#Aleksandr Blok

[andrumedus]

Now again the feather-grass Is bent to earth with ancient pain, Again, from past the river's mist, From the distance, I hear you call my name.

Aleksandr Blok, tr. Denis Johnson & Kathy Lewis, from "On the Plain of Kulikovo" in Russian Poetry: The Modern Period, ed. John Glad & Daniel Weissbort

[derangedrhythms]

The sorcerer sang the spring to sleep

Aleksandr Blok, 20th Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Steel, from 'The Sorcerer Sang ...', tr. Yakov Hornstein

[iviaggisulcomo]

"Forse, tutto ciò che ho scritto, pensato, di cui ho vissuto, di cui è tanto stanca l'anima, si riferiva a te."

Aleksandr Blok

[arsanimarum]

[Crawl to me like a slithering serpent, deafen me in the deaf midnight, torment me with languid lips, suffocate me with your black braid.]

Aleksàndr Aleksàndrovič Blok, ušla. no giacinty ždali

[ma-pi-ma]

Sussurro e compongo armonie – L’insolito nei miei pensieri. E s’agitano i rami grigi, Come se avessero mani e volti

Aleksandr Blok

[ukdamo]

The Scythians

Aleksandr Blok

You are but millions. Our unnumbered nations Are as the sands upon the sounding shore. We are the Scythians! We are the slit-eyed Asians! Try to wage war with us—you'll try no more!

You've had whole centuries. We—a single hour. Like serfs obedient to their feudal lord, We've held the shield between two hostile powers— Old Europe and the barbarous Mongol horde.

Your ancient forge has hammered down the ages, Drowning the distant avalanche's roar. Messina, Lisbon—these, you thought, were pages In some strange book of legendary lore.

Full centuries long you've watched our Eastern lands, Fished for our pearls and bartered them for grain; Made mockery of us, while you laid your plans And oiled your cannon for the great campaign.

The hour has come. Doom wheels on beating wing. Each day augments the old outrageous score. Soon not a trace of dead nor living thing Shall stand where once your Paestums flowered before.

O Ancient World, before your culture dies, Whilst failing life within you breathes and sinks, Pause and be wise, as Oedipus was wise, And solve the age-old riddle of the Sphinx.

That Sphinx is Russia. Grieving and exulting, And weeping black and bloody tears enough, She stares at you, adoring and insulting, With love that turns to hate, and hate—to love.

Yes, love! For you of Western lands and birth No longer know the love our blood enjoys. You have forgotten there's a love on Earth That burns like fire and, like all fire, destroys.

We love cold Science passionately pursued; The visionary fire of inspiration; The salt of Gallic wit, so subtly shrewd, And the grim genius of the German nation.

We know the hell of a Parisian street, And Venice, cool in water and in stone; The scent of lemons in the southern heat; The fuming piles of soot-begrimed Cologne.

We love raw flesh, its colour and its stench. We love to taste it in our hungry maws. Are we to blame then, if your ribs should crunch, Fragile between our massive, gentle paws?

We know just how to play the cruel game Of breaking in the most rebellious steeds; And stubborn captive maids we also tame And subjugate, to gratify our needs…

Come join us, then! Leave war and war's alarms, And grasp the hand of peace and amity. While still there's time, Comrades, lay down your arms! Let us unite in true fraternity!

But if you spurn us, then we shall not mourn. We too can reckon perfidy no crime, And countless generations yet unborn Shall curse your memory till the end of time.

We shall abandon Europe and her charm. We shall resort to Scythian craft and guile. Swift to the woods and forests we shall swarm, And then look back, and smile our slit-eyed smile.

Away to the Urals, all! Quick, leave the land, And clear the field for trial by blood and sword, Where steel machines that have no soul must stand And face the fury of the Mongol horde.

But we ourselves, henceforth, we shall not serve As henchmen holding up the trusty shield. We'll keep our distance and, slit-eyed, observe The deadly conflict raging on the field.

We shall not stir, even though the frenzied Huns Plunder the corpses of the slain in battle, drive Their cattle into shrines, burn cities down, And roast their white-skinned fellow men alive.

