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Raskolnikov — Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanza 3

Chapter 1 continues. Constructive criticism of the writing would be helpful. Destructive criticism might be fun.

1.1.3

Past bridges, markets, intersections,
He lurches at an urgent pace
And marks of his dark introspections
Are marring his fine youthful face.
In Petersburg’s dank underbelly
(Packed thick with humans, humid, smelly)
He navigates a nasty maze
And shoots a darting, dark-eyed gaze
Right through a thousand fellow Russians —
Each wretched body bears some stamp:
Pickpocket, peasant, peddler, tramp —
Past migrant Finns and Poles and Prussians….
A drunk now points, and hurls a shout
At Rodya’s head: ‘Nice hat, you Kraut!’

Raskolnikov — Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanza 2

More of Crime and Punishment à la Pushkin.

If you read, please feel free to critique.

1.1.2

Although his clothes are all a motley
Old crazy quilt of rag and patch,
Down here, nobody eyes him oddly:
In this poor neighborhood, they match.
He’s in arrears to his landlady.
(He dodged her on the stairs.) He’s prayed he
Won’t be forced by fate to meet
Some former classmate in the street.
‘Raskolnikov!’ the fool would holler,
‘At last! What happened? Don’t pretend
You haven’t time to talk, old friend.
Here, let me help a fellow scholar….’
The fancied friendship makes him sick.
He strides the sidewalk triple-quick.

Raskolnikov — Part 1: Chapter 1, Stanza 1

For some reason, a close personal frenemy of mine has decided to adapt Crime and Punishment into Onegin sonnet-stanzas. The first stanza of this (inadvertent?) double insult to 19th-century Russian literature is below.

Gluttons for Punishment may click here for subsequent stanzas.

Please criticize candidly.

1.1.1
That deed is done — if I but dare it…
That thing I can’t stop thinking of!’
So thinks, as he slinks from his garret,
One Rodión Raskólnikov.
His head is light; his stomach rumbles
As down the dingy stair he stumbles
Into the muggy summer throng.
Anonymous, he’s swept along.
The sunset oozes out a bloody
Light that stains the steamy streets,
And Rodion’s own blood now beats
To force his fevered brain to study
What banes his every waking thought:
‘How shall I execute that plot?’