Delighted that the Poetry School is using Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry, the anthology of ultra-contemporary Russian verse I edited, as the basis of their course, Transreading Russia. https://poetryschool.com/courses/transreading-russia/ Description:
‘We are Russian and we have extra genes for compassion and asking unanswerable questions,’ writes Larissa Shmailo, editor of Twenty-First Century Russian Poetry. This online anthology of 50 poets in English translation becomes our essential reading in the course that invites us to look at present-day Russia through its poetry, beyond the looming news of Putinism. We will write our own poems in response to the ‘accursed questions’ posed by contemporary Russian poets about ‘the meaning of life, love, suffering, God and the devil.’ As the anthology boasts a wide range of approaches, from experimental to lyric to language poetry, we can expand our own repertoire of engaging with similar questions: by offering tentative answers or formulating new questions. To celebrate creative writing as translation and translation as creative writing, we will be joined by our special guest, Sasha Dugdale, poet and translator from Russian, who will talk to us about her work, also as the editor of the Russian and Ukrainian focus of Modern Poetry in Translation. In cooperation with the journal, we will create new poems inspired by this themed issue – the texts will be published on the MPT website as a featured project.
what matters is not at what place but what moment
the uncoupling decoupling
of movement outward begins:
in December precisely in Okhta probably
identical buildings of crap leatherette
on which scars of SovHousewares glow in the night
meat vegetables footwear - abstract metamatter.
filth flies as galoshes gallop across
the wasteland: so earnest, you know,
such candor and cha-harm in those nightly sessions!
where the elevator drops you Dante-like circle by circle
to the basement where a blind cat gnaws on a piece of glass
or the anemic grove at the edge of the well-fed park
where a musing imbecile pisses on a rotting mat of leaves
with casual dignity like a faun perched on
one of Peterhof's fountains.
the boudoir protocol of familiar and formal address
eight poets one more monstrous than the next in his
despairing artistic malice,
the burning bush of crude come-ons
flares predictably with goodbyes -
again the deus ex machina misses his cue.
Morning, December, river.
laminated stamped
approved for the shining hell of resurrection.
Threaded through itself,
needle and thread,
dry hermit thought,
scant layer,
gently interleaving the air,
a bookmark for its pages,
beak askew, -
it, like a steeple of order,
or an axis,
or a blade drawn from its sheath
and driven into a pond, where fish,
where golden
halos circumscribe the scales,
where fear
is more circular and silent than a target,
and where one female with a singular
gaze skywards,
sharp-angle-browed,
stiller than all
stands, barely swaying, stiller than a shadow.
Then, lingering at the start,
that arrow,
biting into the air, into the light,
two wings
spreading-laboriously, definitively,
and letting drops fall from its claws-
flies
above the pond,-and in the egret's beak,
as a fish's mouth,
world opens wide and gapes dumbfounded.
"It's a lie!" we answered in unison, without arranging it.
"It's no secret that the image of an island counts among those I most despise. It seems to me that this image has accumulated exactly as much filth and falsity as is needed to form an island, blast it! What could be more natural than when, from all the trash (spiritual, cultural, and biological) poured in a heap, suddenly, as if by the wave of a conductor's wand, an isle appears? Here we cannot help but associate-by rhyme-our hot uninhabited isle with the awl, a sharp implement, and through it all sharp-tongued witticisms and pointed puns, the tools of rhetoric, even the sharp heat of island spices, and as a result we are lead to all the potential harm caused by the isle-awl: it all goes to the same place, into one heap, one atoll. The pun, as you can see, nauseates: I will be sick with all these endless islands, all seclusion, solitude and cosmic loneliness, I'll vomit them into the auditorium, were there an auditorium before me, or wherever, if it so happens by some inexplicable reason that the auditorium is absent. The inexplicable reason, by the way, can only be the following: that the auditorium is also an island, a diminutive isle of peace and calm in the stormy sea of modernity. And it's not possible that I would be sick into the very thing thing that makes me sick, isn't that true? I'm asking you: is it true?
I'll go where the snow,
Blue like the eyes of the Virgin,
Touched by an icy crust,
Palpable in relief,
Reigns in the fields of the night.
Where under the heavy conifer wings
Stands my abandoned house,
In which I no longer have faith,
It lives and ages with me,
Just like me, pleading for mercy.
Black boulders, cold foreheads exposed,
Are waiting for us to address them aloud,
As if they have found a solution
To the riddle of time immemorial.
