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I Burned at the Feast: Selected Poems of Arseny Tarkovsky
"Tarkovsky now joins the ranks of Mandelstam, Akhmatova, and Brodksky. Philip Metres and Dimitri Psurtsev's translations—succinct and allusive, stingingly direct and yet sweeping, mournful and celebratory—are marvels."—PEN/Heim citation
"How does one translate the work of Russian classic, Arseny Tarkovsky? Imagine trying to translate Yeats: high style rhetoric, intense emotion, local tonalities of language, complicated historical background, the old equation of poet vs. state, the tone of a tender love lyric, all meshed into one, all exquisite in its execution—and all so impossible to render again. And yet, one tries. In the case of Philip Metres and Dimitri Psurtsev, one tries brilliantly, with gusto, with passion, with attentiveness that is akin to that of a prayer, with the ear of real poets. The result? The gravity and directness of Tarkovsky's tone is brought into English without fail, it is here, honest and pained, piercing and even shy at times, like a deer that looks straight at you before it runs. Tarkovsky's ambition was to seek us—those who live after him—through earth, through time. He does so in this brilliant translation."—Ilya Kaminsky
"Arseny Tarkovsky was ten years old at the time of the Russian Revolution and died six months before the opening of the Berlin Wall. He spent his career as a poet creating elegant and starkly interior transfigurations of simple happiness and pure grief, triumphs of the individual self against the brutal realities of daily life in wartime and Communist Russia. Through this meticulous translation of his work, readers will encounter a metaphysical complex poetry, at once searing and brooding, very much in dialogue with such great Soviet poets as Osip Mandelstam and Anna Akhmatova. Tarkovsky writes of a country where 'we lived, once upon a time, as if in a grave, drank no tea' but still succeeded in making 'bread from weeds,' where the 'blue sky is dim' but nonetheless manages to be the 'wet-nurse of dragonflies and birds.'"—Michael Dumanis
"How does one translate the work of Russian classic, Arseny Tarkovsky? Imagine trying to translate Yeats: high style rhetoric, intense emotion, local tonalities of language, complicated historical background, the old equation of poet vs. state, the tone of a tender love lyric, all meshed into one, all exquisite in its execution—and all so impossible to render again. And yet, one tries. In the case of Philip Metres and Dimitri Psurtsev, one tries brilliantly, with gusto, with passion, with attentiveness that is akin to that of a prayer, with the ear of real poets. The result? The gravity and directness of Tarkovsky's tone is brought into English without fail, it is here, honest and pained, piercing and even shy at times, like a deer that looks straight at you before it runs. Tarkovsky's ambition was to seek us—those who live after him—through earth, through time. He does so in this brilliant translation."—Ilya Kaminsky
"Arseny Tarkovsky was ten years old at the time of the Russian Revolution and died six months before the opening of the Berlin Wall. He spent his career as a poet creating elegant and starkly interior transfigurations of simple happiness and pure grief, triumphs of the individual self against the brutal realities of daily life in wartime and Communist Russia. Through this meticulous translation of his work, readers will encounter a metaphysical complex poetry, at once searing and brooding, very much in dialogue with such great Soviet poets as Osip Mandelstam and Anna Akhmatova. Tarkovsky writes of a country where 'we lived, once upon a time, as if in a grave, drank no tea' but still succeeded in making 'bread from weeds,' where the 'blue sky is dim' but nonetheless manages to be the 'wet-nurse of dragonflies and birds.'"—Michael Dumanis
202 pages, Paperback
First published May 15, 2015
12 people are currently reading
806 people want to read
About the author
Arseny Tarkovsky
44 books78 followersArseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky (Russian: Арсений Александрович Тарковский, June 25 [O.S. June 12] 1907, Elisavetgrad – May 27, 1989, Moscow) was a prominent Russian poet and translator. His poems appeared in the films The Mirror and Stalker, directed by Andrei Tarkovsky, his son.
He was a friend of Marina Tsvetaeva, and is sometimes referred to as the "Last Love of Marina Tsvetaeva". Being younger than Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetayeva he imbibed the poetic traditions of the Silver Age generation and interpreted them through the prism of his personality in his creativity.
He composed his own poetry throughout his life, but did not publish it until his fifties.
