Warsaw when the Duchy of Poland was part of the Russian Empire. His family gained permission to leave the Pale of Settlement and he grew up in St Petersburg, subsequently studying at the Sorbonne and University of Heidelberg. As well as Russian references, his poetry is full of allusions to classical culture, as well as European and British literature and culture. Notre Dame invokes the cathedral of Paris, Hagia Sophia the great St Sophia of Constantinople while I did not hear the tales of Ossian references James Macphersons poems of the Scottish Highlands. This eclectic mix can be understood within the context of what Mandelstam called a yearning for world culture. At the age of twenty, Mandelstam was a founder member of The Poets Guild, and therefore a part of the St Petersburg group that for a generation led Russian poetry.

Their inspiration was Russian Symbolism, though The Poets Guild developed a particular response to the Russian Symbolism which they called acme, referencing the Greek word for the best and defining qualities. The manifesto of the Acmeists, The Morning of Acmeism (1913) was written by Mandelstam. The Russian Revolution provoked different responses from Russias intelligentsia. Many emigrated. Some supported the Soviet regime, notably Bryusov; some muted their criticism, even Anna Akhmatova, Mandelstams close friend and fellow acmeist. Mandelstam however was outspoken, and having seen the effects of the Great Famine directly criticised Stalin in the Stalin Epigram (1933).

Though merely read at small and private gatherings, this was enough to condemn Mandelstam to internal exile in the northern Urals perhaps Stalin objected to being described as the Kremlin highlander. Mandelstam was reprieved, but in the Great Purge of 1937 was charged with counter-revolutionary activities. He was sent to the Gulag to serve a five-year sentence, and died months later in a transit camp near Vladivostok. Mandelstams star has risen after his death. His reputation was partially rehabilitated during the Khrushchchev thaw; fully rehabilitated under Gorbachev. He even has an asteroid named in his honour (3461 Mandelshtam).

Translating Mandelstam is challenging, though English translations of most of his work now exists. Reading him can equally be a challenge. Few today have at their finger-tips the classical allusions he makes; few have familiarity even with the culture and locales of Russia of up to a century ago. Notwithstanding, he repays our effort. Mandelstam speaks perhaps of life as the fluttering of the blue-eyed dragonflies, Briefly living.

On pale blue enamel, Of t he sort of colour that brings to mind April, The birch trees raised their branches And imperceptibly slipped towards evening. On pale blue enamel, Of t he sort of colour that brings to mind April, The birch trees raised their branches And imperceptibly slipped towards evening.

Into a sharpened and fine pattern They settle, as a fine network, Like the join on a porcelain plate Marked out incisively, As when the benign artist Traces them out on the glass foundation, In the awareness of his momentary power, In forgetfulness of his sad death.

A body has been given to me, what should I do with it, So unique and so mine? For quiet joy to breathe and live Whom, tell me, should I thank? I am a gardener and also a flower, In the worlds dungeon I am not alone. On the glass of eternity they have already settled, My breath and my warmth. A design will imprint itself on it, Lately unrecognisable. Let the murk of the moment expire That precious design cannot be crossed out. More sluggish is the snowy beehive More transparent is the crystal window , And a turquoise veil Is carelessly thrown down over a chair.

This fabric, intoxicated with itself, Pampered by a caress of the light, Experiences summer And is as if untouched by the winter. And if in the icy diamonds There streams the ice of eternity, Here is the fluttering of the blue-eyed dragonflies, Briefly living.

I hate the light Of the monotonous stars. Hail to thee, my long held delirium The height of a Gothic tower! Let stone turn to lace And into a cobweb: The skys empty breast Wound with your fine spire. And my time will come too, I sense the sweep of wings. So let it be but where Does the arrow of living thought go? Or, having exhausted my journey and my span I shall return: There I could not love; Here I am afraid of loving Here where a Roman judge stood in judgment over a foreign people There stands a basilica a joyful place, the first of its sort, As Adam once was - and laying bare its nerves A light-crossed arch flexes its muscles.

But, outside, a secret plan betrays itself! Here the power of supporting arches has shown concern; So that the weighty mass of the wall should not crush It is deadlocked by the intrepid arch. An elemental labyrinth and an unfathomable forest, The rational abyss of the Gothic soul. Egyptian might and Christian meekness; the reed And the oak stand side by side. Everywhere the plumb line rules. But, the more intently, O fortress of Notre Dame I study your monstrous ribs, Then the more often it occurs to me: out of unkind weightiness I should create some day something beautiful.

Above the yellowness of government buildings A turbid blizzard has long been whirling.

And a lawyer again sits down in a sledge Wrapping himself in a coat in an expansive gesture. Steamer s have stopped for the winter. Bright in the sun The cabin s thick glass windows flared up, Monstrous, like a battleship in dock, Russia breathes heavily. And above the Neva are half the worlds embassies, The Admiralty, the sun, the silence, And the cruel purpose of the state Is like a hair-shirt, coarse and poor. The heavy burden of the northern snob The ancient burden of Onegin; On Senate Square is the bank of a snow-drift, The smoke of a fire and the chill of a bayonet Skiffs scooped the water, and gulls From the sea visited the hemp store Where, selling sbiten or rolls Only poor men wander. A line of cars flies past in the mist.

Eccentric Yevgenny, a proud, humble pedestrian, Is ashamed of poverty, Inhales petrol fumes and greets fate.

I did not hear the tales of Ossian, I did not taste the old wine. Why does there appear to me a clearing And Scotlands bloody moon? And the roll-call of raven and harp Come to me in an ominous silence. Scarves of soldiers blown about in the wind Are glimpsed frequently in the moon light. I received a blissful inheritance, Wandering dreams of foreign singers. Our relatives and our boring neighbours We are of course at liberty to despise.

And perhaps not a single treasure Omitting grandchildren goes to great-grandchildren. And again Skald will compose a new song And sing it as his own.

I am cold. A transparent spring Clothes Petropolis in a green down. But, like a jellyfish, the wave of the Neva Inspires slight nausea in me. Along the embankments of the northern river The fireflies of motorcars sweep, Flying like dragonflies and steel beetles.

The golden needle-points of stars twinkle there, But none of these elements can triumph over The sucking, emerald-green water of the sea.

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