It's terrifying when you realize,
That the trees, the lake, the snow, and the sky,
Holding the world in the grip of their workmen's gloves,
See through you, and are willing
To sell your soul for a song...
Yes, this - the only direction worth going in,
If one is to approach all that's mightier.
Encircling in love seems just as legitimate
As thirst for revenge, while to know
The name of another's God - is to win.
Let's walk, my friend, along an empty street
where frozen clementines of streetlamps hover
and snow covers the distance like a sheet
and all the stores have shut their doors forever.
Show windows, neon glow, ditches and pipes.
"It's all so gruesome, hopeless, literal.
And what do you, my friend, expect from life?" -
"Sadness: it's in the nature of the beautiful!"
All that being quite so, we pass black walls.
"What do you figure will happen to us tomorrow?"
A monstrous and eternal mannequin follows
us with two perfect eyeballs free of sorrow.
"Suppose he knows that storefront rose is dead,
or his own ugliness, or the world's fears?" -
"He knows that there is happiness, my friend,
yet you and I can't see it for our tears.
Dead roses, plastic tulips, dry immortelles-
he hated them in the German hotels,
drinking coffee from cups whose shiny backs
had been designed with swastikas of cracks.
He never settled down to sink his roots
in any fathermotherland. Old bear,
he wore the same old-fashioned English suits
that had traveled so far during the war.
His wife, his alter echo, read him books
as he lay ill in bed, prepared to die.
He knew by name all foreign lakes and brooks
as they passed by.
A man forgets men rather than forgives.
Laugh, Mnemosyne, healing muse of those
whose heads are crowned, but not with laurel leaves-
with the whispering reeds of other shores.
From an interview between Adam Weiner, chair of Slavic at Wellesley, and myself about contemporary Russian poetry:
AW: In your anthology I immediately noticed a very fine poem by Katia Kapovich, "In Nabokov's Memory." This poem flows so easily that you miss the first time through how rich it is with meaning and humor. The way the poet remembers Nabokov's famous penchant for "hating" things and applies it—in the second line!—to the flowers of the first, the discovered secondary sense of hating "dry immortelles," the way she turns his autobiography, Speak, Memory, into Laugh, Mnemosyne, and many more happy turnings.
LS: I love Katia's poem, which gives understated voice to the life of a literary expatriate, who learns the names of foreign brooks and lakes, perhaps for her new American readership, and perhaps simply for the words. Brodsky was such a "crowned head," our poet laureate. Our émigré bilinguals in Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry write of these "other shores" in bittersweet memory of home.
You are cordially invited to the New York City launch of the new anthology
Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry
featuring readings by poets and translators
Alexander Cigale, Vladimir Druk, Dana Golin, Irina Mashinski, Misha Semenov,
Alexander Stessin, and Alexei Tsvetkov.
Sponsored by Intercultural Poetry at Cornelia hosted by Andrey Gritsman
and the Russian American Cultural Center.
Wednesday, December 11, 6:00 - 8:00 pm
The Cornelia Street Cafe
29 Cornelia
New York, NY
Contact: 212-712-9865
Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry is edited by Larissa Shmailo and published by Big Bridge Press.
Below please find a link to an interview on the Moscow-based radio show Russian Bookworld on Voice of Russia on the subject of contemporary Russian poetry and our new anthology, Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry. The interview is with myself, Larissa Shmailo, editor of the anthology; Marina Boroditskaya, a contributing poet to the anthology; and Philip Nikolayev, who contributed both poetry and translations. The interview was hosted by Konstantin Boulevich.
By Harriet Staff
From Russia: Beyond the Headlines, a great review of the new anthology Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry, which is collected on the website Big Bridge and edited by Larissa Shmailo.
Contributors include Philip Nikolayev, Vladimir Gandelsman, Katia
Kapovich, Polina Barskova, Marina Boroditskaya, Dmitry Kuzmin, Maxim
Amelin, Elena Fanailova, Mikhail Aizenberg, Natalya Gorbanevskaya,
Alexander Ulanov, Ruslan Komadey, Vita Korneva, Alexander Stessin,
Andrei Sen-Senkov, Sergey Stratanovsky, Alexei Tsvetkov, Maria Rybakova,
Maria Stepanova, Alexandr Skidan, Bakhyt Kenjeev, Nariste Alieva, Felix
Chechik, Vadim Mesyats, and many more. Phoebe Taplin writes of the
anthology:
New York-based Shmailo first approached the webzine “Big
Bridge” in June 2012 “with the idea of an ultra-contemporary anthology
of Russian poetry.” The resulting collection is reaching international
audiences and there are plans to extend into a more comprehensive,
bilingual print edition.
