Взбульки

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

His poems are hard to find online, and I’m not up to paying for a book to be shipped from UK (yet), but here are a couple to remember meanwhile.

CRAGSMAN’S WIDOW

He was aye vaigan b’ the shore,

An’ climman round the craigs,

Swappan among the auks,

Or taakan whitemaa aiggs.

It’s six year bye come Lammas,

Sin’ he gaed afore the face,

An’ nane but an auld dune wife,

Was left tae work the place.

Yet the sun shines doun on a’ thing,

The links are bonny and green,

An’ the sea keeps ebban an’ flowan,

As though it had never been.

A cragsman is a skilled rock climber

CELESTIAL KINSMEN

The winter lift is glintan doun

Wi’ tullimentan stars besprent,

As were the very heavens abune

Clean gyte wi’ frosty merriment,

Their lowan e’en are taakan tent

O’ chiels like Mansie o’ the Bu’

Whase days upon the land are spent

Ruggan wi’ Taurus and the Pleugh.

“Iowan” means “gleaming”, “cheils” are “fellows” and Mansie is a ploughman from the farm called Bu. “Tullimental” means “мерцающий”.

ANGLE OF VISION

But, John, have you seen the world, said he,

Trains and tramcars and sixty-seaters,

Cities in lands across the sea –

Giotto’s tower and the dome of St Peter’s?

No, but I have seen the arc of the earth,

From the Birsay shore, like the edge of a planet,

And the lifeboat plunge through the Pentland Firth

To a cosmic tide with the men that man it.

The Orkney poet Robert Rendall (1898-1967) loved European travel almost as much as he loved his home islands. The antithesis of the parochial islander, he travelled extensively, sampling the cultures of Germany, France and Switzerland. He made no fewer than nine trips to Italy, and it was on one of these visits that he and a travelling companion stood on the Palatine Hill, surveying the glories of the city of Rome. ‘Hid’s bonny’, conceded the poet, ‘but hid’s no a petch on Birsay!’

Chiara, who told me about Rendall, considers him a modern poet. He died 58 years ago. He was a part of a strong circle of poets, which surprised me, as I thought those arouse only in large towns. Kirkwall today has a population of about 10,000, three times less than my own very small town. None of these poets are mentioned in Wikipedia’s list of notable Kirkwall residents.

Every New Year I remember this post by Anna Kozlova and it always makes me cry. It's one of those "more true than reality" things. Of course, it's not just NY cooking - the ghosts are always with us, and we do so many other things because of them.

https://www.facebook.com/anna.kozlova.925/posts/pfbid035UepD13jBUjTob2QmbaPcaYQAroz2JWSEvuNU3aBE6KdFxQFPFQ9WrDxfrTmyCBQl?__cft__[0]=AZUUoa4YyUwct4WYutKt1HyP8-ebvKQSLCosR3JGxlSXzQRASnmBA-VWyElu-flZUmCQLbHJQnOW7YD_u6kraNQBoxD0SjOVA1m7R5tC5X1g6L1msmnS52qKY1HZ9ENpei2SwW9FvbvoW0JtcV59n3ecukjEKHGApY8traawkMQERuGDAx3PmBSe7X45uijkE0DqrEYMiy94nnb4EJ1gEs41&__tn__=%2CO%2CP-y-R

https://www.nakamurabranchevska.com/2023/12/31/%d0%bd%d0%be%d0%b2%d0%be%d0%b3%d0%be%d0%b4%d0%bd%d0%b8%d0%b5-%d0%bf%d1%80%d0%b8%d0%b2%d0%b8%d0%b4%d0%b5%d0%bd%d0%b8%d1%8f/


"Не в Хэллоуин в прекрасной нашей Родине духи мертвых выходят из могил, а в Новый год.

Зла в них нет, но присутствует та зловещая иррациональность, которая вдруг бросает неглупую, очень занятую городскую женщину около сорока к плите вечером 30 декабря.

И пусть думает, глупышка, что в новогоднюю ночь с ней только муж и дети, и парочка близких друзей, но на самом деле в гостиной будет не протолкнуться.

Зачем ты, женщина, ставишь на плиту пятилитровую кастрюлю с картошкой на оливье? Кто сожрет столько оливье? Ты? Твой муж? Да вы не помните, когда последний раз чипсы ели, весь год на рисе и курятине, салатике из огурца и сельдерея! Какой оливье, опомнись!

Но это ведь мертвая прабабушка, Полина Дормидонтовна, стоит у тебя за плечом и шепчет: еще клади, милая, еще картошки, много картошки – хорошо, люблю картошечку!

Этот шепот вводит в транс, за ним – голод, мрак, война. Дай же прабабушке картошечки, не жалей ее, пятьдесят рублей килограмм стоит, не семнадцатый, чай, год.

А что ж, думает женщина, только оливье и селедка под шубой из азбуки вкуса?..

Качают мертвыми головами предки, озадаченные таким неласковым приемом.

И пробивается сквозь толпу, занявшую всю кухню, прабабушка с другой стороны, Цицилия Иосифовна, сгинувшая в лагере.

Может, курочки? – спрашивает тихо.

Да почему же и нет?! – бедная женщина бросается в инстаграм, прямо в омут видеоблогов кавказских жен, которые меньше, чем на тридцать человек, в принципе не готовят.

И пожалуйста вам, Цицилия Иосифовна!

Гуся не желаете, а?

Или утку в апельсиновой глазури с карамелизированным яблоком джанаголд в попке? После оливье-то как пойдет!

И картошечки к ней! – намекает осмелевшая уже Полина Дормидонтовна.

