Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Monday, 27 May 2013


JOSEPH MACLEOD.


Riddle-me-ree.

I was afraid and they gave me guts.
I was alone and they made me love.
Round that wild heat they built a furnace
and in the torment smelted me.

Out of my fragments came design:
I was assembled. I moved, I worked,
I grew receptive. Thanks to them
I have fashioned me.
Who am I?

- Joseph Macleod (from 'An Old Olive Tree', 1971)



Championed by Ezra Pound and Delmore Schwartz; published, then roundly rejected, by T.S.Eliot; life-long friend and youthful collaborator of Graham Greene and Adrian Stokes; poet; theatre director; playwright; actor; historian; biographer; author; Labour Parliamentary Candidate and one of Orwell's Cryptocommunists: there are abundant hooks upon which a person's interest might catch along all the branches of the life and work of Joseph Todd Gordon Macleod (1903-1984) and yet the man and the products of his pen have failed to snag many new admirers since his death with the majority of his reasonably modest output out-of-print and off the beaten track. The number of books that make up his body of work may be relatively small in number but they are, however, expansive in scope and all are long overdue restoration to the realm of the read.


Selection of books from my own collection. Back L-R: 'The New Soviet Theatre', 'Actors Cross The Volga', 'Soviet Theatre Sketchbook', 'A Job at the BBC, 'The Actor's Right to Act', 'People of Florence'. Front L-R: 'The Sisters d'Aranyi', 'Beauty and the Beast', 'An Old Olive Tree'.
(Click to enlarge)
    Macleod's first book is a stimulating and idiosyncratic book of literary criticism entitled 'Beauty and the Beast' (Chatto & Windus, 1927) in which he guides us along his own journey through literature to that point, sets out the principles that guide his taste and which he bookends with two of his own poems. This book followed contributions to various Oxford Journals, including the Oxford Outlook under the editorship of Graham Greene and his own editorship at Cherwell, and marked Macleod out as a high modernist; an identification cemented with the publication, three years later, of 'The Ecliptic' (Faber and Faber, 1930).


Poems and frontispiece from 'Beauty and the Beast'.
(Click to enlarge)
    'The Ecliptic' is a long poem, a collection of interlinked verse divided up under the signs of the Zodiac with a preface of short synopses of each section. The poem seeks to chart the journey through existence of a single consciousness. It is inevitably and, in a sense deliberately, difficult reading; Macleod acknowledges the turn in modern taste towards the generally easier literary form: the novel, and is seeking to resurrect and remind readers of the rewards of grappling with a poem of great length and 'strange symbolism'. The poem's design and Macleod's versification earned the admiration of both Ezra Pound and Delmore Schwartz with the former being in part responsible for the publication of the poem; having recommended it for publication to T.S.Eliot who was then Poetry Editor at Faber and Faber. Macleod corresponded with both Pound and Schwartz for a time and both selected his work for their own literary journals.
    The next work Macleod submitted for publication, 'Foray of Centaurs: a poem of to-day' (1931, revised 1936), my favourite of his poems, was a displacement of the centaur myth in to the London of the day and deals with themes of civilisation and barbarism and desire and abstinence. This work was roundly rejected by everyone it was submitted to. Eliot published a section from the poem in 'The Criterion' but denied it publication with Faber and Faber and it was not until 2009 when the Waterloo Press published their selections from Macleod's poetic works, 'Cyclic Serial Zeniths From the Flux', that the piece became available as a whole.