He was a friend of Marina Tsvetaeva, and is sometimes referred to as the "Last Love of Marina Tsvetaeva". Being younger than Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetayeva he imbibed the poetic traditions of the Silver Age generation and interpreted them through the prism of his personality in his creativity.
He composed his own poetry throughout his life, but did not publish it until his fifties.
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Displaying 1 - 25 of 25 reviews
December 16, 2020
Uma coisa em comum entre os últimos poetas que ando lendo é a influência de Osip Mandelstam no trabalho de Celan, Bachmann, Tarkovsky, com isso já dá para saber quem será meu próximo poeta estudado.
Em Tarkovsky os poemas sobre a Segunda Guerra são belíssimos (foi lá que o autor perdeu uma das pernas), mas conforme ele vai envelhecendo a religiosidade do autor aumentava, no último terço de poemas deste livro são raros os que não tem um clamor ou imagem religiosa. Mesmo sendo uma ateia cínica, dá para encontrar beleza na sua religiosidade, assim como tenho o seu filho como um dos meus cineastas favoritos, este que também comunga com a espiritualidade do pai.
Em Tarkovsky os poemas sobre a Segunda Guerra são belíssimos (foi lá que o autor perdeu uma das pernas), mas conforme ele vai envelhecendo a religiosidade do autor aumentava, no último terço de poemas deste livro são raros os que não tem um clamor ou imagem religiosa. Mesmo sendo uma ateia cínica, dá para encontrar beleza na sua religiosidade, assim como tenho o seu filho como um dos meus cineastas favoritos, este que também comunga com a espiritualidade do pai.
March 25, 2020
آه از این زندگیِ محبوبِ لعنتی،
از این دنیای نادیدۀ پیشبینیناپذیر!
ای علفهای زانوزده،
ای پروانههای مرغزارم،
آسمان پر ابرم، ای شهرها، مردابها
و ای زورقهای بادبانی!
اجازه دهید کمی دیگر نفس بکشم.
ای زندگیِ حریص، مرا اجازه ده
اجازه ده کمی دیگر بمانم.
بعد از صد قطرهی بارانی که پشت سر میدویدند، این دومین کتابی بود که از این شاعر خوندم و از این هم بهاندازۀ همون قبلی لذت بردم؛ هرچند بعضی از شعرها تکراری بودن.
تارکوفسکی اینجا گاهی از جنگ و مرگ و قحطی و تنهایی حرف میزنه؛ اما باز رنگ و بوی زندگی دارن شعرهاش. چون زندگی رو با تمام این اوصاف دوست داشت و خودش، عینِ زندگی بود.
نمیخواهم بمیرم.
چگونه بتوانم جادوی ناقابل زندگی را رها کنم،
با تمام مهملاتی که این شاعر دوستشان داشت
و هرگز فرصت ستایششان را نیافت؟
چقدر بازگشت به نورِ نخستین را دوست میداشتم
تا خانه را در نیم ساعتِ نخستِ سپیدهدم باز بیارایم.
چقدر طاقچۀ سپیدِ پنجره را دوست میداشتم،
چه اندازه لیوان شکسته را، گُلِ در آب را
طاق لاجورد آسمان که به سبزی میگرایید،
و طبق قانونِ خودم، شعرم را.
December 24, 2022
کتاب رو مدت ها پیش خوندم و حوصله ای برای گفتن ازش نبود تا الان،
بعد از یک بار تلاش ناموفق و رها کردنش ، بعد از مدتی باز سراغش رفتم، اما خب این بار ترجمه هم نتونست مانع خوندن و لذت بردنم بشه ،نمیدونم شاید زمان و حس و حالمم بی تاثیر نبود و در همین حد قانعم کرده بود.
***
"با هر چه بوده ام وداع کرده ام،
با هر چه نفرت داشته ام، دوست نداشته ام و یا عاشقش بوده ام.
و اکنون، دنیای جدیدی می آغازد،
و من با پوست دیروزم وداع کرده ام.
من درباره خود دیگر نیازی به اخبار ندارم.
من وداع کرده ام-درست با مغز استخوانم.
لااقل امروز از آن چه بوده ام بهترم،
روح سوایم را ببین که دیگر عاشق نیست،
و نگاه خیره با آرامشم به خود، به او،
تمام شان را در مغاک رها کردم.
سلام، سلام بر تو زرِه یخین ام.
سلام به نان و نه به من، سلام بر شراب.
