Dimitri Alexandrovich Prigov
translated by Simon Schuchat
Dimitri Alexandrovich PRIGOV (1940—2007)
Translator's note: Prigov was a member of the “Moscow Conceptual art” school; Lev Rubinstein is another, well-known member. Prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union, Prigov published in underground and émigré journals, and was briefly sent to a psychiatric hospital after being arrested by the KGB. With the onset of glasnost and perestroika, he was able to publish and show his visual art in “official” venues, and also exhibited his art outside of Russia. He won several prizes, including, in 2002, the Boris Pasternak prize. He died of a heart attack in 2007.
ABOUT EMPTINESS (1999)
Prefatory Note
As to the question of emptiness there is no direct non-synonymous and correct answer. There are only evasive and glancing answers. But exactly by the way of purposeful sliding, like curving space around a black hole, it is possible to judge emptiness more or less definitively.
***
Emptiness – male or female? –
Answer to this question: Yes
Emptiness begins with something or something ends emptiness? –
Answer to this question: Yes
Or it answers: Maybe
Or a third answer: Everything revitalizes
Emptiness has appearance or use? –
Answer to this question: directly
Emptiness – it is one or two? –
Answer to this question: to the extent necessary
Does emptiness think of itself in terms of emptiness or fullness? --
This question is not always followed with an answer
The product of emptiness is itself itself, or something else, or producing something else? –
Answer to this question is evasive
Does emptiness reveal itself in something or other, or only in emptiness? –
Answer to this question is to stick up two big fingers on both hands
Emptiness senses apparently or grasps speculatively?
Answer to this question is with two fingers, joined in a circle
Is it worth doing a favor for emptiness or loaning it money? –
Answer to this question is with a nod of the head
You're silent, either because you are emptiness, or because you have nothing to say about emptiness? –
Answer to this question is spoken silently
Everything in emptiness is satisfied with emptiness or is there something that exceeds it? –
Answer to this question is absent
Emptiness manifests as only emptiness, or through emptiness it manifests as all, all manifesting through emptiness, manifests either empty or in extreme abundance? –
This question should be answered emptily
BRAIN POWER
Prefatory Note
It goes without saying that brain power hardly determines our affairs. In our fine perceptions – artistically giving rise to art. Yet, however, alas, it is only that, which maybe more or less exactly definitely expresses it with the correct perspective.
***
Its true, that Tolstoy was 2.5 times as smart as than Chekhov.
But Dostoevsky, depending on the season and cyclical fluctuations, was 3 times as smart as Tolstoy, or twice as stupid as him.
But Chekhov, for his part, was 24 times as smart as Potapenko.[i]
And thus, Tolstoy was 60 times as smart as Potapenko.
But Dostoevsky, depending on the previously described conditions, was 7.5 times as smart as Chekhov, or 1.25 times.
And as for Potapenko, Dostoevsky was either 180 times smarter, or at least 30 times.
To go further into details, with reference to Kuprin, Bunin, Remizov, Zamyatin, Bulgakov, Sholokov, Vaginov and Dobichnin[ii]:
So accordingly we have this distribution:
For Tolstoy – 70, 7, 40, 30, 28, 25, 4, 6.
For Dostoevsky – 210 and 35, 120 and 20, 90 and 15, 84 and 14, 75 and 12, 5, 12 and 2, 18 and 3.
For Chekhov – 28, 2.8, 16, 12, 11.2, 10, 1.6, 2.4.
So, let us talk about something completely different.
It is given that Platonov was on the same mental level as Sorokin, in all circumstances, that can be assumed.
However, there is one system, with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and so on, which we may label as A.
Then the system of Platonov – Sorokin would be termed as B.
Under these circumstances the brain power of Tolstoy relative to Platonov – Sorokin would be A:B.
Or relatively, Dostoevsky in variant 3A:B or 0.5A:B.
Or relatively, Chekhov 0.4A:B.
Detailed circumstances overcome coefficients relative to remaining objects of system A.