A favourite passage from the opening of 'Foray of Centaurs'. A ritual beheading during a sword dance.
(Click to enlarge)
     Later, and perhaps partly due to the failure of 'Foray of Centaurs' to find a publisher; though also related it would seem, to his rising profile as a BBC newsreader, Macleod adopted the pseudonym Adam Drinan. Along with this assumed name came a shift in style and focus in his work. Whilst still displaying some modernist complexity and still seeking new and rewarding forms he now began to strive for realism and a documentary style and also began to incorporate dialect words and rhythms of, in the first instance, Cornwall and then thereafter in the Drinan phase those of the Scottish Highlands and Western Islands to which his family line immediately led. The works of the Drinan period include: 'The Cove: A poem sequence' (French & sons, 1940): a thirty-three poem sequence set in Cornwall under the shadow of war; 'The Men of the Rocks' (Fortune Press, 1942): another poem sequence but this time set in the Scotland of the time and this time with the Highland Clearances casting the shadow; 'The Ghosts of the Strath' (Fortune Press, 1943): a play written in verse set in Sutherland and concerned with both the Highland Clearances and the onset of World War II and 'Women of the Happy Island' (MacLellan & Co., 1944): forty-seven soliloquies of mainly female characters left behind on the Hebridean Isle of Barra when the men go off to war. In 1946 Drinan/Macleod composed 'The MacPhails of London' but it failed to find a publisher. The final book Macleod wrote as Drinan, 'Script from Norway' (MacLellan & co., 1953), was a call for Scottish independence from Britain in the form of a poem in the form of a film script that follows a group of documentarians looking to make a film in Norway (Norway having gained independence from Swedish rule in 1905). Macleod revealed himself as Drinan at this point by attaching his own name to 'Script from Norway' alongside the pseudonym This was not, however, the first time the names had been published together, selections from Macleod and his Drinan persona were included in Kenneth Rexroth's 'The New British Poets' anthology in 1949 but in that instance no link was made between the two. Prior to Macleod revealing he was Adam Drinan the disguise seems to have been entirely effective and, aside from a very small number let in on the secret, few seem to have realised it was a pseudonym let alone guessed who was behind it. When he finally cast off the mask it was, for those paying attention, a great surprise, and for some who had corresponded with Macleod as Drinan, or both with Macleod as well as with Macleod-as-Drinan, perhaps a slightly uncomfortable one.


A passage from 'Script From Norway'.
(Click to enlarge)
     The Drinan works are not all that easy to come by but three of them have been published recently, once again by The Waterloo Press. 'The Cove', 'The Men of the Rocks' and 'Script From Norway' comprise 'A Drinan Trilogy' (2012).


Macleod/Drinan titles from Waterloo Press.
(Click to enlarge)


     During the Drinan period Macleod published another poem that centered on Scotland but which was published under his real name. 'The Passage of the Torch: a heroical-historical lay for the fifth centenary of the founding of Glasgow University' (Oliver & Boyd, 1951) is, as the title suggests, a lay of rhyming couplets which tells of the carrying of a torch across Scotland in celebration of the fifth centenary of Glasgow University and offers poetic description and historical account of the places passed through.
       Macleod's last work as a poet, 'An Old Olive Tree' (M. Macdonald, 1971), came after eighteen years in which he published no new volumes of poetry and is markedly different from all that went before. Whilst all his work displays an expansive vocabulary and a linguistic precision this final collection is of a much simpler nature. Here is a small group of short poems about family, friends and aging with a poem each for Graham Greene and Adrian Stokes. The print run for the book was limited to two hundred and fifty copies and none of the poems were published anywhere else.


Two poems from 'An Old Olive Tree'. The poem on the left is dedicated to Adrian Stokes whilst the one on the right was, secretly, dedicated to Graham Greene.
(Click to enlarge)
     If Macleod is remembered in the literary world it is primarily as a poet, and rightly so, an encounter with his verse is something unlikely to be soon forgotten; after my own first encounter with his poetry it was not long before he took up a presiding position in my own pantheon of poets (expand on others in a note?). As the opening of this post indicated though, poetry was not Macleod's only passion and his work outside the poetical sphere stands happily beside his work in it and certainly merits rediscovery also.
     Almost equal to his passion for poetry was his passion for the theatre. Macleod developed a deep interest in the art and served as director at the Cambridge Festival Theatre where he also contributed plays, directed, produced and acted. He even contributed poems to the theatre programme/newsletter under the symbol of Taurus - a form of pseudonym that preceded the Drinan moniker but which did not really seek to hide the true identity of the author, Macleod's first contributions having been made under his own name.
     Out of this love of, and involvement in, the theatre grew six books. Half of those books were concerned with Soviet theatre; the state of the art and its audience: 'The New Soviet Theatre' (Allen & Unwin, 1943), 'Actors Cross the Volga: A Study in 19th Century Russian Theatre and of Soviet Theatre in War' (Allen & Unwin, 1946) and 'Soviet Theatre Sketchbook' (Allen & Unwin, 1951). The first of these Soviet studies earned Macleod a front cover of the Times Literary Supplement where it received a glowing review.