رویاهای شب و پروانه های روز،
سلام، سلام بر هر چیز و هر کس جز من .
من صفحات رمان های نانوشته را میخوانم،
به انحنای زبان و انحنای سیب گوش فرا می دهم،
گوش فرا می دهم به سخن سپید ابر سپید،
نمی توانم اما یک کلمه حتی برایت نگاه دارم.
چرا که من شاهرگی ضعیف بودم .
نمی دانم چرا خود را فرو شکستم.
در دستم دایره ای چرخان نگاه نخواهم داشت،
به تو هم یک کلمه بدون یک کلمه نخواهم گفت .
با این حال از پیش تر ها، ماهی و سنگ و برگ ها
و مردمان و علف کلمات شان را در من یافتند ."
بعد از یک بار تلاش ناموفق و رها کردنش ، بعد از مدتی باز سراغش رفتم، اما خب این بار ترجمه هم نتونست مانع خوندن و لذت بردنم بشه ،نمیدونم شاید زمان و حس و حالمم بی تاثیر نبود و در همین حد قانعم کرده بود.
***
"با هر چه بوده ام وداع کرده ام،
با هر چه نفرت داشته ام، دوست نداشته ام و یا عاشقش بوده ام.
و اکنون، دنیای جدیدی می آغازد،
و من با پوست دیروزم وداع کرده ام.
من درباره خود دیگر نیازی به اخبار ندارم.
من وداع کرده ام-درست با مغز استخوانم.
لااقل امروز از آن چه بوده ام بهترم،
روح سوایم را ببین که دیگر عاشق نیست،
و نگاه خیره با آرامشم به خود، به او،
تمام شان را در مغاک رها کردم.
سلام، سلام بر تو زرِه یخین ام.
سلام به نان و نه به من، سلام بر شراب.
رویاهای شب و پروانه های روز،
سلام، سلام بر هر چیز و هر کس جز من .
من صفحات رمان های نانوشته را میخوانم،
به انحنای زبان و انحنای سیب گوش فرا می دهم،
گوش فرا می دهم به سخن سپید ابر سپید،
نمی توانم اما یک کلمه حتی برایت نگاه دارم.
چرا که من شاهرگی ضعیف بودم .
نمی دانم چرا خود را فرو شکستم.
در دستم دایره ای چرخان نگاه نخواهم داشت،
به تو هم یک کلمه بدون یک کلمه نخواهم گفت .
با این حال از پیش تر ها، ماهی و سنگ و برگ ها
و مردمان و علف کلمات شان را در من یافتند ."
May 24, 2019
Even though I do not know the language, I get a certain feeling when reading great Russian poetry in English translation. On one hand, it's the exhilaration of discovery; on the other, it's a feeling of sadness that I am experiencing only a few crumbs from the loaf.Arseny Tarkovsky is clearly a discovery.
The father of film director Andrei Tarkovsky, Arseny is the equal of the best of 20th century Russian poetry, able to stand tall beside Osip Mandelstam, Marina Tsvetaeva, Anna Akhmatova, Boris Pasternak and a handful of others.
Obviously, my review of I Burned at the Feast: Selected Poems of Arseny Tarkovsky is not worth a tenth of one written by someone who knows and loves the Russian language. But until such a reviewer comes along, this one will have to do, as a sort of place-holder.
The father of film director Andrei Tarkovsky, Arseny is the equal of the best of 20th century Russian poetry, able to stand tall beside Osip Mandelstam, Marina Tsvetaeva, Anna Akhmatova, Boris Pasternak and a handful of others.
Obviously, my review of I Burned at the Feast: Selected Poems of Arseny Tarkovsky is not worth a tenth of one written by someone who knows and loves the Russian language. But until such a reviewer comes along, this one will have to do, as a sort of place-holder.