And we can also postulate further systems B, C, D, U, F and so on, in order that through which scheme you may calculate its brainpower, as you like.
MY RUSSIA (1990)
Prefatory Note
My Russia, in the sense of the attributes belonging to her, or in the sense of my personal perception of her, like, so to speak: My Pushkin! My Lenin!
So what would be exceptional in my presentation of her – oh, nothing.
Perhaps, only a faint cold shiver reaching out for me by at night in an alien coolness her hand. She tugs, tugs it – or maybe hugs, or maybe (again, in withdrawing and in frostbitten night what it hasn't imagined!) grabs me by the neck. What is that? That's her right! I wouldn't relinquish citizenship in her by law and by desire. So, that's it.
1.
I remember that day Russia
Was May. In the garden blossomed lilacs
And the atmosphere was unbearably blue
I walked in that village spirit
And towards evening in the field indistinct
And hazy
Distant glimmering spark
And I like a little beast
Fuzzy
Lost in the vast folds of
Soviet-Russian reality
In the years 1947-50
2.
Do you remember places? – not remember places?
Where I was young, where I was a kid
And sang the radio playing
With the lost accordion
At the threshold of evening
Surveying our lives
Whispering: wait a little
And there will be, there will be Communism –
But I had already drunk a
Different poison, correcting the dream
Why, why, O True God
Why did I turn out to be right!
And I'm already old
And you too are disillusioned
And no Communism not ever
3.
I remember the start of autumn
It was barely noteworthy
When the river steamer
Suddenly leapt up, sadly
Blew its only horn
The unicorn that lives in the forest
Answered it
4.
He says to me: but in Russia
I might be killed or detained
All the same pardoned
For the highest idea
I understand
At least assassins and kidnappers
– yes – among the people
Of Russia
That's valued
5.
We go somewhere, we go sometime at night
Suddenly from somewhere there came a horror
A strange, incomprehensible, frightening wild horror
It tickled us with a thin hog voice
Russian domestic chatter fable
Oy, unpardonable, a miracle like the fable of the whirlpool
Lord, Lord, we must make preparations for the enemy
Look, look Lord, we are ready like snow
Lord, look at us, Lord, look we are prepared
Lord
6.
When it masturbates under the stars
Russia shoots a white miracle
And all is white! white whiteness! suddenly – smack!
What does she say in response
Russia?
Grateful, that's what she says! –
And to the devil what she gives birth to,
Fuck you
7.
When like storm clouds patriots
Come from the east to Moscow
What strength they have – who is stronger than them
Who you Moscow yourself
Carried like two hundred versts
Or like a thousand five versts
Then return, then again
As soon as she stands in place
So they are right – the patriots! – passion's advantage among vague stands
8.
I remember a field near Orlov[iii]
Unclean wandered strength
Until everything was twisted
And plunged straight home
In sight of that old woman
Who sat skirt tucked up
Working idleness:
What? You don't like it? But our
Orlovites happen to
Like it
9.
When the elephants of another world
Like black breaths of narzan mineral water
At some funereal banquet
Go rolling by – I, like Tarzan
Scattered, absent-minded
Demand to know, somewhat absent-mindedly:
Where do they come from? From Russia
Yes?
No?
10.
Sink into me, the song of poor Moscow
My starving Moscow
With shudders I gaze, not having cut
In half the dancing worms
Pale angel with transparent fingers
Pulls them out one by one
Lord, how long is needed
This is already made wise
Not dyed blue
11.
Direct relations broken off
The horrible dream of the people
Again exits like in years past
The words of Lermontov on the balcony
Cut out prophetic eyes
Fly towards the side of the women
Words a girl's wardrobe soaks
By uncontrollable internal
Blood
Her
12.
-- I love suburban Moscow groves –
-- Do you love my grove? –
I love, I love!
Faint odor of pond on pond! –
-- Do you love it too? –
Yes, yes! –
-- Faint odor of pond on pond?
I love, I love!