Коварен инстаграм, ведь сразу за уткой и джанаголдом от Мадины-нальчик следует полуметровой высоты наполеон, с любовью приготовленный мамой Этери: всех с наступающим, девочки, делайте, не пожалеете, а мне не забудьте подарить сердечко!

Ох, наполеончика бы… - вздыхает дедушкин братик, умерший в блокаду.

А как не накормить ребенка?! Как не броситься в круглосуточный магазин за килограммом масла, чтобы щедро приготовить, от души, чтобы в полтретьего ночи внести наполеончик в комнату к счастливцам, уже отведавшим оливье, селедку под шубой и утку от Мадины?

Ну, а дальше все – беспамятство, темная ночь, петушиные крики.

Тарталетки с муссом из красной рыбы и сливочного сыра!

Язык!

Хрен!

Икра, как можно было забыть!

И вот когда икра, расталкивает, наконец, всех этих обжорок прадедушка с Дона.

Рубанув рукой горячий от утки воздух, сообщает: водки!

Нету водки! – в ужасе понимает женщина.

Нету водки, последний раз водку-то в шестнадцать пила, в подъезде, с кокаколой.

Но старик крепок, он не пойдет на ламбруско и шардоне со льдом, это женщине совершенно понятно, и она хватает телефон, звонит мужу и говорит: знаешь, я тут подумала, надо все-таки водки купить.

А муж, что пробивается по пробкам из Ашана, и в машине у него расположились тетя из Элисты, дедушка-поляк и двоюродный дядя Рубен, добродушно ей говорит: а я купил, знаешь… вот как будто торкнуло что-то у витрины с водкой, две бутылки взял, всем хватит!"

https://dafyddapgwilym.net/
Today, from Carol Rumen's column in the Guardian, I learned about Dafydd ap Gwilym, and, if you're as ignorant of medieval poetry as I am, so should you :)
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/feb/06/poem-of-the-week-from-morfudd-like-the-sun-by-dafydd-ap-gwilym (I don't agree with all her interpretations, btw. For instance, a woman as a sheen of white snow on a pebbly field is not necessarily naked. She could just be joy-bringing or exalting, and that's really more likely in context, although, of course, that's a guess, having not read the full poem in the original.).

Just finished reading book 2 of Dragon Run, The Boy With A Sword by Patrick Matthews. This is literally the most satisfying children's book I read ever. I'm going to buy all books by Patrick Matthews in perpetuity.

Not because of the plot (let's face it, T. Kingfisher is better at satisfying plot twists when writing for kids). And not because of the way it's written (because Ursula Vernon (yup, T. Kingfisher again) writes funnier dialog and punchier descriptions.

The first volume is a garden-variety "brave kid is thrown out of society for no fault of his own, acquires super powers, and defeats dragons" book. I only read it because my kid made me (having kids bring me books and music is my dream come true). Professionally written and nothing bad about it, but it's a good example of a type, no more.

Buuut - the second book? Is realistic (for the genre). It's a book-length return to Bag End (from LOTR, not Hobbit).
Killing all dragons is not enough - there are people who move right into the power vacuum and they are not necessarily good people. Not everyone gives up their life-long beliefs the moment you liberate them. Not everyone liberated at the cost of their families' lives is grateful to the liberators. Not everyone is into noble causes - some people just want to eat. Not all families agree on important issues. The person with control of the media can convince people of their lies even when you're there to tell the truth. Your friends may be scared of your new people-killing super powers! Killing the dragons does not make you the best candidate to rule the country!
And most importantly the characters (so many of the characters!) say things like: "your parents must hate you, because you're 13 and running around alone with a sword in a dangerous part of town" and "no, we're not going to take non-combatants along on a dangerous mission to spare their feelings" and "no, kids don't get a say in whether or not to risk their lives, only full-grown responsible adults get a say in this" and those are things I've been telling my kids whenever I read their books and I love, love, love having the author say them out loud and clearly enough for even the younger kids to understand.

-Kusturica :(

Hellawes (and, of course, Мельница as a whole with her).

Недавно один умный человек (tak_the_ape) сказал мне, что судит людей по делам, а не по высказываниям. Я же человек глупый, поэтому в ЖЖ дел находить не умею, а нахожу одни только высказывания, которым, по глупости, верю. Поэтому если человек в ЖЖ говорит мне "я поддерживаю убийства", я верю, что убийства поддерживает не только он, но и те, кто прочел его слова, и продолжил с ним общаться.

I lost the outright jerks in 2008, the less obvious ones in 2014. In 2016 I lost a completely different set of people, and it wasn't anyone I really liked. The 2020/2021 cost me some very interesting people, but no personal friends. Now I'm losing very old friends and favorite creators, and it sucks, but on the bright side it's the smallest loss yet - less than 5 people so far. Wonder whether the next set will be over Israel or over abortion?

In either case, it's really convenient that LJ shows names of people who liked a post. This allows me to ban groups of users. Self-selection ftw!

For myself, I will continue to remember May 8th and Sept. 2nd fully as much as November 11th.

I'm rapidly becoming one, and can't really see it as a bad thing.
I actually lunched last week. On a Friday. With a friend that does not work with me or even in the same county. It was nice. Would love to take in a matinee, but theaters around there don't do matinees on weekdays (do they in NY? Or London? How marvelous that must be).

https://genius.com/Stephen-sondheim-the-ladies-who-lunch-lyrics
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=virv-1o2KjE

Today I lost the last person I kept in touch with from the first community of non-related people where I felt at home.