The anthology celebrates the arts of translation as well as poetry.
Shmailo told RBTH: “the poem needed to be beautiful in English as well
as a good reflection of the original Russian.” She detects a new
excitement about Russian writing in the United States and believes “we
are all falling in love with literary Russia all over again.”
Shmailo has included “émigré voices with still-strong Russian roots,”
among them influential figures like Bakhyt Kenjeev. One of his poems
uses the timeless imagery of the wanderer: “argonaut” or “nomad,”
sailing to shore, or taking to the road. Another of Kenjeev’s
bittersweet elegies looks back at the icons of a Soviet youth (“Sputnik,
Laika,/ then Gagarin…”) and forward to an alien future.
Moscow and New York are home to many of the anthology’s poets and
translators, but there is a rich geographical diversity too, including
writers from Israel, Kyrgyzstan or Colorado. The poems are recent,
written since the year 2000, but the range of writers’ ages is
remarkable.
Some poets’ lives span the eras, like Arkadii Dragomoschenko who died
last year, or 77-year-old Natalya Gorbanevskaya, a veteran Soviet
dissident, one of eight courageous protestors in the 1968 “Red Square
Demonstration.” Others represent a new generation, like Ruslan Komadey,
born in 1990 in Kamchatka, whose thoughtful poetry reflects the slow
“cycles of the earth.”
“I wanted to include both established and emerging voices in a wide
range of styles,” said Shmailo. There are formal experiments, free or
fragmented verse, and poetic prose. But the themes echo through the
centuries: Love, death, pain and religion, the inner world of dreams,
the external realities of new homes, or native lands, and the tensions
of living between the two.
[. . .]
Shmailo writes in her preface: “what Russians from Rurik to post-post
perestroika have always done … is wrestle with the prokliatye voprosy,
the “accursed questions”…” Big, abstract themes may underlie them, but
the subtlest poems focus on barely visible details.
In one of Mikhail Aizenberg’s poems, translated by James Kates, “… a
tiny moth has come awake,/ and flies like a negligible feather/
reminding me of something about you.” Alexei Tsetkov’s “ashes” has this
shining glimpse of human delusion: “so we keep walking in the tall grass
/ where cats are chasing butterflies / and leap catching with their
paws / only the empty bright air.”
A rich and diverse feast of contemporary verse is available in
English and slated to be released in a bilingual edition in print.
The anthology celebrates the arts of
translation as well as poetry. Pictured: Dmitry Vodennikov. Source: Olga
Salij / PhotoXpress.ru
Poetry is not well represented in the global view of Russian literature,
in part because linguistic nuances
make poems harder to translate than a story or a novel. New York-based Larissa
Shmailo, editor of a groundbreaking anthology, hopes to change all that. “Twenty-first
Century Russian Poetry” tantalizes English-speaking readers with selected poems
from fifty writers.
Russia’s literary
heritage continues to inspire today’s writers. There is an ongoing tradition of
poems about other poets. Where once Akhmatova dedicated her verses to Blok (and
vice versa), now Elena Fanailova writes about Gogol and Irina Mashinskimourns the suicide of Boris Ryzhy, a young
poet from Yekaterinburg.
In her verses “In
Nabokov’s Memory,” Katia Kapovich pays tribute to those, like Nabokov, who: “… never settled down to sink his roots/ in any
fathermotherland.” Maxim Amelin, winner of this year’s Solzhenitsyn award,
celebrates a range of cultures in his rich, allusive work: “If we wipe our memory clean / of its
lingering garbage,/ what then will ever remain?”
Fusions and borrowings are everywhere. Polina Barskova, whose latest translated collection (“The
Zoo in Winter”) had a series of poems with epigraphs from Hamlet, also favors
classical references: “filching Orpheus or fibbing Odysseus.” Catherine
Ciepiela’s translations of Barskova are a sneak preview of “Relocations,” an
anthology of poetry by women due out from Zephyr Press next month.