Faint odor of pond on pond
And bloody headlong flourish –
You really love that too? –
I love, I love it!
Moreover, for example, All-Union
Significance
Each new maniac of yours
That we take up in the autumn and that disappears in winter! –
-- You love? –
-- I love!
13.
Oy, it isn't easy to be honest
When everything around you is porous
Like that –
One cell kills
Like a Communist Youth League member
Another cultivates tears
Like a Christian
But a third loves them
Both
And wanders alone
In the heavens
14.
I went out to walk in the garden
But none came out
I went out against
He didn't come out
I exited the garden
Where I screamed out: Holy Shit!
To suss out, suss out that had walked in the garden
Me
15.
Release me, annoying monster (monster Oblomov)
In my simple Russia
You shut both of your tired
Eyes, but like a sorcerer
Pre-celestial
Third eye never-fading blue
You tell me, stuffed with crazy
Space:
Here it is: third death of Russia
So to there you I in disgrace
Release alone
16.
I saw a dream, at first it was
Everything that there was, and then dead
Or dead, and everything drifted
Everything was wild and crazy
What introduced a pure maniac
And I recalled previous force
When sleeping I was in Germany
And then thrust into I was in Russia
And I myself with insane force
Found myself again in Germany
Awake
For the time being
17.
There are women unfinished of my native land
When I go – that weep on the wires
High voltage
From superconductor, when
They go out from the earth everything and forever
Blown all the way through
Them are there – Russian
Women them
18.
Now we talk about mice
There are a billion in Russia
Or already more than a billion
Exceeded – all quiet!
She comes out single – a mouse
And you look her in the face
Just one
19.
When a little kid
Is carried in living hands
Sufficiently small
So that he is separately conceived
From the superabundant living now itself
Especially that fear
Of the firstborn, of the son
Like my Russia
Soviet
The absolute most tender
That could be – not conceived
Just happened to be alive itself
20.
I remember the garden – one was happy there
Where the atmosphere was like saint April
Sarmatian
Hung
And all talked in poetry
Entirely without my own participation
And everything was an insane strength
Hanging – apparently that Russia
Was
21.
We went out in the morning, it was near evening
Suddenly we smelled cheese and heat
And clean-smelling sheep
But a wolfish mad dog
Smelled burning wool –
In that corner Russia died
In the feminine sense, that on the expiration of
Two aeons must have a son
Born
To begin sharply, notably
22.
Spring in Russia. Gummy leaves
Everywhere sweet vodka-y
Sparkling
On each mouse and bleak
Such a tiny little star
Blushing
Whispering to someone, totally tenderly
Touch, touch my crotch –
Yeah right! –
O-o-ooooo!
23.
In Russia, I remember, at the edge of the earth
Turgenev-ish women blossoming
Finding them like that, and they blossom
And singing country songs
Touching – they blossom redder
Run, run along the linden-lined lane
They remember, say, Schelling[iv] and there
Doing the national circle dance with them
And looking back at me
24.
A brief interval of time
I was famous in my country
When, with my immortal name
On their lips
Girls came to me
And said: clear falcon!
Save us, lead us! – it was clear to me
That I had already died again
25.
In the evening sky the sunset glow burns down
Red, the siren-ish atmosphere taunts
In the twilight the village women play with
A tree trunk and torment it marvelously
Something with seven feels like that
Either supplication or China
Something salvational, native
With only an answer: disappear! –
Listen
26.
I float through Russia and everything I don't
Fall asleep, like an angel of the testament
Dividing me, revealing it to me:
Free freedom, easy spine
Already very broken
27.
Oh my dear, in Russia summer
Mushrooms and berries – no strength! –
Yes, dear, but epaulets
Of the German armed forces
On my shoulders! –
But, my dear, you see the sphere
Metaphysically above us?
See it – like the Russian soul
And the gloomy German genius
Conversing
28.
Dark autumn day
Drizzle slapping on the roof
Lord, to me
Nothing but little mice
Destroyed, choked itself
Crazy, within Soviet life
It was crazy
In an just-repaired amulet
Fine children's button-hole
It was crazy
29.