From 'The New Soviet Theatre.
(Click to enlarge)


From 'The New Soviet Theatre.
(Click to enlarge)
     A further two books also dealt with theatre history. 'The Right to Act: A History of British Actor's Equity' (Allen & Unwin, 1981) was written in 1953 but did not see publication until 1981 making it the last of Macleod's works to be published in his lifetime. It is a well regarded history of the establishment of Equity though it was seen to be a little dated by the time it finally reached publication. The final piece of theatre history to mention is 'Piccolo Storia del Teatro Brittanico' (Sansoni, 1961) - a concise history of theatre in Britain which only found a publisher in Florence, the English language version being rejected by all.
    The final book to mention, that sprung out of Macleod's time in the theatre, was 'Overture to Cambridge: A Satirical Story' (Allen & Unwin, 1936). This was Macleod's only published novel (though he apparently had more that were not accepted for publication) and was adapted from a play he wrote and put on during his time at the Cambridge Festival Theatre. I have not been able to track down a copy of the book as yet but from the little I have read of it it appears to be a piece of dystopian prophesy likened at the time to works by H.G.Wells and Aldous Huxley.
     Macleod's interest in the theatre and his study of the actor's art served him well when he came to work for the BBC. In 1925 Macleod had made a small piece of history when he took part, again alongside Graham Greene, in the first radio broadcast of a poetry reading. Now, thirteen years later he found himself engaged as an announcer after the success of two programmes he produced, one of which concerned the New Soviet Theatre that he was so well versed in. Macleod soon became a household name and a beloved voice (though not without some complaints about the occasional suggestion of a Scottish accent) across the country and throughout the war but his time with the BBC was not to end well and he was urged to leave the organisation in 1945. The BBC years, from happy beginnings to uneasy end, are remembered under 'How To' headings in his 'A Job at the BBC' (MacLellan & Co., 1947).

Contents page from 'A Job at the BBC'.
(Click to enlarge)
     In 1973 Macleod would be involved with the BBC once more when BBC Scotland traveled to Florence, where Macleod spent much of the year from 1956 onward, to conduct an interview about his career at the BBC, life in Florence and his poetry.

Macleod reading 'To an Unborn Child'.

     Two more titles complete Macleod's oeuvre; 'The Sisters d'Aranyi' (Allen & Unwin, 1969): a biography of Hungarian Emigre sisters (Jelly, Hortense and Adila d'Aranyi); two of whom became musical stars in their day but join Macleod in obscurity at present, and 'People of Florence: A Study in Locality' (Allen & Unwin, 1968): a study of Florence and its people.
     'The Sisters d'Aranyi' was the first of Macleod's non-fiction books I came upon and read and one which I fell in love with from the very first page.

First page of chapter one of 'The Sisters d'Aranyi'.
(Click to enlarge)
     The biography was a labour of love for Macleod who had been profoundly touched by Jelly d'Aranyi after seeing her play when he was a youth, he felt she ignited his love of music and that he owed pretty much all the knowledge he had of it, a knowledge on full display throughout the book, to that first fire of enthusiasm. I had heard only one recording of Jelly d'Aranyi prior to picking up the book but through Macleod's stirring descriptions of performances by Jelly and Adila as well as the countless touching, entertaining or astounding anecdotes and recollections concerning all three sisters compiled (most of which came from conversation with Jelly over an extended period, up to her death) meant that I soon shared something of the same love Macleod obviously felt for the sisters and has lead to a little digging which has increased my knowledge of the recordings of the sisters that hint at the reality reached for in Macleod's rapturous depictions.

Jelly d'Aranyi and Arthur Bergh - Vitali Chaconne in G Minor.

     The work dedicated to the city of Florence is given the subtitle of 'A Study in Locality'. We can see what Macleod understands by the term 'locality' in the opening to 'The Sisters d'Aranyi' pictured above and it is clear it is an important idea throughout much of his work. It is clearly central to the Florence book but it also informs the realism of the localised Drinan works, is fruitful in his Russian studies, plays its part in the Macleod's approach to biography and, contracting the scope of its sphere to the self, provides the setting for the opening of his final poetic work.