December 16, 2025
‘Like a tree in forest underbrush
spreads out its leafy hands
and, leaning on a shrub, propagates
its branches sideways, widthwise—
so I shot up, adagio. My muscles
swelled, my rib cage expanded,
my lungs filling with the prickly wine
of a sky-blue chalice, down
to the alveoli, and my heart
borrowed blood from the veins and
returned it and took the blood again,
and it was like a transfiguration
of simple happiness and plain grief
in a prelude and fugue for organ.’
rtc later
spreads out its leafy hands
and, leaning on a shrub, propagates
its branches sideways, widthwise—
so I shot up, adagio. My muscles
swelled, my rib cage expanded,
my lungs filling with the prickly wine
of a sky-blue chalice, down
to the alveoli, and my heart
borrowed blood from the veins and
returned it and took the blood again,
and it was like a transfiguration
of simple happiness and plain grief
in a prelude and fugue for organ.’
rtc later
March 31, 2023
Wind
All night my soul roiled and pined. Still, I loved the darkness torn apart and lashed by gusts of wind. I loved the stars’ glimmering flight like the blind eyes on butterflies over wet September orchards, the shaky bridge, the gypsy river, and the woman above the slow water— her kerchief flowing over her shoulder— those hands, holding off disaster.
It was as if she were alive, alive again, but her words’ liquid sounds now signified neither joy nor sadness nor longing, linked no longer by thinking— unlike the syntax of the living.
Like a lit wick in wind, her voice flared and guttered as if all human grief bent her shoulders. We walked side by side, her feet gliding like windswept leaves along this earth, bitter as wormwood. She was fading with every word.
Once upon a time she had a name. September wind—even in my home— bursts in—
now clanging the hinges,
now caressing my hair with its fingers.
To Poems
My poems: fledglings, heirs, plaintiffs, and executors; the silent ones, the loud, the humble, and the proud.
As soon as the shovel of time threw me onto the potter’s wheel— myself without kith or kin— I grew beneath the hand, a miracle.
My neck was stretched and my soul, hollowed wide, and legends of flowers and leaves serrated my ribs and spine.
I stoked the birch in the kiln as Daniel commanded and blessed my red temper until I spoke as a prophet.
I had long been the earth— ochre and arid, forlorn since birth— but you fell on my chest by chance from beaks of birds, from eyes of grass.
Reality and Speech
As sight gives to retina, voice to throat, number to reason, early thrill to the heart, I gave an oath to return the life-giving source to my art.
Then bending art like a bow, strangling the bowstring, I ignored my vow.
I did not compile the lexicon; word by word it created me out of red clay. Not I who placed the five senses, like the fingers of Thomas, into the gaping wound of the world. The wound of the world enfolded me and now life is, despite our desires.
Why did I try to teach straightness to the staff, curvature to the branch, nesting to the bird? Two palms—wrapped around a single string— O reality and speech, widen my pupils, commune your kingly power.
Let me stand aside and witness the flight of a ship built by miracle. O two wings, two buoying blades reliable as air and earth.
[O, if only I could rise, regain memory and consciousness]
O, if only I could rise, regain memory and consciousness, and at the most difficult hour, bless the labor that reared the meadows and nurtured the orchards, and one last time, swallow the crystal brain of water from the concaved sheet
of a downy leaf.
Give me one drop, my mortal grass, an oath to inherit speech, to grow a larynx, not sparing blood, to forget myself, and tearing up my words, burn your parched mouth with my fire.
All night my soul roiled and pined. Still, I loved the darkness torn apart and lashed by gusts of wind. I loved the stars’ glimmering flight like the blind eyes on butterflies over wet September orchards, the shaky bridge, the gypsy river, and the woman above the slow water— her kerchief flowing over her shoulder— those hands, holding off disaster.
It was as if she were alive, alive again, but her words’ liquid sounds now signified neither joy nor sadness nor longing, linked no longer by thinking— unlike the syntax of the living.
Like a lit wick in wind, her voice flared and guttered as if all human grief bent her shoulders. We walked side by side, her feet gliding like windswept leaves along this earth, bitter as wormwood. She was fading with every word.
Once upon a time she had a name. September wind—even in my home— bursts in—
now clanging the hinges,
now caressing my hair with its fingers.
To Poems
My poems: fledglings, heirs, plaintiffs, and executors; the silent ones, the loud, the humble, and the proud.
As soon as the shovel of time threw me onto the potter’s wheel— myself without kith or kin— I grew beneath the hand, a miracle.
My neck was stretched and my soul, hollowed wide, and legends of flowers and leaves serrated my ribs and spine.
I stoked the birch in the kiln as Daniel commanded and blessed my red temper until I spoke as a prophet.
I had long been the earth— ochre and arid, forlorn since birth— but you fell on my chest by chance from beaks of birds, from eyes of grass.