Dragging along in heavy boots
In Syktyvkar,[v] swaying
From weakness, suddenly to come up
A memorial to Doctor Goebbels –
I read the inscription
Exclaim mournfully: My God!
Hungering spiritual thirst
The world is unforgivably wide
I would narrow it – but it isn't narrow
30.
I am soon returning to Russia
Where every whatever is ruined
Historically
But I, but I do not make it worse
Even if I am asked about it
Life itself asked
But no, no I do not make it worse
It isn't my business to execute by firing squad the unhappy souls due to gloomy morals
31.
I see Moscow in my mind
Capital on a shaky edge
Where on the roadside little groves
Like a young girl
The invisible world's tears
Moaned wept wiped away
Silvery dragonflies
So pensively rubbed away
Between the fingers
MOSCOW AND THE MOSCOVITES (1982)
Prefatory note
One must say that in Russian poetry the theme of St. Petersburg (Leningrad) has found a fairly complete and adequate resolution, in terms of the poetic norms and historiosophical concepts of its time.
This book is an attempt to lay the methodological foundations for the study of the poetic theme of Moscow, in accordance with the historiosophical concepts of our time. Like any initial attempt, it will very likely be out of date almost immediately.
Nevertheless, overall, it will stand for us as a total monument to Moscow enlightened.
*
There was ice and powerful smoke
That entered into the sky in a precise order
There was labor – clearly distinct from the scene
But providing a preference to something
And I to them said: Orlov
Your labor – distinct from the scene
But providing a preference to something
Which will be mystical Moscow
*
How beautiful my ancient Moscow
When it stands modestly reflecting
In the bluish waters of the gulf
And reads a dream of Ashurbanipal[vi]
Swooping down on the hot wind of the south
That carries the neighboring desert sands
Swirling onto the streets of Moscow
And further, further, higher and higher – up!
To the snow-covered peaks, half-naked
From whence rises the Eagle
A mighty Porphyrion[vii] beating its wings
And looks down, at the movement of white
Noting it, and folding its wings
It swoops, to meet the Snow Leopard
All sixteen bones and teeth
Exposed fiercely and sudden
And the Moscovites watch the terrible battle
And welcome the winner with “Hurrah!”
*
When the scope of Napoleon
Exceeded the European dimensions of
Thought: we moved Moscow aside, to the depths
Imagine: here, we set a flashing muzzle
There – artillery, there -- Bagration[viii]
Behind him, the entire fabulous Russian nation
And that’s better! Because, it’s better
In every sense
*
Oh Moscow – there’s her and Moscow
What amazes the stranger to death
And affects him so terribly
There is no other choice:
Remain overwhelmed until death
Or come to us – to the Moscovites
*
Everyone tries to harm her
The French, the Germans, and Chinese
All try to grasp her by the throat
She just says to them, Here I am!
