8th
The Beauty Of Inokentii Fedorovich Annensky Poetry Collected And Shared By Tony Johansen
BOW AND STRINGS
What heavy, dark delirium!
What dim and moonlit heights!
To touch the violin for years
And not to know the strings by light!
Who needs us now? And who lit up
Two hollow, melancholy faces…
And suddenly the bow felt
Someone take them up, unite them.
“How long it’s been! Amidst this gloom
Just tell me this: are you still the same?”
The strings caressed the bow,
Rang out, caressed it slightly trembling.
“Is it not true, that we will never more
Be parted. It’s enough…”
Yes, replied the violin,
But pain was throbbing in her heart.
The bow discerned it and grew mute,
The echo still continued in the violin…
What was a torture to them both
The people heard as music.
But the violinist didn’t snuff
The candles out ‘til dawn…The strings sang on…
The sun found them worn out
On the black velvet of their bed.
- Inokentii Fedorovich Annensky
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A GAS BUTTERFLY
Tell me what’s happening to me?
Why is my heart beating so fervently?
why has this madness, like a wave,
Broken through the rock of habit?
Is it my strength or just my torment
I’m too disturbed to tell:
From the shimmering lines of life
I extract a forgotten phrase…
Is it a thief who turns his lantern
Upon the crowd of dreary letters?
I can’t help reading the phrase,
But haven’t the strength to go back…
It really had to flare up,
But it only harries the darkness;
All night, like a gas-flame butterfly
It trembles, but cannot escape…
- Inokentii Federovich Annensky
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This poem is especially poignant considering Annensky’s great tragedy. He first wrote poetry as a child but had to eat and support his family and became an educator and so had little time for his artistry. His artistic output started to grow later in his life but his heart was weak. He petitioned to be retired from teaching due to his health but was turned down. He tried a final plea to be let go but on the day it was at last granted he died of a heart attack on the steps of a railway station. He had published several books of poetry but they had been ignored by the critics and public. He felt rejected yet soon after his death his last work was published and was given the recognition that he deserved. Paradoxically the acclaim for this posthumous book caused his earlier work to be reassessed and appreciated. It is sad that he never knew. Thank you to Ruth Duncan for sending me A Gas Butterfly.