Reality and Speech
As sight gives to retina, voice to throat, number to reason, early thrill to the heart, I gave an oath to return the life-giving source to my art.
Then bending art like a bow, strangling the bowstring, I ignored my vow.
I did not compile the lexicon; word by word it created me out of red clay. Not I who placed the five senses, like the fingers of Thomas, into the gaping wound of the world. The wound of the world enfolded me and now life is, despite our desires.
Why did I try to teach straightness to the staff, curvature to the branch, nesting to the bird? Two palms—wrapped around a single string— O reality and speech, widen my pupils, commune your kingly power.
Let me stand aside and witness the flight of a ship built by miracle. O two wings, two buoying blades reliable as air and earth.
[O, if only I could rise, regain memory and consciousness]
O, if only I could rise, regain memory and consciousness, and at the most difficult hour, bless the labor that reared the meadows and nurtured the orchards, and one last time, swallow the crystal brain of water from the concaved sheet
of a downy leaf.
Give me one drop, my mortal grass, an oath to inherit speech, to grow a larynx, not sparing blood, to forget myself, and tearing up my words, burn your parched mouth with my fire.
December 24, 2021
"Every second of our time together
we exulted, as if it were Epiphany,
we two alone in the world. Lighter
and braver than a bird's wing,
you skipped every other stair;
like dizziness, you led me
through wet lilacs, into your realm
on the other side of the mirror.
When night fell, I was given a gift.
The doors of the sanctuary opened:
in the darkness, nakedness was lit
and languidly bowed down.
And waking up, I said, Blessed one,
knowing that daring was my blessing.
When you slept, the lilacs
on the table reached down to touch your eyelids
with the blue universe.
Then those eyelids, touched by the azure,
were at peace, and your hands were warm.
While in the crystal shpere, rivers pulsed,
mountains smoked, seas dawned,
and in your palm you held
that crystal; your bed was a throne;
and — my God — you were mine.
Then you awakened, transfigured
the ordinary dictionary of man
until full-throated force filled
the neck of speech, and thou unveiled
its new meaning: king of kings.
Everything in the world was new again —
even plain things — this jug and that basin —
their layers of solid water
stood watch between us like a guard.
Something was leading us.
Built by miracle, whole cities split —
like mirages before our eyes.
And mint bowed beneath our feet,
and birds hovered above our heads,
and fish nosed against the river's flow,
and the sky unscrolled above the land...
while behind us, fate followed
like a madman with a razor in his hand."
First Times Together
Arseny Tarkosvky
***
Quando o ano se começou a aproximar do fim pensei que o melhor livro que tinha lido em 2021 tinha sido o livro do Pavese ("Virá a morte e terá os teus olhos") e estava muito céptica quanto à possibilidade de ler alguma coisa que lhe chegasse aos calcanhares... mas estava enganada, claramente enganada, e a surpresa veio do local mais inesperado. A poesia de Arseny Tarkovsky não é um campo propriamente novo para mim, ao longo destes anos tenho explorado diversas versões e traduções da sua obra, mas acho maravilhoso quando ainda há espaço para que algo que nos é familiar possa conter em si algo de tão novo, de fresco, de renovado. O poema que partilho aqui é um exemplo disso, é um dos meus favoritos, se não for mesmo o meu favorito do autor, e ao lê-lo identifico todas as suas passagens e todas as imagens que já conheço de versões anteriormente lidas... no entanto, ao ler esta versão, pela primeira vez, senti o poema a pulsar, como se fosse a introdução num mundo novo, como se fosse a primeira vez que o lia...
Por vezes basta uma palavra ligeiramente à esquerda, um arranjo sonoro ligeiramente diferente, uma pincelada de cor, para que um poema que já nos era familiar pareça, subitamente, renovar-se diante dos nossos olhos.
we exulted, as if it were Epiphany,
we two alone in the world. Lighter
and braver than a bird's wing,
you skipped every other stair;
like dizziness, you led me
through wet lilacs, into your realm
on the other side of the mirror.
When night fell, I was given a gift.
The doors of the sanctuary opened:
in the darkness, nakedness was lit
and languidly bowed down.
And waking up, I said, Blessed one,
knowing that daring was my blessing.
When you slept, the lilacs
on the table reached down to touch your eyelids
with the blue universe.
Then those eyelids, touched by the azure,
were at peace, and your hands were warm.
