Russian poet Osip Mandelstam’s “ancient language” is rendered into real contemporary poetry in English that succeeds in speaking eloquently to the inner eye and ear.
These days, I’m not in a mood to be comforted in the theater by either toasting or roasting chestnuts.
Her poems are sassy.
Translator Dan Veach invites us to “pull up a bench in the mead hall, grab a brew, and enjoy a jazzy new performance.”
It is the loss of memories and the meaning of memory that dominate, generating speculations that draw the reader into and through Maria Stepanova’s argument and interpretations.
Poet Paul Celan has come to embody in person and in print the agonies of a half century of European culture.
In Henri Cole’s best poems, the outside and the inside interpenetrate and merge.
For a generation of Russians, Joseph Brodsky was the poet, almost a code-word in the discourse of the intelligentsia, like Nabokov.
In these poems, contemplation, serenity, and service are the order of the day.
The overall effect is one of a genial, superficial club lecture on reading and writing poetry, punctuated by Frost’s Greatest Hits.