Auditory tightens the sails of the senses
The ears tighten the sails of the senses, the eyes of the glance fade into nothingness, and the empty chorus of birds at midnight.
Skimming the silence. I am as poor as nature, simple as the sky, and my freedom as a ghost, like the chirping of a flock of birds at midnight.
I saw the inanimate moon.
and the dead silence of the sky like an oilcloth;
Nothingness, though your world**.
And strange, I accept it!
The horse's hooves were still ringing
The horse's hooves were still ringing
The sound of the crash of ancient times.
The janitor wears a fur coat.
Sleep on a wooden bench.
There was a sharp sound at the iron gates.
Wake up the lazy gatekeeper of a king, and he yawns like a wolf.
Reminiscent of the Scythians
Back then, Ovid used his aging love.
Mix Rome with heavy snow.
Singing in the ranks of the barbarians.
Bumpy bullock cart.
Scythians, a nomadic people who lived on the northern shore of the Black Sea in the 7th century BC.
You pass through a fog
You pass by in a mist, and a tender flush appears on your cheeks.
The sun shone cold and sickly.
I wandered freely and uselessly around ......
* The autumn tells fortunes above my head, threatens through ripe fruits, talks to the peaks of the mountains, and kisses our eyes through light veils.
How about the anxious dance of life.
Frozen! How your bright colors are in everything.
Game! How about the wounds that bloom on a bright day.
Manifest, even in that fog!
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails
I have already read half of the list of warships :
That large flock of elongated cranes.
It once rose over the whole of ancient Greece.
Like a flock of cranes in a wedge formation to a foreign land
The sacred bubble on the heads of the emperors——
Are you heading to**? Greek warriors, would you still care about Troy if it weren't for Helen?
The Sea and Homer: Everything is driven by love.
Who am I supposed to listen to? Now Homer was silent, and the black sea, the thunder orator, roared and slapped on my pillow.
Like a small body
Like a small body, wings flipped that flammable glass.
Fire in the air.
A little thing like a mosquito.
It hummed at the zenith, like a walking insect singing quietly.
The shards were tormented in the blue sky
Don't forget me, put me to death, but please give me a name, give me a name, understand me, and I will feel better, in this full blue. ”
On blotting paper at the police station
On blotting paper at the police station
The night has swallowed too many prickly fish-
The stars are singing together, the bureaucrats are pitiful.
Writing the Rapp report non-stop
No matter how you want your stars to shine, you must first fill in the appropriate dotted line;
We will of course renew your licenses, whether it's to shine, write, or extinction.
Rapp is the abbreviation of the Russian Proletarian Writers' Association. In the original Russian, Mandelstam uses a pun that spells the words rapp and police report. Mrs. Mann recalls that when the censor reviewed the poem and saw the word "report" (rapportichki in Russian), he noticed the addition of a "p" and asked: "Why are there two 'p's?" But then it became clear that it was a sarcasm against Rapp.
I can't hide from Moscow
I can't hide from Moscow
The chaos behind this coachman-
I'm like a cherry hanging under the ** era tram handle sling.
And I don't know why I'm alive.
Let's go line A or line B and see which of us dies first.
This city is curled up like a sparrow, or puffed up like a cake, and there is no time to threaten us from the corner.
You can do whatever you like, I don't want to take any chances.
My gloves weren't warm enough.
Let me go and swim all over the curves of prostitute Moscow.
Labor monks
The laboring monk walked forward, like a naughty child.
Polar blue fox and lakes and palaces-
Only someone with power is singing......
But I've heard that voice, so.
I'm going to go where there is an axe.
Finish his oratorical ...... himself
Moscow and its suburbs
Moscow and its suburbs
It began to rustle and rustle, piercing through its rhizomes like a slightly trembling fir leaf.
Thunder rolls its cart.
Along the wooden path, the heavy rain paced up and down.
Wield a flowing whip.
For a moment, the earth.
It seems to tilt, bend, bend the knees, when the cloud army marches out in formation.
Wearing the executioner's soft shoes.
The raindrops jumped and galloped, the hail raced in groups, sweating like slaves, and clicking like horses' hooves.
and rumors of the trees.
Reading paves the way for the future
I'm going to have a smoke-filled ceremony
I'm going to have a smoke-filled ceremony
In this opal, in this exile before me, I saw the strawberries of summer by the sea
A chalcedony of light that doubles its sparkle in the crack.
and its brother, the ant-like agate.
But what is closer to me is the deep sea.
Unpretentious soldiers - gray and wild.
Doesn't please anyone.
From Raphael's canvas
From Raphael's canvases, open the mouth of the world.
Smile, angry lamb, but now it's different......
In the gentle air of the pan flute, the pain of the pearl melted.
The salt has corroded into the blue of the edge of the ocean.
The colors of the predatory atmosphere, the deep colors of the caverns, the tranquility of the surging storm that hads the folds of the skirt to the knees, the thin weeds on the cliffs are harder than bread, and the sultry power of the sky flows in the corners.
Like Rembrandt, the martyr of light and darkness
Like Rembrandt, the martyr of light and darkness, I walked into the depths of the times-
The deeper it gets, the more numb it becomes.
But I burned the sharpness of the ribs.
Not guarded by these guards, nor by this sentinel sleeping under the storm.
Forgive me, brilliant brother, master, father of dark green—
That has eagle feather eyes.
and the hot treasure chest of the Midnight Harem.
agitation, but only badly agitation.
This tribe is passionately inspired by the sacs of the dawn.
On a crimson, fiery board
On the crimson, fiery red planks, under the snow.
On the side of a steep mountain, this sleepy, sleigh-trailed, horse-pulled.
Half riverbank and half town, ** firmly in.
Burnt with yellow resin to charred sugar.
Red coal harness.
Drag it away. Don't expect to find a paradise of winter oil here, or a paradise of Dutch brushstrokes for skiing.
There is no cheerful, coarse, big-eared hat.
The little gnomes croaked here.
Don't bother me with comparisons, but cut off my sketch of falling in love with a solid path, like smoke slipping off a seesaw, taking away the withered but still alive maple leaves.
Selected poems of Mandelstam (translated by Huang Canran), Guangxi People's Publishing House, 2021