While in the crystal shpere, rivers pulsed,
mountains smoked, seas dawned,
and in your palm you held
that crystal; your bed was a throne;
and — my God — you were mine.
Then you awakened, transfigured
the ordinary dictionary of man
until full-throated force filled
the neck of speech, and thou unveiled
its new meaning: king of kings.
Everything in the world was new again —
even plain things — this jug and that basin —
their layers of solid water
stood watch between us like a guard.
Something was leading us.
Built by miracle, whole cities split —
like mirages before our eyes.
And mint bowed beneath our feet,
and birds hovered above our heads,
and fish nosed against the river's flow,
and the sky unscrolled above the land...
while behind us, fate followed
like a madman with a razor in his hand."
First Times Together
Arseny Tarkosvky
***
Quando o ano se começou a aproximar do fim pensei que o melhor livro que tinha lido em 2021 tinha sido o livro do Pavese ("Virá a morte e terá os teus olhos") e estava muito céptica quanto à possibilidade de ler alguma coisa que lhe chegasse aos calcanhares... mas estava enganada, claramente enganada, e a surpresa veio do local mais inesperado. A poesia de Arseny Tarkovsky não é um campo propriamente novo para mim, ao longo destes anos tenho explorado diversas versões e traduções da sua obra, mas acho maravilhoso quando ainda há espaço para que algo que nos é familiar possa conter em si algo de tão novo, de fresco, de renovado. O poema que partilho aqui é um exemplo disso, é um dos meus favoritos, se não for mesmo o meu favorito do autor, e ao lê-lo identifico todas as suas passagens e todas as imagens que já conheço de versões anteriormente lidas... no entanto, ao ler esta versão, pela primeira vez, senti o poema a pulsar, como se fosse a introdução num mundo novo, como se fosse a primeira vez que o lia...
Por vezes basta uma palavra ligeiramente à esquerda, um arranjo sonoro ligeiramente diferente, uma pincelada de cor, para que um poema que já nos era familiar pareça, subitamente, renovar-se diante dos nossos olhos.
June 30, 2016
I recently watched Andrei Tarkovsky's "The Mirror" and was struck by the poetry included, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that they were from Andrei's father who was apparently an esteemed 20th century poet! I had no idea, but am so happy and grateful that this collection of poems exists and have been lovingly rendered into English. It's a very moving group of poems, nicely formatted and organized.
There is also a really great essay by the tranlator Philip Metres on the issues of translation at the end. Can't recommend enough.
There is also a really great essay by the tranlator Philip Metres on the issues of translation at the end. Can't recommend enough.
Read
May 26, 2020I love all of these poems
April 17, 2024
"گریهی کدام قو، پیش از سپیدهدم تو را بیدار کرد؟"
March 10, 2025
As with any collection of short stories or poems, I will like some more than others.
Coming hot off my third watch of his son Andrei Tarkovsky’s “Mirror” which used poems from this collection, it truly fit my mood. What I have come to appreciate is Tarkovsky’s quasi-pantheism in a way. His poetry brings to life how there are no real distinctions between the loves of our lives, the streams where we played, the houses of our fathers, and our own inner worlds.
Many poems here brought me to tears, and I think those are achievements in and of themselves. While many of these poems are clearly autobiographical, like his son, the father is able to make his art in such a way that you feel as if you could have said the same about your own life and memories.
Arseny Tarkovsky is now my current favorite poet.
Favorite poems in this collection
The Table is Set for Six
June 25, 1939
Eurydice
First Times Together
And Now Summer has Left
My sight, which was my power, now blurs
2025 Reread:
My experience rereading this was quite different, since I think I am now reading this with a cheerier disposition than I had a year ago. However, as his son once said, “The allotted function of art…is to prepare a person for death, to plow an harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.”
It is still so powerful and brings one close to some almost mystical scenery. The last poem still gets me.
“I am a candle. I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax when morning arrives
so that this page will remind you
how to be proud and how to weep,
how to give away the last third
of happiness, and how to die with ease —
and beneath a temporary roof
to burn posthumously, like a word.”
Coming hot off my third watch of his son Andrei Tarkovsky’s “Mirror” which used poems from this collection, it truly fit my mood. What I have come to appreciate is Tarkovsky’s quasi-pantheism in a way. His poetry brings to life how there are no real distinctions between the loves of our lives, the streams where we played, the houses of our fathers, and our own inner worlds.