Opening poem for 'An Old Olive Tree'.
(Click to enlarge)
     Macleod died in 1984 and in a fairly short space of time his work has been entirely sidelined if not largely forgotten. His body of work is mostly out-of-print and no extended consideration of his life and work has ever been published. The work has been done though, A PHD thesis by James Fountain has told the story of Macleod's life and career/s and has looked, in no small detail, at his poetical works and their development but so far it remains a thesis and has not seen commercial publication beyond its informing of Fountain's foreword to the Waterloo Press selection of Drinan poetry. The only other contribution to Macleod scholarship comes from Andrew Duncan who provides fine introductions to both of the Waterloo Press titles. With Macleod's drift in to obscurity a poet of genius and a unique voice in all the fields he explored has been temporarily silenced; an oversight that has begun to be addressed but is still far from being rectified.

                                                                                                                        - Ian Meads.







Click to read Macleod's 'Nightslide': a parody written to be part of Terence Gray's production of 'The Birds'.

Portrait of Joseph Macleod by Sadra Bronetti (1970)
(Click to enlarge)



Sunday, 19 May 2013



I am not there where friends treat the malingering,
chronic illness of their gloomy souls with wine drinking:
I am alone, my evening tea is brewing,
friend to no one, no friends for me, I'm thinking.

Phallic games, that used
to attract me, now make me nauseous,
the monk takes his whip in hand to calm his sex,
but even under the whip I'm not inspired to tenderness.
I don't care what time it is, what century.
Why do I need fame in the contemporary,
when the time of those boyhood dreams
has passed, those when the world seemed many-headed?

It's pleasant to be conscious of having known the essence,
but the essence of essence, alas, is unobtainable,
and we all pass on - and that makes sense,
and to glance at oneself we are never able.


 - Leonid Aronzon.

Picture: 'Silhouette du peintre' by Leon Spilliaert (1907).

Tuesday, 26 March 2013


Joseph Macleod - To an Unborn Child (1957).

One of my favourite poets. I would not say this poem is particularly representative of his poetry but it is the only recording I have come across. Well worth taking the time to seek out his work.
Good sources: 




Friday, 18 January 2013


The sight of a reason, the same sight slighter, the sight of a simpler negative answer, the same sore sounder, the intention to wishing, the same splendor, the same furniture.

- Gertrude Stein (Tender Buttons - A Piece of Coffee, 1914)

Picture: "L'attesa" by Felice Casorati (1919).

Monday, 31 December 2012


The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (from Holidays)

Picture: "Le Chartier du Quartier Latin" by André Kertész (1934)

Friday, 2 November 2012


Imagination, the traitor of the mind, has taken my solitude and slain it.
No peace but many companions; the hateful-eyed
And human-bodied are all about me: you that love multitude may have them.

- Robinson Jeffers (from 'Prelude' in 'The Women At Point Sur', 1927).

Picture: "Franz Brasz, The Artist" by Virna Haffer (circa 1937).

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Jean:
This other woman in grappling
weakens; in loathing, laughs;
           loth, she longs.
           Myself here I reserve.
Perpetuity in a smile bewrays
secret beat of heart in the faces
to the world turned.
           How can a man like this tell
           by touch of shell
the milk that forms inside
nut curdled by the hand?

- Joseph Macleod (from "Script from Norway" - Duan VII: Oslo: Man and Girl. 1953).

Picture: "Jupiter and Juno on Mount Ida" by James Barry (c1800).


Wednesday, 3 October 2012


A Classical Regularity.

We sat there under a hemlock tree,
The years in her but not in me;
And as the evening came on,
Extinguishing her light parasol kimono
Which draped her full-moon knees,
She talked more intimately, more
Succinctly to me, talked as though
She knew there were no need
For conversation between her and me.
And my eyes wandered less over the inconsequential lady-slippers;
For then, as the cemetery night wind
Motored through the small-town gossiping leaves,
Nestled in a wisp of new-mown hay,
And sang in a stunted Majolica tree,
I needed her, and she needed me.
She talked more intimately, more
Tersely to me, for the night
Dispelled the years,
The dry-boned years,
The memorial tears,
The inutility,
That lay between her and me.

"In four years my husband has been
Married twice," she said; "he was
Very brilliant, very progressive, but then..."

