Cocosse | Journal: December 2022

J[A-Z]Z / p1ck ( Freund - Mangelsdorff - Sextett | Freund - Mangelsdorff - Sextett, 1957

Freund - Mangelsdorff - Sextett, 1957

Joki Freund, Albert Mangelsdorff Sextett / Domicile, 1957

Written by Joki Freund

Recorded on June 8th, 1957 at the 5th German Jazz Festival,

Frankfurt am Main, Kongresshalle, Germany

Emil Mangelsdorff - Alto Saxophone

Marcel Rigot - Bass

Rudi Sehring - Drums

Pepsi Auer - Piano

Joki Freund - Tenor Saxophone

Albert Mangelsdorff - Trombone

Letter to Tatyana Yakovleva | Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1928

Tatyana Yakovleva, 1906-1991

In the kiss of hands

lips,

in body tremors

close to me

red

Colour

my republics

too

should

blaze.

I dont like

Parisian love:

any female

decorate with silk

stretching, dozing,

saying -

tubo -

dogs

ferocious passion.

You are the only one for me

straight growth,

get close

with an eyebrow,

give

about this

important evening

tell

more human.

Five hours,

and from now on

verse

of people

dense forest,

extinct

populated city,

I hear only

whistle dispute

trains to Barcelona.

In the black sky

lightning step,

thunder

ugly

in heavenly drama -

not a thunderstorm

and this

simply

jealousy moves mountains.

stupid words

don't trust raw materials

don't get confused

this shaking,

I bridle

I will humble

feelings

offspring of the nobility.

passion measles

come down with a scab,

but joy

inexhaustible

I'll be long

I'll just

I speak in verse.

Jealousy,

wives,

tears...

well them! -

swollen eyelids,

fit Viu.

I'm not myself

and I

jealous

for Soviet Russia.

Saw

on the shoulders of the patch,

them

consumption

licks with a sigh.

What,

we are not to blame

hundred million

was bad.

now

so tender -

sports

straighten not many, -

you and us

needed in Moscow

lacks

leggy.

Not for you,

in the snow

and in typhoid

walking

with these legs

here

for caresses

give them away

in dinners

with the oilmen.

Don't you think

just squinting

from under straightened arcs.

Go here,

go to the crossroads

my big

and clumsy hands.

Do not want?

Stay and winter

and this

insult

we will lower it to the general account.

I don't care

you

someday I'll take

one

or together with Paris.

Vladimir Mayakovsky, c 1928

Tatyana Yakovleva, 1906-1991 Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1893-1930

Mayakovsky met with Tatyana Yakovleva in 1928 at the house of Lily Brik's sister Elsa Triolet.

The poet fell in love at first sight. He spent a little more than a month in Paris, devoting all his

free time to long walks around the city together with Tatiana. Tall and handsome, they were a

handsome couple. " You alone are my height", - he wrote in a poem addressed to her. But

Mayakovsky had to return to the USSR, he long persuaded her to go with him, but she refused.

Before leaving, Mayakovsky left a large sum in one of the Parisian greenhouses with a request

to send bouquets every Sunday to Yakovleva's address with his business card. The firm was

respectable and carried out an assignment on a weekly basis: even after the death of the poet,

Tatyana continued to receive flowers from him.

Although Yakovleva refused to leave after Mayakovsky, she claimed that she was in love with

him. In a letter to her mother, she confessed: “He is so colossal both physically and mentally

that after him there is literally a desert. This is the first person who managed to leave a mark

on my soul.". The lovers wrote letters to each other, in which they did not tire of confessing

their love to each other. The poet wrote: “ You can't retell and rewrite all the sadness that

makes me more silent". Unfortunately, Tatyana Yakovleva's letters have not survived - Lilya

Brik, who gained access to the poet's archive after his death, obviously destroyed all evidence

of his love for another woman - she herself should have remained the only muse. Shortly

before her death, Tatyana Yakovleva said: “ I am grateful to her for that. Otherwise, I would

have returned to the USSR for Mayakovsky, I loved him so much. And would inevitably

perish in the meat grinder of 1937».

In October 1929, Lilya Brik, not without gloating, told the poet the news that his new muse

was about to marry Viscount Bertrand du Plessis, although there was no talk of a wedding at

that time. Later, Tatyana nevertheless became his wife, and this marriage became, in her words,

"an escape from Volodya." She understood that she would no longer see him - Mayakovsky was

no longer allowed to go abroad (according to rumors, Lilya Brik took care of this). The poet's

friend Natalya Bryukhanenko recalled: “ In January 1929, Mayakovsky said that he was in love

and would shoot himself if he could not see this woman soon.". And in April 1930 he pulled the

trigger. What circumstances prompted him to take this step, and whether it was suicide -

biographers argue to this day.

Natalia Turovskaya

Also:

Summer 1923: Vladimir Mayakovsky / Lilya Brik / Viktor Shklovsky on the beach

Alphabetarion # Modesty | Margaret Atwood, 1985

Robert Mapplethorpe, Calla Lily, 1988

“Modesty is invisibility. Never forget it.

To be seen—to be seen—is to be penetrated.”

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale, 1985

Also:

A Sad Child | Margaret Atwood, 1995

Stereosc2pe + | Hands (III) | Georgia O'Keeffe / Maya Deren, 1943-1968

John Loengard, The Hand of Georgia O'Keeffe holding one of her favorite Stones, 1968

Maya Deren and Marcel Duchamp, The Witch’s Cradle, 1943

Also:

The Μeaning of Hands | Robert Bresson, 1943-1983

Stereosc2pe + | Hands (II) / Marcel Proust / Berenice Abbott / Shiihara Osamu

The Hands of Antonin Artaud | Man Ray (1922)

True Poetry is Antibiographical | Paul Celan, 1920-70

Paul Celan, 1920-70 Paul Celan, Microliths, 2020

"True poetry is antibiographical. The poet’s homeland is his poem and changes from one
poem to the next. The distances are the old, eternal ones: infinite like the cosmos, in which
each poem attempts to assert itself as a — minuscule — star. Infinite also like the distance
between one’s I and one’s You: from both sides, from both poles the bridge is built: in the
middle, halfway, where the carrier pylon is expected, from above or from below, there is the
place of the poem. From above: invisible and uncertain. From below: from the abyss of
hope for the distant, the future-distant kin."

Paul Celan, from “Microliths”
trans Pierre Joris

Also:

Poems are en route | Paul Celan, 1958

Speak, You Too | Paul Celan, 1920-70

Landscapes | Etchings by Gisèle Celan-Lestrange, 1927-1991