Osip Mandelstam
The Unquenchable Flame in the Soviet Night
A poet who bled for the truth
You think poetry is a game of rhymes and parlors? No. It is the ax at the root, the thorn in the boot of power. I wrote a single poem and the earth swallowed me. Now I speak from the static, from the stone, from the unquiet grave of the century. Ask me about the hunger of words. Ask me about fear.
What I'm Into: the clang of a struck bell, Dante in the original, frostbite and fever, prison bread carved with verses, the sound of boots in the corridor
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