Biography of Vladislav Khodasevich
Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich (Russian: Владисла́в Фелициа́нович Ходасе́вич; May 16, 1886 – June 14, 1939) was an influential Russian poet and literary critic who presided over the Berlin circle of Russian emigre litterateurs.
Khodasevich was born in Moscow into a family of Felitsian Khodasevich (Polish: Felicjan Chodasiewicz), a Polish nobleman, and Sofiia Iakovlevna (née Brafman), a Jewish woman who converted to Christianity. His cousin Nadia Khodasevich married Fernand Léger. He left the Moscow University after understanding that poetry was his true vocation. Khodasevich's first collections of poems, Youth (1907) and A Happy Little House (1914), were subsequently discarded by him as immature.
Vladislav Khodasevich Poems
About My Myself
No, I didn't lost the beauty, but in whole, I'm put to shame to see it by my eyes, By eyes of men - else more, for my soul
Look for Me
Look for me in spring's transparent air. I flit like vanishing wings, no heavier than a sound, a breath, a sunray on the floor;
Before The Mirror
‘I, I, I'. What a word! It's unfair! Is this man I? Is this not a fake? Could his mother love him anywhere -
With a cane he feels his way, blind man on a random walk,
Blizzards have whirled all night, but the morning's clear. Still a Sunday laziness crawls across my body, and the Church of the Annunciation hasn't yet
Through the Window
I wait: some one will be knocked down By any crazy car, at last, The poor idler will be bound
Thank God! Just ‘wise', without ‘super-‘, I stroll among my humble verse, Like a severe abbot, stooped,
The Tears Of Rachel
Peace to the earth of the evens and sinners! Barriers, glasses, and pools are in a glow. I go under the rain's flows, thinnest,
No, You're not Right...
No, you're not right, I don't adore me, yet. What's positive in the free lancer, tiered? But, looking into me, I'm, by the God's entire,
Lady's Hands Were Washed...
Lady's hands were washed and serviced, Lady's hands were strongly stirred, This good Lady didn't forget, else,
The Hum of Spring...
The hum of spring will not else loosen My verses of the clenched words, I've loved steel grating and diffusion,
From the Diary
My ear is shocked by every noise, My eye - by light of sun or fire, My spirit launched its cutting growth,
Smooth and crunch by feet of mine. Snow starts and wind regains. Holly Father! What a pine!
A Blizzard Roars Behind...
A blizzard roars behind my window, Throws snow on my hut. I play, like an idle widower,
Before The Mirror
‘I, I, I'. What a word! It's unfair!
Is this man I? Is this not a fake?
Could his mother love him anywhere -
Grayish-yellow, gray in his hair,
And such witty and wise as a snake?
Can it be that the boy who liked dances
In the summer Ostankino's balls -
Is I? I who, by each of my answers,