Thursday, January 24, 2013

Daniil Kharms (Yuvachev, 1905-1942), OBERIY, Chinari




Poets of OBERIY [1] group were considered curiosities at their time, as well as long thereafter. Only recently the true significance of this group as one of the brightest poetic constellations of the first post-Revolutionary years was recognized.  An analogy with the visual arts seems appropriate. Picasso, Matisse and Dali towered in their lifetimes over XXth century painting, yet Duchamp, Malevich and Warhol are now widely considered to be more influential. Similarly, the Russian literary criticism slowly but inevitably recognizes Platonov’s prose and poetry of Akme (Mandelstam, Akhmatova) and Oberiy poems and short stories as the pinnacles of achievement in XXth century Russian-language literature. 
Oberiyts were truly remote from the social agenda of Soviet State, neither opposing it directly, nor supporting it in any meaningful way. Their desire to continue literary life as if the situation in the country was normal in part explains the group’s tragic fate, unusually harsh even by the standards of Stalinist terror. All the  members of the group, except Vaginov who died from TB on the eve of Stalin’s purges and Igor Bakhterev, were either executed, or imprisoned. Of these, only Zabolotsky survived the camps to live for four more years. 
The “Old Woman” written by Kharms in 1939 predated existentialist prose of Sartre and Camus, being every bit as masterful and provocative as “Le Chute”. All in all, Kharms and his influence on the Russian literature can be compared to Beckett's influence on Anglo-American-French literature. His later poems and short stories became much more worked upon and polished (young Oberiyts preferred instantaneous expression), and one may only guess, in what direction his literary genius would have taken him were he to survive Stalin’s executioners and the siege of Leningrad.
Later in his life, Kharms assembled a narrow circle (Kharms, Lipavsky, Druskin and a few others) who, according to Russian historian of literature L. F. Katsis, considered themselves kind of apostles with the mission of ushering the New Age into the world. This agenda and attitude, odd even for the post-Revolutionary Russia, and fit only for 1960s San Francisco, was completely out of sync with late 1930s Stalin's tyranny. Kharms died in NKVD prison, probably simply starved to death, Lipavsky disappeared in the chaotic first days of war. Only Druskin, a standard-bearer and keeper of Kharms' papers survived to preserve Kharms' genius for posterity. A special role in preservation of Kharms' heritage was played by his wives (he had three; all beauties and cheated on them all). The first one perished in 1935 when the Great Purges only gained momentum, but the two remaining collated his writings, hid them from the Stalin's secret police at a grave danger to themselves and transmitted them, when it was relatively safe, to Druskin, Bakhterev and Western Slavists to preserve his writings for the future generations. 


[1] Oberiyts for the members of the group. 


Смерть дикого воина

Часы стучат 
Часы стучат
Летит над миром пыль

В городах поют
В городах поют
В пустынях звенит песок

Поперёк реки
Поперёк реки
Летит копьё свистя

Как легкий пар
Как легкий пар
Летит его душа

И в солнца шар
И в солнца шар
Вонзается кóсами шурша

Четыреста воинов
Четыреста воинов
Мечами небу грозят

Супруга убитого
Супруга убитого
Отламывает камня кусок

И прячет убитого
И прячет убитого
Под ломанный камень, в песок

Четыреста воинов
Четыреста воинов
Четыреста суток молчат.

Четыреста суток
Четыреста суток
Над миром часы не стучат.

27 июня 1938 года.



The Death of a Savage Warrior

The clocks tic-toc
The clocks tic-tac
Dust flies all over the world

In the cities they sing
In the cities they sing
In the desert—the sand that rings

Across the river
Across the river
A whistling javelin flies

A savage had fallen
A savage had fallen
And he sleeps while his amulet shines

As a subtle vapor
As a subtle vapor
His soul flies to the skies

And the round sun
And the round sun
It pierces by his screeching braids

Four hundred warriors
Four hundred warriors
Threaten the sky by their swords

The wife of the fallen
The wife of the fallen
Crawls to the river on her knees

The wife of the fallen
The wife of the fallen
Breaks a piece off the stone

And hides the fallen
And hides the fallen
Under a broken stone, in the sand.

Four hundred warriors
Four hundred warriors
Four hundred days keep silence.

Four hundred days
Four hundred days
The clocks stopped all over the world. 

Russian original is cited according to Daniil Kharms, Circus Shardam, St. Petersburg, Crystal, 1999. Grammar and punctuation of the Russian text follows this edition. 



