Maria Stepanova's Holy Winter 20/21 longlisted for the Warwick Prize for Women in Translation
Maria Stepanova's book-length poem Holy Winter 20/21, translated by Sasha Dugdale, is on the longlist for the Warwick Prize for Women in Translation 2024.
Maria Stepanova's Holy Winter 20/21, reviews & features
Russian poet Maria Stepanova's new collection Holy Winter 20/21 (trs Sasha Dugdale) reviewed in London Grip & Long Poem Magazine, and featured as a recommended book in...
Launch reading by Jane Hirshfield & Maria Stepanova with Sasha Dugdale
Jane Hirshfield, Maria Stepanova & translator Sasha Dugdale launched their new poetry books online on Tuesday 19 March 2024. Available to watch now on both YouTube and...
What a winter towering in the yards
Like an oak
Like a stump
Like a shrine
Airborne particles of frost-ash
Tiny cavalry officers
Circling the guilty head
Diving on its very dome
Time for hibernation.
As an undone corpse subsides where it is slain;
Inexorable as the gathering pace of a train
Lie then, where you are laid
For the rules are already made.
There was once a hare, and once a vixen
And they lived by the deep blue sea.
First they lived in an ancient dug-out
But then they both built homes
The vixen built a house of ice
And I’ve heard the hare’s was of mica
Built from timid hare-tears
And sad cabbage saliva
And so they lived in harmony, hare and fox
On holy days they set off fireworks.
– I had a dream: In my dream a table, and on it
Lay the most wondrous youth
And he was arrayed in
Palest attire, sable shroud.
– Little Mother, most gracious Majesty!
– My marble-hewn hero.
My own darling, quite beyond compare
How I love you. Wait and see.
Then everything went to sleep:
The wind in the chimney, the fire in the hearth,
And an ache in a head, and the water in the tap.
Then everything stopped still:
The hairdresser at the end of a shift in her overalls
Her legs stretched out, eyes half-shut
And the homeless man in the stationary tram
And traffic lights, switched to amber
And in the winter air the police batons
And the yellow sky supported by pillars of smoke
And people in furs in hats in police vans
And people apprehended at their registered address
Their almost transparent houseplants
Their speechless domestic animals
Their warm clothes, their cold drinks
We, wrapped in snow for safe-keeping
Like pictures overlaid with glassine,
Suddenly came to a stop.
I remember when I was packing to leave, for life
That first time I felt my spirit dumb within me
As if it knew what it would now have to learn
And my wife wept, and my two friends, the bravest ones,
But my daughter was away, she’d come home to find me gone.
Dawn broke – and half the night spent burning
manuscripts and documents.
I took no clothes, I chose no slaves to take with me.
When I think back I find myself already on the ship
The sea all around me, the sea on the decks,
The helmsman prays, the water roars, sailors swear,
My nostrils fill with waves but I write on
Let’s see what tires first, the storm, or my appeal.