Many poems here brought me to tears, and I think those are achievements in and of themselves. While many of these poems are clearly autobiographical, like his son, the father is able to make his art in such a way that you feel as if you could have said the same about your own life and memories.
Arseny Tarkovsky is now my current favorite poet.
Favorite poems in this collection
The Table is Set for Six
June 25, 1939
Eurydice
First Times Together
And Now Summer has Left
My sight, which was my power, now blurs
2025 Reread:
My experience rereading this was quite different, since I think I am now reading this with a cheerier disposition than I had a year ago. However, as his son once said, “The allotted function of art…is to prepare a person for death, to plow an harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.”
It is still so powerful and brings one close to some almost mystical scenery. The last poem still gets me.
“I am a candle. I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax when morning arrives
so that this page will remind you
how to be proud and how to weep,
how to give away the last third
of happiness, and how to die with ease —
and beneath a temporary roof
to burn posthumously, like a word.”
June 23, 2017
Odd, pantheistic, lyrical, generous. For those (like me) used to the challenging gnarliness of Akhmatova or Mandelshtam, these translations offer a whole new vision of 20th century Russian poetry.and of those other poets. Also of interest is the short, intriguing essay by the translator. Usual caveats for poetry in translation read by a non-Russian speaker.
Want to read
November 21, 2015Finally, another translation of Arseny!! I'm hoping this will be the best. Still looking for a glorious bilingual edition...
October 9, 2020
"A small yellow tongue flickers.
The candle drips and drips.
This is how you and I live--
our souls flare, flesh disappears."
-- "Candle"
The candle drips and drips.
This is how you and I live--
our souls flare, flesh disappears."
-- "Candle"
March 4, 2022
Beautiful poems… you can see where Andrei got his poetic sensitivity from.
October 31, 2025
از آن مجموعه اشعاری که فکر نمیکردی وجود داشته باشد. مگر میشود یکنفر، به خوبی شاعران خوشاقبال شعر بگوید، اما متفاوتتر از همهشان؟ نگاه، مضمون، نوشتار. همهچیز فوقالعاده بود. ترجمه اندکی اذیتم کرد و توضیحات ناکافی برای بسیاری از عبارتهای درون شعر.
Read
January 27, 2023my favourite poet.
February 4, 2024
This is a masterpiece - but much less of Tarkovsky than of the translational and editorial effort, as well as broader literary investment put into it by his humble acolytes: Philip Metres & Dimitri Psurtsev. As strange as it may sound: it is more the masterpiece of the propositons on translating Tarkovsky (see both Introduction and Afterword) than of the poems as such. So much is lost otherwise from the Russian original, so impossible the task deemed to implement the verses in English, such are the musical & rythmic compromises (it is just enough to read the line-endings of the original on the left of each page to realize this) that one would seriously suffer in reading to understand their viability. But then one is presented and explained with the view of why it has been done the way it is, and must acknowledge that no energy was spared, that options were considered throughout years of working on them, and, ultimately, that the authors successfully made - my biggest compliment - a big bunch of "Russianish" poems, often only invoking the originals.
This is quite a rare bravery in nowadays' book-making. Thus, I am giving it a symbolic like. Like a f...ing big one.
This is quite a rare bravery in nowadays' book-making. Thus, I am giving it a symbolic like. Like a f...ing big one.
December 14, 2020
“... the stitches of your clothes
made of wind and rain.”
This is a great little selection. I’d suggest reading the afterword (go figure) before.
made of wind and rain.”
This is a great little selection. I’d suggest reading the afterword (go figure) before.
April 10, 2023
To return is impossible, and to talk about it, forbidden -- how it was filled with bliss, that heavenly garden...
April 27, 2023
Kinda esoteric but I understood it (mostly)
June 25, 2023
“A small yellow tongue flickers.
The candle drips and drips.
This is how you and I live –
our souls flare, flesh disappears.”
“I am a candle. I burned at the feast.”
The candle drips and drips.
This is how you and I live –
our souls flare, flesh disappears.”
“I am a candle. I burned at the feast.”
October 10, 2024
Being a big Andrei Tarkovsky fan, I am very happy I discovered his father's work. Exceptional!
February 4, 2017
Earth-shatteringly gorgeous.
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