By Alexander Vvedensky, Matvei Yankelevich, Eugene Ostashevsky
"Pussy rebel are Vvedensky's disciples and his heirs.
Katya, Masha, and that i are in detention center yet I don't reflect on that we've been defeated.... in keeping with the reputable document, Alexander Vvedensky died on December 20, 1941. We don't comprehend the reason, even if it was once dysentery within the educate after his arrest or a bullet from a safeguard. It used to be someplace at the railway line among Voronezh and Kazan. His precept of 'bad rhythm' is our personal. He wrote: 'It occurs that rhythms will come into your head, an outstanding one and a foul one and that i opt for the undesirable one. it is going to be the perfect one.' ... it really is believed that the OBERIU dissidents are lifeless, yet they live to tell the tale. they're persecuted yet they don't die."
-- Pussy insurrection [Nadezhda Tolokonnikova's final assertion at their trial in August 2012]
"I raise[d] my hand opposed to concepts," wrote Alexander Vvedensky, "I enacted a poetic critique of reason." This weirdly and fantastically philosophical poet was once born in 1904, grew up in the middle of struggle and revolution, and reached his inventive adulthood as Stalin used to be twisting the which means of phrases in gruesome and deadly methods. Vvedensky--with Daniil Kharms the foremost determine within the short-lived underground avant-garde staff OBERIU (a neologism for "the union for actual art")--responded with a poetry that explodes sturdy that means into shimmering streams of provocation and invention. A Vvedensky poem is sort of a loopy celebration packed with theater, movie, magic methods, jugglery, and feasting. Curious characters seem and disappear, euphoria retains corporation with melancholy, outrageous assertions bring about epic shouting suits, and maybe all of it breaks off with one lonely individual making a song a song.
A Vvedensky poem doesn't make an announcement. it really is an occasion. Vvedensky's poetry was once unpublishable in the course of his lifetime--he made a residing as a author for kids earlier than death less than arrest in 1942--and he continues to be the least identified of the good twentieth-century Russian poets. this is often his first booklet to seem in English. The translations by way of Eugene Ostashevsky and Matvei Yankelevich, striking poets of their personal correct, are as astonishingly alert and alive because the originals.
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Additional resources for Alexander Vvedensky: An Invitation For Me to Think (NYRB Poets)
Where is the pelvic bone of a centaur located? How many policemen does it take in general? Nine? Doesn’t that strike you as more than enough? What if one of them is named Wick and the other Tallow? Could their marriage be called a candle? Does that complicate the uniform? If one were the front of the centaur would the hind end dream of goats? When I mentioned a bowl of rain earlier was it clear that I meant a bowl constructed solely out of raindrops and not a conventional bowl holding collected rainwater?
It was me at twelve, I think. Or maybe thirteen. The way the sodden clothing wrapped him flecked with bits of weed, the wet jersey pasted to the wicker of his ribs. He was raw boned and solemn, black cuts in his knuckles from bashing rough rock. indd 35 9/24/14 12:32 PM I cannot tell you how long, how many years have passed since I have been myself. indd 38 9/24/14 12:32 PM O i l an d As h What’s organic emits carbon when burned so animal dung or dried seaweed picked from rocks or a child left too long in the sun will all eventually rise toward the place we used to think God lived: among the clouds on a big chair.
Indd 31 9/24/14 12:32 PM R ather than R ead An other W ord Perhaps you could loosen your self within your skin. After all, you’ve worn it since childhood’s earliest onset. No wonder it’s grown tight. Soften the muscles around the eyes and there in your knotted jaw unclench what’s held by habit. There is no need to talk. Let your tongue grow fat. Listening can be a balm. Those lines in your head are still forming, and not of their own accord: we share the tools that deepen them: emotion, repetition, emotion, repetition, and the requisite mouthfuls of air.
Alexander Vvedensky: An Invitation For Me to Think (NYRB Poets) by Alexander Vvedensky, Matvei Yankelevich, Eugene Ostashevsky