Рисунок Алисии Порет, одной из жен Хармса

Friday, January 4, 2013

Sergey Yesenin (1895-1925)

     


      Sergey Yesenin is, perhaps, the most misunderstood of the Russian classics. School chrestomathies include his early nature poems. He is remembered by his late poems, as a bard of drunken vigils and disorderly conduct. But his main contribution to the Russian poetry are neither his early "peasant" poems, nor his late poems possibly reflecting his alcoholic decline, but his cosmic-religious poems (Октоих, Octoechos (Eight-voices, the form of Byzantine liturgy), Преображение,  Transfiguration, Пришествие, Annunciation, etc.) written in the first post-Revolutionary years and most--in 1917. This fact was aptly noticed by Dmitry Bykov, a salon literary wit, unusually sensitive to literary criticism and amazingly ignorant of everything else.
       During his lifetime, Yesenin was famous for everything--his peasant origins, his bisexual beauty, drunken orgies and serial marriages to high-strung women (Zinaida Reich, future wife of theater innovator Vsevolod Meyerhold, granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy and Isadora Duncan, the American pioneer of modern dance). He was admired by everyone--fellow poets, World War I profiteers and their whores, post-revolutionary bandits, prostitutes and American Jewish heiresses--which in the end did him in. Yesenin hanged himself in St. Petersburg hotel, his grave becoming somewhat of a shrine where lovelorn women committed ritual suicides. But, by his late life, he was becoming a serious literary theoretician and, who knows, how his talent would evolve were it not for his alcoholism and stifling atmosphere of Stalinist Russia.

Below I provide an excerpt (last four quatrains) from Octoechos. The epigraph is from the Old Slavonic
rendering of the Byzantine Octoechos. The language of the poem is deliberately archaic as to estrange it and make it solemn-sounding, which I cannot fully convey in English.

Octoechos

Epigraph: "By my cries,
Will eat ye out, O Lord."

......
.....

"Ye rise, foresee and listen!
Unfathomed are the fates
Yet all who breathe and quicken--
Shalt meet thy time and date.

Lord's trumpets then'll sound
With fire and brimstone
And yellow-toothed He-cloud
Shall gnaw through Milky's Nav.

Its bowels spill on down
To singe the earthen tracts...
But those who praised the Virgin
Will enter Star of Ark."




Октоих

Гласом моим
                  Пожру тя, господи.
                                           Ц. О.


                  1

О родина, счастливый
И неисходный час!
Нет лучше, нет красивей
Твоих коровьих глаз.

Тебе, твоим туманам
И овцам на полях,
Несу, как сноп овсяный,
Я солнце на руках.

Святись преполовеньем
И рождеством святись,
Чтоб жаждущие бдения
Извечьем напились.

Плечьми трясем мы небо,
Руками зыбим мрак
И в тощий колос хлеба
Вдыхаем звездный злак.

О Русь, о степь и ветры,
И ты, мой отчий дом!
На золотой повети
Гнездится вешний гром.

Овсом мы кормим бурю,
Молитвой поим дол,
И пашню голубую
Нам пашет разум-вол.

И не единый камень,
Через пращу и лук,
Не подобьет над нами
Подъятье божьих рук.

                  2

"О дево
Мария! -
Поют небеса. -
На нивы златые
Пролей волоса.

Омой наши лица
Рукою земли.
С за-гор вереницей
Плывут корабли.

В них души усопших
И память веков.
О, горе, кто ропщет,
Не снявши оков!

Кричащему в мраке
И бьющему лбом
Под тайные знаки
Мы врат не сомкнем.

Но сгибни, кто вышел
И узрел лишь миг!
Мы облачной крышей
Придавим слепых".

                  3

О боже, боже,
Ты ль
Качаешь землю в снах?
Созвездий светит пыль
На наших волосах.

Шумит небесный кедр
Через туман и ров,
И на долину бед
Спадают шишки слов.

Поют они о днях
Иных земель и вод,
Где на тугих ветвях
Кусал их лунный рот.

И шепчут про кусты
Непроходимых рощ,
Где пляшет, сняв порты,
Златоколенный дождь.

                  4

Осанна в вышних!
Холмы поют про рай.
И в том раю я вижу
Тебя, мой отчий край.

Под Маврикийским дубом
Сидит мой рыжий дед,
И светит его шуба
Горохом частых звезд.

И та кошачья шапка,
Что в праздник он носил,
Глядит, как месяц, зябко
На снег родных могил.

С холмов кричу я деду:
"О отче, отзовись..."
Но тихо дремлют кедры,
Обвесив сучья вниз.

Не долетает голос
В его далекий брег...
Но чу! Звенит, как колос,
С земли растущий снег:

"Восстань, прозри и вижди!
Неосказуем рок.
Кто все живит и зиждет -
Тот знает час и срок.

Вострубят божьи клики
Огнем и бурей труб,
И облак желтоклыкий
Прокусит млечный пуп.

И вывалится чрево
Испепелить бразды...
Но тот, кто мыслил девой,
Взойдет в корабль звезды".


Yet, Yesenin is typified in public consciousness by a quite different style of poetry. Here's the excerpt, and  from a pretty tame poem "The rudest people are lucky..." from his imagist period. 

…На улице мальчик сопливый.
Воздух прожарен и сух,
Мальчик такой счастливый
И ковыряет в носу.

 Ковыряй, ковыряй, мой милый
Суй туда пальчик весь,
Только вот с эфтой силой
В душу ко мне не лезь.

Я уж готов... я робкий…
Глянь на бутылок рать!
Я собираю пробки—
Душу свою затыкать.

 

…There is a street urchin sneezing
The air is bone dry and hot,
The boy’s such a happy lizard
And he is picking his nose.

Pick it harder and deeper,
Put there your finger whole,
Only with such great candor
Do not pick off my soul.

 I am such guy… a shy one…
Look at the bottles’ hordes,
To plug my forsaken soul,
I am collecting corks.