And looking for extinct lady-slippers,
I complete her sentence,
And quite aptly,
Not thinking of her
But of me,
"What is that to me!"

"And my daughter is nineteen; but she
Is different, quite different from me.
My boy, fourteen, decided and voluptuous,
My little girl, I don't know what she'll be."
(What we'll all be!)

Then I moved more closely,
Placing my hand over her August-moon knee,
But she continued to talk less succinctly,
Less intimately, to me:
"You see, my dear, you have not lived
In a civilized world, you
Do not know what it means to have
Responsibility.
You do not realize...
I do not want this modern mess,
If I may use a literary expression.
I have dusted in the sitting-room,
Struggled with the cut-glass
And the silver-ware,
Sweet-smelling the kitchen with golden-broom--
All, my dear, for a classical,
A classical regularity."

"All for a photograph-album,
All for a colonial-parlor
Family-tree."
But her years were weighing down on me--
It was inutile to say it
Either to her or to me.

The evening wind motored through the village leaves,
Nestled in a wisp of her dew-wet hair,
Nestled between her and the Majolica tree,
Sang strangely and sweetly to her,
But was mute to me.
The moon hung low,
As though suspended
On a trolley-wire,
And glittered over the baroque-roses
And the golden-broom
Beyond the garden-bed;
The irises, the larkspur, the sweet-peas,
Were a still lyre,
And lay extinguished in the darkness,
In the family-tree garden bed--
As in a sculptor's room
When the moon slits through no windows.

In the morning her face was a broken oval
In the raw light,
A white-slab broken oval around the mouth
Whose myriad lines were epitaph inscriptions
Which revealed not rain-fresh sadness
But a long-sustained drouth.
The evening was less cruel to her,
For in the day the years were more
In her than in me.
We said goodbye to one another,
A courteous parched farewell.

- Edward Dahlberg (1931).

Picture: "Private Discussion" by Felix Vallotton (1898)

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

“For you: anthophilous, lover of flowers”

For you: anthophilous, lover of flowers,
green roses, chrysanthemums, lilies: retrophilia,
philocaly, philomath, sarcophilous—all this love,
of the past, of beauty, of knowledge, of flesh; this is
catalogue & counter: philalethist, negrophile, neophile.
A negro man walks down the street, taps Newport
out against a brick wall & stares at you. Love
that: lygophilia, lithophilous. Be amongst stones,
amongst darkness. We are glass house. Philopornist,
philotechnical. Why not worship the demimonde?
Love that—a corner room, whatever is not there,
all the clutter you keep secret. Palaeophile,
ornithophilous: you, antiquarian, pollinated by birds.
All this a way to dream green rose petals on the bed you love;
petrophilous, stigmatophilia: live near rocks, tattoo hurt;
for you topophilia: what place do you love? All these words
for love (for you), all these ways to say believe
in symphily, to say let us live near each other.

 - Reginald Dwayne Betts

Picture: Source forgotten, if anyone knows where it originated then let me know. Thanks.

Monday, 27 August 2012


now
  at this innocent hour
I and the one I've been sit
on the threshold of my gaze

 - Alejandra Pizarnik

Picture: "Silhouette Du Peintre" by LĂ©on Spilliaert (1907).

Wednesday, 22 August 2012


You're An Idiot For Not Coming To My Home

You're an idiot for not coming to my home,
where everything is refined and clever.
Here, under the eaves hang canvases,
sketches, Mikhnov's drawings, up to the standard
of Florence or the Louvre.
In the evening Glenn Gould or Casals play Bach,
you can chance upon poetry read aloud,
Dante is popular here, but apart from him
there's poetry from the Bible, today, for instance
Khlebnikov was holding sway;
the master of the house is also a poet.
Now do you see how stupid you are, you fool.
Idiot, you don't know my wife,
but if you do know her, then you are all the more stupid,
knowing her, in not having slept with her.
Semiramis or Cleopatra alongside her are railway station
cocottes, not knowing what heaven means or sin.

- Leonid Aronzon


Picture: "Symposium" by Akseli Gallen-Kallela (1894).

(From left in the painting: Akseli Gallen-Kallela, Oskar Merikanto, Robert Kajanus and Jean Sibelius)





Saturday, 18 August 2012


Woman Reading.

