The Little Red Blog

Found Poem: "The Beating of Ilyich's Heart"

(A ‘found poem’ from the journal of Grigory Zinoviev, August 1917; found (by me) in Michael Pearson, The Closed Train. See below for context.)

The Beating of Ilyich’s Heart

A cool night marked with stars.

The smell of the cut hay.

Smoke from a small fire

Where venison simmered in a small pot.

We go to bed in a little shack. It is cold.

We cover ourselves with an old blanket

That Emelyanov found. It is narrow,

And each of us tries to leave

The larger part of it to the other.

Ilyich says he has a fufaika^*

And does not need the blanket.

We are sleeping closely,

Pressed against each other.

Lying there in absolute silence,

I can hear the beating of Ilyich’s heart.

-----------------------------------------------

^*A warm coat similar to an anorak.

Context: In August 1917, Vladimir Ilyich Ulanov, aka “Lenin,” was in hiding near the Russo-Finnish border. A warrant for his arrest had been issued by Russia’s post-revolution provisional government, headed at that point by Alexander Kerensky. Many of Lenin’s fellow Bolsheviks in St. Petersburg, including Leon Trotsky, had been arrested and jailed. Kerensky's government had made public documentation showing that Lenin’s return to Russia in April 1917 had been facilitated by the German government, and that Germany was providing financial assistance to the Bolsheviks. Lenin, already facing opposition within his own party, had chosen to flee rather than to risk a public trial. Grigory Zinoviev, a loyal Bolshevik colleague, accompanied Lenin in the dangerous—but ultimately successful—trek to Finland.

Less than three months after Zinoviev’s journal entry, Ilyich returned to Petersburg and orchestrated (with Trotsky’s help) the overthrow of Russia’s provisional government. The Bolshevik coup created what became the USSR. Lenin died in 1924; Zinoviev was executed by Stalin in 1936, as were numerous other 'old Bolsheviks'.

Grigory Zinoviev - Wikipedia

Lenin in disguise (Finland 1917)


 

 

Sunday Sermon: "A rope of words"

{Thanks to my friend Celia White for sharing this poem with me.}

“Why I Write Poetry” (by Julia Vinograd)

Because I can't trust God
to look after the world and my friends.
Worship sure, wandering forests of legend
braiding flowers from the Tree of Life in my hair
while God's beard storms overhead.
But not trust. People die. Everyone dies.
It may be God's will but it's my won't.
Sea turtles live a thousand years.
My words can't become flesh.
My words can't heal an open wound.
But I am a poet and I know we need more time
to make our own huge splendid mistakes,
mistakes we deserve, not just the small clinical mistakes
built into out bodies.
We could have many-colored rings spinning around our minds
like the rings of Saturn.
We could map constellations around a lover's face
and every child could be the Messiah
because the world always needs saving.
God, it is a very beautiful world,
but no thank you, it is not enough.
No thank you for the sunrise when our eyes go blind.
A blank page is a place to list the creation
we weren't given. A shopping list of eternity
where we're never too sick to swallow fresh blueberries
and where the dance never ends.
A blank page is a paper bird to fold up and fly.
I can't change anything but I am a poet
and if I can't trust God I must speak
for the world and my friends.
Want more. Want so much more.
Test each day and night for ripeness
like a melon at the market.
You're crucified on the hands of a clock,
pull out those nails.
I'm throwing you a rope of words.
Hold on.

____________________________

Why I Write Poetry - Poetic Outlaws (substack.com) : Julia Vinograd was a revolutionary street poet who threw bubbles instead of bricks. Her poetry was profound and she had a keen eye on what was happening in the world. She felt the suffering of the human race deeply and beautifully captured it in her poetry.

More: Julia Vinograd - Wikipedia

Sunday Sermon: "Easter"

Easter (by Patti Smith)

Easter Sunday, we were walking
Easter Sunday, we were talking
Isabel, my little one, take my hand
Time has come

Isabella, all is glowing
Isabella, all is knowing
And my heart, Isabella
And my head, Isabella

Frederick and Vitalie
Savior dwells inside of thee
Oh, the path leads to the sun
Brother, sister, time has come

Isabella, all is glowing
Isabella, all is knowing
Isabella, we are dying
Isabella, we are rising

I am the spring, the holy ground
The endless seed of mystery
The thorn, the veil, the face of grace
Brazen image, the thief of sleep

The ambassador of dreams, Prince of peace
I am the sword, the wound, the stain
Scorned, transfigured child of Cain
I rend, I end, I return

