Maria Stepanova interviews, reviews and Books of the Year
Profiles in The Guardian, TLS & in Poetry & Harper's (USA); reviews in The Observer & MPT; Poem of the Week in The Guardian. Sunday Independent Poetry Books of the...
Launch reading by Maria Stepanova & Pia Tafdrup with Sasha Dugdale
International reading by Maria Stepanova and Pia Tafdrup with Maria Stepanova's translator Sasha Dugdale celebrating the publication of their new poetry collections -...
Look, the spirits have gathered at your bedside
Speaking in Lethean tongues
Hush-a-bye, so flesh and fine,
For what do you long?
____
I smiled
He said, Marusya,
Marusya, hold on tight. And down
We went
––
No vember
the cruellest month, the hoarsest mouth
driving from the dead clay
peasants forged to the field,
cows, curs, leaving over their dead body
the postbag snagged in the stream
the tin spoon
the quick streams slipping the quicksilver
slip sliding away to the estuary
This little piggy went to market
And this little piggy froze to death
And the landowner put a gun to his head
And a black car came for the officer
The Greek in Odessa, the Jew in Warsaw
The callow young cavalryman
The Soviet schoolboy
Gastello the pilot
And all those who died in this land
out of the murky pool, the surface still warmed by the sun
in a night in may, steps rus al ka and quickly begins her work
throws her wet clothes from her tramples with her wet feet
her black body shines her white smock cast
mother, mother is that you? alyosha I don’t rightly know
o swallow, swallow, is it her? she flew away, my friend
____
such high-minded intercourse
topples and must fall at last
a plague a both your
(ivy-clad turret, waterside folly)
masha learns on breakfast tv
'er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green
till apples grow on an orange tree
breaches of password security
if I were drowned in the deepest sea
thus sung the maid down in the valley
russian actor mikhail porechenkov
fingers his warm little rifle
like the latest novelty musical box
like he’s desperate
to grow his own golden fleece
and the narrow water’s already round his knees
svyatoslav in kiev did hear the ringing of that knell
and tom thumb
bid them listen
who were of the lands of Surozh and Korsun:
black night brings long strings
foot-foot-foot-foot slogging
all the millers-of-god
hi ho hi ho and off they go
to civil war
____
lathe operator lay to the left
a general touched his side
over the marxist’s chest
the liberal’s curls spread wide
o your goldenes haar
and a pair of blue eyes
few words spoken
feel free to surmise
thou art the armourer of the heart
sing me a ditty, something from rossini
rosina, perhaps, like on radio rossiya
____
as in a chariot race
the chosen one, glistening like quartz
in his roaring metal carapace
whips this way along the course
but the chariot is cleverer
throwing up stones
crashes the barrier
and crushes
the marrow from bones,
so, setting out rooks and queen
in their chequered chambers
culture leads fear
down the gauntlet of human nature,
stinking of laurel wreaths
steeped in a boiling pan,
to where there’s a lively trade
in the living unit of man
sing to me of how, on an ancient alley on your family’s estate,
the weathered bones lay bleached and scattered
under a birch tree; quietly they chattered:
there was no point to us, we didn’t lend each other our hands
like babes we lay in the nursery in our swaddling bands
–––
from Girls, Singing
A train runs right across Russia
Along a mighty river’s bank
In third class they go barefoot
The stewards are drunk
In crusts of sweetly familiar grease
Chicken legs dance
Held upright in fists, like the trees
Shivering past
Through teeming carriages I go,
As a soul in paradise’s throng,
Wrapped in an army blanket
Singing my wild song
It’s a far riskier business
Than the conductor will allow
Because any right song
Always rises to a howl
In the purest voice, while women sigh,
To a whispered stream of obscenity,
I sing of poppies on the trackside
I sing of war’s pity
Piercing the carriage’s fug,
My voice, sharp like an awl
I made them miserable
They beat me in the vestibule
In the honest song there is such ferocity
That the heart is braced.
And all fortification
Stands like a tear on the face
–––
from Kireevsky
The last songs are assembling,
Soldiers of a ghostly front:
Escaping from surrounded places
A refrain or two make a break for it
Appearing at the rendez-vous
Looking about them, like the hunted.
How stiffly unbending they are
Running water won’t soften them now!
How unused they are to company
The words don’t form as they ought.
But their elderly, skilful hands
Pass the cartridges round,
And until first light their seeing fingers
Reassemble Kalashnikovs,
They draw, with sharp intake of breath
From wounds, the deeply lodged letters –
And towards morning, avoiding checkpoints,
They enter the sleepless city.
In times of war, they fall silent.
When the muses roar, they fall silent.
Contents List
7 Acknowledgements
9 Translator’s foreword
from SPOLIA (2015)
21 Spolia
45 War of the Beasts and the Animals
from KIREEVSKY (2012)
from Girls, Singing
69 Young aeronauts, floating to land…
70 In the white white sky…
71 Mother and Father didn’t know him…
73 What is that sweeper, mother…
75 A train runs right across Russia…
76 Over the field the guns howled…
77 Empty featherbeds cooling…
78 Two classical athletes, Culture and Sport…
79 Running, running…
80 By the church’s black fence
Kireevsky
81 1. The light swells and pulses at the garden gate…
82 2. In the village, in the field, in the forest…
83 3. Tear tears along, chasing tear, and kicks it…
84 4. My lady neighbour drives out on black sables…
85 5. Where the dance was shaped in flame…
86 6. Chorus line, on our feet…
87 7. You my gifts, o my gifts…
88 8. Who guards our picket fences, our blooming hedges…
89 9. A deer, a deer stood in that place…
90 10. The last songs are assembling…
from Underground Pathephone
91 Stop, don’t look, come close…
92 Don’t wait for us, my darling…
Poems from earlier collections
97 Bus Stop: Israelitischer Friedhof
100 (as they must)
102 Fish