Quotes from Irina Ratushinskaya

The calendar? A mere convention.

I will write. And then I'll make a fire. O, how these lines will soar up, The pages fall back to ash Under the savage slap Of a long-lapsed emptiness! With what an arrogant gesture I will be outstripped by the flame! And the foam of ashes will quiver But nothing will be born from them.

Silent, Cassandra will pour the tea, Sit at the table, Make up the bed, find the tatters to darn, Toss them on cushions. Silent, she'll rise in the fathomless dawn, Bless you with cross-signs.

Who needs a suitcase? The notebooks are burnt.

You said, "Suffer through privation, But don't lose your honor." See—my memory is certain. You're pleased I've learned that saying? Must I shoulder now a burden Of despair this springtime? Send your blessing down, my darlings.

Knives poised close to the throat—then the voices are slowly imbibed. Glutted majesty heaves himself back from the vampiric supper, While the Judas trees thrive in the hush of their forested bed.

And meanwhile growing up. All according to plan, Wasn't it, Lord? Under the freezing sky All lands, the real and unreal, were ecstasy

It was at 25, not 15, that I began to write. Yes, there were attempts before, writing attempts, but they were the mere scribbling of a child who through no fault of her own knew only half an alphabet. Now, in my 27th year, it is appetite I have, and abundance to garner. I can make up for lost time—and time is what I have to seek some truths and pull together some lost pieces. It's okay. I'll do it. I'll make up those years.

But your eyes were bequeathed to me— As anathema And a blessing.

Sleep, how soon I too shall be sent— For your sake— my dearest, my damnable.

We've had such a December— Mixing bullets and wings. Do we have to know Why the river turns black?

You, the damnable place of my birth, my eternal Decembers.