Again, I am the salt, the bitter laugh
I am the gas in a womb of light, the evening star
The ball of sight that leads that sheds the tears of Christ
Dying and drying as I rise tonight
(Isabella, we are rising)

Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are rising

Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are rising

Isabella, we are rising
Isabella, we are

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Patti Smith / Ivan Kral / Jay Dee Daugherty / Leonard J Kaye

Easter lyrics © Bohemia Music, Druse Music Inc

Easter - YouTube

Arthur Rimbaud

Sunday Sermon: "i sing of Olaf"

{In this iconic poem, Olaf’s refusal of war is paralleled by Cummings’ refusal of poetic decorum, grammatical convention, and basic typographic decency.}

XXX (by E.E. Cummings)

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but--though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments--
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat--
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.

__________________________________

i sing of Olaf glad and big by E. E. Cummings - Poems | poets.org

Edward Estlin Cummings is known for his radical experimentation with form, punctuation, spelling, and syntax; he abandoned traditional techniques and structures to create a new, highly idiosyncratic means of poetic expression. He attained great popularity, especially among young readers, for the simplicity of his language, his playful mode and his attention to subjects such as war and sex.

The poet and critic Randall Jarrell once noted that Cummings is "one of the most individual poets who ever lived—and, though it sometimes seems so, it is not just his vices and exaggerations, the defects of his qualities, that make a writer popular. But, primarily, Mr. Cummings's poems are loved because they are full of sentimentally, of sex, of more or less improper jokes, of elementary lyric insistence."

About E. E. Cummings | Academy of American Poets

Wednesday with Pascal: "little tree"

{Pascal the existential Russian blue cat has set aside his usual snark and his pseudo-philosophical pose. Instead, he wishes everyone the merriest Christmas and happiest New Year ever; and, if you're anywhere in Montana right now, he advises you to seek shelter immediately--it's cold out there.}

little tree (by E.E. Cummings)

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel"

______________________________________

[little tree] by E. E. Cummings | Poetry Foundation

E. E. Cummings - Wikipedia

Sunday Sermon

Frank O'Hara, "Poem":

 

Lana Turner has collapsed!

I was trotting along and suddenly

it started raining and snowing

and you said it was hailing

but hailing hits you on the head

hard so it was really snowing and

raining and I was in such a hurry

to meet you but the traffic

was acting exactly like the sky

and suddenly I see a headline

lana turner has collapsed!

there is no snow in Hollywood

there is no rain in California

I have been to lots of parties

and acted perfectly disgraceful

but I never actually collapsed

oh Lana Turner we love you get up

 

Poem [“Lana Turner has collapsed!”] by Frank… | Poetry Foundation

 

Frank O'Hara - Wikipedia

 

Sunday Sermon: "Good Bones"

“Good Bones” (by Maggie Smith)

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

Maggie Smith, "Good Bones" from Waxwing.  Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Smith.  Reprinted by permission of Waxwing magazine
 

Source: Waxwing magazine (Issue IX, Summer 2016) (2016)

Good Bones by Maggie Smith | Poetry Foundation

Sunday Sermon: "Instructions for the Messiah"

Instructions for the Messiah

 

do you think

you must work signs

and miracles

or resurrect the dead

 

it is sufficient

that you have diligently

studied the law

 

we would ask of you

only the rebuilding

of the temple

and the gathering in

of the exiles

 

these will define you

 

and nothing will seem changed

night will follow day

as it always has

 

it was never for dominion

that we invented you

but only that we might

return to our houses

 

inside

we would know

the hidden things

of this world

 

--Myra Sklarew

Myra Sklarew - Wikipedia

 

Sunday Sermon: Journey of the Magi

Journey of the Magi

“A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.”

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

 

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

 

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

--T.S. Eliot (1927)

Read by T.S. Eliot: T. S. Eliot reads "Journey of the Magi" - YouTube

Read by Sir John Gielgud: Journey of the Magi by T. S. Eliot - Read by John Gielgud - 1939 - YouTube

"Journey of the Magi" painting by Granger

Sunday Sermon: "Expect Nothing"

{“Expect Nothing” appeared in Alice Walker’s 1973 volume of poetry, Revolutionary Petunias and Other Poems.}

Alice Walker, “Expect Nothing”

Expect nothing. Live frugally                                                                                                            On surprise.
Become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough.
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.

Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold.
Make of it a parka
For your soul.

Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise.
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.

Alice Walker poem Expect Nothing (blueridgejournal.com)