She licks her finger, little flick
of tongue and fingertip on furlough
to turn a page - 

a motion that distracts her.
The thread of phrase is broken
but for the word at turning -

vessel.
Vessel as in ship or blood?
She has to pause, all context lost

but blouse and skirt, this urge
to take them off
an ache

for something to contain it all.
Maybe vessel, maybe "el" alone,
bobbing on the tongue. Maybe

luscious, maybe just a finger to her lips
is all the afternoon
was asking for.

And lays aside her book.

- Kathleen Flenniken

Picture: "Study of Legs" by Henry Lerolle.

Tuesday, 17 July 2012


I open it in lamplight,
the yellowed book smells of grass and mould.

I skim the pages, a rain-like sound is born
and a thin wind passes from page to page

and over the battlefield.
The smoke of cartridges disperses like dandelion fluff.

Din; silence. Many horses roam
and horseless men. Through shutters

country sounds and smells. Swallows' shrill cry.
Fennel, and cow parsley. Poppy, dandelion fluff

and on the pages of the book, wisps from cartridges.
The soft ring of the lamp encloses the battlefield.

- Eeva-Liisa Manner.

Picture: Joseph Cornell (untitled and undated but circa 1960-70)




Friday, 29 June 2012

Nightslide

Lousy with lumbar Acidulations
morosely the epexegetical virgin
coruscates leviathans into
the oriented passe-partout of a squill.


over crash Biscuits
diabolically-sided blue swains
drum evanescent halloos



Grasp ovoid particularities!
Thrust, spooning, between!
Filch squelches!



- Joseph Macleod.


Picture: "La Douleur" by Pablo Picasso (1902 or 1903)

Saturday, 23 June 2012

Sonnet

The pregnant toad in the sedge by the lake
swings her weak, white belly,
and, an asthma sufferer that she is, she just cannot extend
the springs of her earthbound legs.

Tongue-tied complaints are in her breathing,
her breast skin is tender and bare,
crusts of pus are gathered in the folds round her eyes,
those goggle eyes, like a pond rippled and flaccid.

Indifferent to the floating whine
of the evening mosquitoes, clinging to a stump
she was puffed up as carrion

and only the lingering attack of asthma,
racking the sticky shelter of her body
kept her tied to life on earth...

(1964 or 1965)

Translated by Richard McKane.

Picture: "Morning Glory, Toad, and Insects" by Otto Marseus van Schrieck (1660)


My new Leonid Aronzon page.



Thursday, 21 June 2012



may i feel said he. 

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

- e.e.cummings

Picture by Tom Poulton.

Monday, 18 June 2012


Caryatid.

Renege on the rock! Smash
the oppressor cave! Sashay
out onto the floor! Scorn the cornices—
see, from the beard of drunk Silenus
from the unique uproar of his blood
the wine dribble into his genitals!

Spit on the obsession with pillars:
ancient rheumatic hands quake toward
gray skies. Bring down the temple
by the yearning of your knees
twitching with dance.

Spill, spread, unpetal, bleed
your soft flowers through great wounds.
Dove-hauled Venus girds her loins
with roses—
see the summer’s last puff of blue
drift on seas of asters to distant
pine-brown coasts; see
this final hour of our mendacious
southern happiness
held aloft.

- Gottfried Benn

Picture: Yakshini, nude, in tribhanga standing posture. Padampet, Karimnagar District - Andhra Pradesh.

(image is not of a caryatid but the image, tribhanga form and Yakshini came to mind when reading the poem)

Tuesday, 12 June 2012


Along the embankment, along the bridge, along
the whole soul, lined by the rainstorm,
the wind strains point-blank
at the gulf that got wild overnight.

White clouds race under black clouds,
snagging on sparkling spires,
and the flung open river
stirs chains like a shaman.

Oh my soul, freeze in this foul weather,
on the bridges along their railings,
and witch-like stir into me
this night, this north, this water.

There is such womanhood in these splashes
that it will yet lead me to suicide,
and it will suddenly open in the sad Baltic Grail
like an emptiness.

- Leonid Aronzon

Picture: "Out of the Rain, Iran" by Kian Elyassi Bakhtiari (2006).