Ruth Fainlight’s pitch-perfect version of Maria Boroditskaya’s poem to
Cordelia, playfully subverts gender and genre. She tells the daughter of
Shakespeare’s King Lear to reject her tragic destiny: “Like a puppy,/ Pull him by the leg of his pants with
your teeth/ Into the game, into comedy!” Emigrés and wanderers
New York-based Shmailo first
approached the webzine “Big Bridge” in June 2012 “with the idea of an
ultra-contemporary anthology of Russian poetry.” The resulting collection is
reaching international audiences and there are plans to extend into a more
comprehensive, bilingual print edition.
The anthology celebrates the arts of translation as well as poetry.
Shmailo told RBTH: “the poem needed to be beautiful in English as well
as
a good reflection of the original Russian.” She detects a new excitement
about Russian writing in the United States and believes “we are all
falling in
love with literary Russia all over again.”
Shmailo has included “émigré voices with still-strong Russian roots,”
among them influential figures like Bakhyt Kenjeev. One of his poems uses the
timeless imagery of the wanderer:
“argonaut” or “nomad,” sailing to shore, or taking to the road. Another
of Kenjeev’s bittersweet elegies looks back at the icons of a Soviet youth (“Sputnik, Laika,/ then Gagarin…”) and
forward to an alien future.
Moscow and New
York are home to many of the anthology’s poets and translators, but there is a
rich geographical diversity too, including writers from Israel, Kyrgyzstan or
Colorado. The
poems are recent, written since the year 2000, but the range of writers’ ages is
remarkable.
Some poets’ lives span the eras, like Arkadii Dragomoschenko who died
last year, or 77-year-old Natalya Gorbanevskaya, a veteran Soviet dissident,
one of eight courageous protestors in the 1968 “Red Square Demonstration.” Others represent a
new generation, like Ruslan Komadey, born in 1990 in Kamchatka, whose thoughtful poetry reflects the slow “cycles of the earth.”
“I wanted to include both established and emerging voices in a wide
range of styles,” said Shmailo. There are formal experiments, free or
fragmented verse, and poetic prose. But the themes echo through the
centuries: Love, death, pain and religion, the inner world of dreams,
the
external realities of new homes, or native lands, and the tensions of
living
between the two. Big themes; recurring dreams
Shmailo writes in her preface: “what Russians from Rurik to post-post
perestroika have always done … is wrestle with the prokliatye voprosy, the
"accursed questions"…” Big,
abstract themes may underlie them, but the subtlest poems focus on barely visible
details.
In one of Mikhail
Aizenberg’s poems, translated by James Kates, “… a tiny moth has come awake,/
and flies like a negligible feather/ reminding me of something about you.” Alexei
Tsetkov’s “ashes” has this shining glimpse of human delusion: “so we keep
walking in the tall grass / where cats are chasing butterflies / and leap catching with their paws /
only the empty bright air.”
Maria Rybakova’s
verse-novel “Gnedich” builds on the work of its namesake poet, one-eyed, dreamy
Nikolai Gnedich and his translation of the “The Iliad.” For Rybakova, like
Lermontov and others, dreams are a recurring motif, revealing an interior
world:
“… at night,/ when the
bed was rocking/ and calling itself/ in the false language of dreams,/ 'a
boat.'” Marina Boroditskaya, in Sasha Dugdale’s powerful translation, imagines
herself judged by the “heavenly medical board” and found wanting: “You will wake as a woman again/ With winter
upon you.”
The selected poems are brief, sweet tasters from a Russian feast; in its
current form the anthology is tantalizing and uneven. It might have been useful
to list the poets in alphabetical order and to provide a fuller introduction
that would lead new readers into the text. A slight sense of exclusivity is
reinforced by Eugene Ostashevsky’s
clever version of Igor Belov’s poem about translation, where knowledge of the
original (provided in Russian) is essential to get “the inside joke.”
But these are quibbles and
Ostashevsky’s heroic puns (“Hector/ hectors. Menelaus/lays many”) are worth it. Poetry has often
been poorly translated, Shmailo explained, because the translator lacked the
poet's ear. Gathering together “many superb poets fully bilingual in Russian
and English who are also experienced translators,” Shmailo and her team have
produced something unusual and fascinating: a contemporary Russian poetry
anthology translated by poets.
Please join us on Thursday, April 11, 6:00 pm, at New York City's Cornelia Street Cafe for a special sampling from the forthcoming Big Bridge Magazine anthology, "Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry," edited by Larissa Shmailo
Poets and Translators: Philip Nikolayev, Katia Kapovich, Irina Mashinski, Dana Golin, Alexander Cigale, Andrey Gritsman, Larissa Shmailo