O ancient World, arise! For the last time We call you to the ritual feast and fire Of peace and brotherhood! For the last time O hear the summons of the barbarian lyre!

[mayolfederico]

Luigi Malerba ~ Strategie del comico (3)

Luigi Malerba ~ Strategie del comico (3) http://wp.me/p5hAe5-A5

  Giorgio Kienerk, Sorrisi (1900)   Torte in Faccia   Un signore in frac e cilindro, una signora con cappello di piume e collana al collo, sono obiettivi ideali per la torta in faccia. Anche l’ambiente deve essere «alto» per dare forza alla trasgressione. La porta viene portata nel luogo della festa e i personaggi importanti e eleganti sono dentro la festa (la festa si trasforma in farsa per…

[nsantand]

Aleksandr Blok - Cleópatra

"Cleópatra", um poema de Aleksandr Blok

Cleópatra O museu triste da rainhaHá um, dois, três anos já se abriu.Bêbada e louca a turba ainda se apinha…Ela espera no túmulo sombrio. Jaz na sinistra caixaDe vidro, nem morta nem viva.Sobre ela a multidão salivaPalavras torpes em voz baixa. Ela se estende preguiçosamenteNo sono eterno a que se recolhera…Lenta e suave, uma serpenteMorde o peito de cera. Eu mesmo, fútil e perverso,Com…

[mallouca]

«Qué difícil es caminar entre la gente…»

Qué difícil es caminar entre la gente Y simular que no se ha muerto Y en este juego de trágica pasión Confesar que aún no se ha vivido.

Y escrutando en la nocturna pesadilla, Encontrar el orden como un desordenado torbellino Para que en el inexpresivo resplandor del arte Descubramos el mortal incendio de la vida.

[pensierinidellabuonanotte]

Pensierini della buonanotte - 206

I mondi volano. Gli anni volano. Il vuoto universo si specchia nei nostri occhi bui. E tu, anima stanca, anima sorda, riparli sempre di felicità. (Aleksandr Blok, Da “I mondi volano. Gli anni volano. Il vuoto”, traduzione Angelo Maria Ripellino) Ho partecipato alla vera e unica rivoluzione del nuovo millennio (ma in realtà è iniziata un po’ prima): quella informatica. Orientato quindi al futuro,…

[andrumedus]

And the sunset is washed with blood. The sunset is washed with blood. Blood gushes from the heart. Weep, heart, weep.

Aleksandr Blok, tr. Denis Johnson & Kathy Lewis, from "On the Plain of Kulikovo" in Russian Poetry: The Modern Period, ed. John Glad & Daniel Weissbort

[derangedrhythms]

On the putrid breath of spring.

Aleksandr Blok, 20th Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Steel, from 'The Stranger', tr. Jon Stallworthy & Peter France

[majestativa]

My heart is open to you alone. My soul is devoted to dark melodies.

— Alexander Blok, Aleksandr Blok’s Trilogy of Lyric Dramas, ‘The King on the Square’, transl by Timothy C. Westphalen, (2003)

[balletthebestphotographs]

Liudmila Ulantseva Людміла Уланцева

Liudmila Ulantseva Людміла Уланцева as “Carmen”, “Carmen Suite Кармен сюиты”, libretto, choreo and staging by Valentin Elizariev Валентин Елизарьев (libretto based on Aleksandr Blok’s cycle of poems “Carmen”), music by Georges Bizet and Rodion Shchedrin Родион Щедрин, costume design by Nataliya Protasova Наталия Протасова, design by Eugene Lysik Евгений Лысик, Bolshoi Theatre of Belarus Большой Tеатр Беларуси, Opierny Teatr Opera and Ballet Theatre, Minsk, Republic of Belarus.

Source and more info at: Photographer Pawel Suschtschönok on Threads Photographer Pawel Suschtschönok on You Tube Photographer Pawel Suschtschönok on Facebook Photographer Pawel Suschtschönok on Instagram Photographer Pawel Suschtschönok on VKontakte

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[89rooms]

Waiting for You, I have stretched out my spirit.

Aleksandr Blok - ' I Seek Salvation,' Selected Poems, translation Jon Stallworthy & Peter France

[shisasan]

December 1904 Aleksandr Blok (1880-1921), Selected Poems