Thanks to Sovay for the shout out on Live Journal for my translation of Victory over the Sun and for the Červená Barva Press bookstore.
Well what's to be done I'll go away askance into the 16th century through the quotes over here
Delightful surprise of the week: visiting the brick-and-mortar office of Červená Barva Press
in the basement of the Somerville Armory and discovering that not only
do they sell their own books, like the chapbook of Aleksei Kruchonykh's
libretto for the Futurist opera Victory Over the Sun
(1913, trans. Larissa Shmailo 1980/2014) I had originally contacted the
publisher about, they are a really lovely tiny used book store. My
mother left with Gene Stratton-Porter's The Harvester (1911), Inez Haynes Irwin's Maida's Little School (1926), and Frances Hodgson Burnett's Robin
(1922), all first editions—jacketless, but in otherwise quite
respectable condition; the first two are books from her childhood and
the third neither of us had ever heard of, so fingers crossed it's not
terrible. I walked out with Barbara Helfgott Hyett's In Evidence: Poems of the Liberation of Nazi Concentration Camps (1986) and the Signet paperback of Mickey Spillane's Kiss Me, Deadly (1952), which I did not buy solely for its cover, but you must admit it helps. I am enjoying Victory Over the Sun.
Honored that my critical paper, Metric Action in the Free Verse of Bob Holman, which examines Holman's poetry in the light of Annie Finch's prosodic theory and Roland Barthes's narrative codes, has been accepted by John Tranter's Journal of Poetics Research!
Nikolai Gumiliev (April 15,1886 – August 25, 1921) on
the name of the poet’s wife, Anna Akhmatova. I have used successive kh
to transliterate the Russian x in Akhmatova’s name.
Addis Ababa, city of roses. Near the bank of transparent streams, No earthly devas brought you here, A diamond, amidst gloomy gorges.
Armidin garden … There a pilgrim Keeps his oath of obscure love (Mind, we all bow before him), And the roses cloy, the roses red.
There, full of deceit and venom, Ogles some gaze into the soul, Via forests of tall sycamores, And alleyways of dusky planes.
Tr. L. Shmailo
Акростих Аддис-Абеба, город роз. На берегу ручьёв прозрачных, Небесный див тебя принес, Алмазной, средь ущелий мрачных.
Армидин сад… Там пилигрим Хранит обет любви неясной (Мы все склоняемся пред ним), А розы душны, розы красны.
Там смотрит в душу чей-то взор, Отравы полный и обманов, В садах высоких сикомор, Аллеях сумрачных платанов.
The fascists are winning because I am losing my sense of humor. They are
here to stay, past the election in November, which Trump will claim was
rigged. Trump will say he won by a landslide and call for revolution,
as he did when Romney lost. All the armed militia, Klan, Nazi, and the
72% of Republicans who doubt Obama was born in the United States will
answer his call. But until then, I can imagine Trump and Sarah Palin
having a discussion about geopolitics, and smile, a little
In his book Mythologies, Roland Barthes examined the ways in which
modern society creates myths about its experience. Using semiotics, he
wrote of the atmosphere of disorder a stray lock of Calpurnia's hair
creates in Joseph L. Mankiewicz's Julius Caesar and how writers on
holiday are thought never to stop writing.
The mythology of Donald
Trump is that his presidential campaign is a reality show that will be
promptly canceled in November. Statements that threaten violence, like
his suborning assassination this week, are part of an entertainment,
like The Trumpanos or The Walking Trump or Game of Trump. Scary, yes,
but contained. He'll just retire after the election, we --- kinda --
think. And give up the media attention, the crowds? Think of Trump's red
face as he mocks and smears and threatens. No, in this show, the best,
or worst, is yet to come