Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Ten poems

Only once didour coldhands entwine... ‒in. annensky

I think I know where the anguished note comes from‒ There is really nothing quite like it, You don’t hear it in Tyutchev or Fet‒ Oh! The almost criminal pain, and the worry! And that’s what gave us such a poet! Not in vain did he translate Euripides. A moist, clandestine sun, as we have in March. Having locked it all in, you’ve brooded hard, and kept up Appearances‒he must leave not a clue, and give it up! The shrinking snow and the blank pain.

It’s a masculine version of Phaedra. And in a frock coat it’s even worse, And the silk tie foils consolation, And the bland snow, and the Spring light,

And the stables squatting in steam, and the starling houses‒ Growing more and more hopeless and more fraught with farewells

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