And they seem numb with surprise
And retreat, retreat, and go away
And the house is only coming to its senses, groaning
To Moscow! To Moscow! Retreat! Oh, Drang nach Osten[ix]
Run, run – and again they are numb …
As it must be – clearly, God preserves Moscow
*
Who won’t you find in Moscow
Since antiquity, Germans and Poles
Chinese and Mongols, Georgians and
Armenians, Assyrians, Jews
But since then they have all dispersed
Throughout the world, to establish their own States
By the Yellow Sea, in the Caucasus, in Judea
In Europe, in the New World, God knows where
But they remember their holy first homeland
And with begging hands reach for ancient Moscow
Return to Moscow and be received with affection
But some she does not accept
Since it is too soon, not yet the time
A sentence they do not understand, will not serve
Have not matured
*
Once on this site was ancient Rome
That established law and the State
So Moscovites went to the Senate in togas
Crowned with laurel wreaths
Now the punks are different, with their jeans
But they too are the envy of the world
And under the country’s modern clothing
Beats in all the hearts of proud Moscovites
*
When here the movement arose
For a separatist Moscow
They summoned the Mongols at once
Poles, Germans and French
And the whole thing was strangled in the cradle
But even now there is
In any girl’s gait, in the words
There will flash a crazy spark
Of National Moscovite pride
*
When Moscow was still a wolf
And ran in the woods of suburban Moscow
It was then that she settled down
And became a first-class capital
It was then that she went to her children
A large tribe of white-toothed Moscovites
To whom it was given only to see
Both the heaven of barely visible dots
Snatching the suddenly growing flame
And then the sky takes it all to itself
Moscow stands – though there are no Moscovites
*
When the Moscovites promenade
And observe the living slogans
They immediately come to notice
That in the sky is Heavenly Moscow
Scenes of Rome, Constantinople,
Of Poland, Beijing, of the universe
And with scenes of underground Moscow
Where ferocious fire eats, flutters
Through the cracks live breaking
And Moscovites skip, molving
As if through the sky – going to Moscow
*
But in the Moscow of my own epoch
Here is Leninsky Prospekt, and his Mausoleum
The Kremin, Vnukovo, the Bolshoi Theater and the Maly
And the Offisa is at his post
Spring is here, gardens and parks blooming
With acacia, cherry, apple, lilac
Tulips, roses, hollyhocks, dahlias
Grass, fields, meadows, forests and mountains
Above – the heavens, and below – the earth
In the distance – Chinese, Blacks, Murricans
Close at heart – the whole world is deprived of civil rights
It is all the same – all of Moscow grows and breathes
To Poland, grows to Warsaw
To Prague, to Paris, to New York
And everywhere, if you look objectively
Everywhere is Moscow – everywhere are its peoples
And where there is not Moscow – there is only emptiness
*
After all, when one leaves Moscow, escapes the world of its light
Going outside, withdrawing completely from it
The greatness of its soul hits you
And the bravery of its soul proposes
But like an obligation imposed
They did not survive their going forth
Groys and Kosolapov and Shilkovsky
Gerlovin and Sokov and Roginskii[x]
Because of their weak human understanding
They do not deserve to be known as Moscovites
*
When Moscow starts a song
And sings with a fearsome voice
Then who will echo
Even more, what is there
It may be me – I do not fear
To be convicted of self-satisfaction
And it could happen in another place
It may be that’s what I fear
The place where you do not sing along
*
What is Moscow – not a girl, not a bird
Because we fear for her every day
That she does not fly off and we do not disgrace ourselves
She does not marry and does not flee
And is not wife, nor sister, nor mother
But a song: if sung – and there it is
But not sung – that, too, is so
But in a certain sense, otherworldly
*
The White Swan Moscow
Meets a Black Raven
The European wisdom of the scientists
She is innocent and pure
And a hero descends – he shoots
An arrow from his bow but unexpectedly
Accidentally he misses
And falls to Moscow
And he begins to grieve
Walking the empty streets
And he encounters no one
And there he remains and lives
*
When in the world there were mass arrests
And cannibalism and genocide
Various Jews saved themselves
Russians, and Germans, and Chinese
Ran secretly to the forests outside of Moscow
And founded there a city that is Moscow
Of them later it was rarely heard
And Moscovites live without seeing them
Or maybe people just lie without shame
And the name of the country is Moscow
*
Imagine there sleeps a huge giant
Then suddenly, in the north, his foot awakens
Everyone in the north then escapes to the south
Or, in the south, his hand awakens
All over again, they escape from the south to the north!
And if you suddenly were to wake up
The mind, the conscience, say, or honor and intelligence
What will happen! Where can they run?!
*
Often it happens, that gloomy picture
That for some reason visits the minds of the Moscovites
Often, it seems to them, that winter
Surrounded by snow, frozen by frost
But it is important to find the right word
And again, in its fullest sense here,
So that the Moscovites may edify their progeny
*
Here they replaced Moscow
And hid it from the poor Moscovites
And she sits underground and weeps
All standing in the domes and turrets
All in the transparent portico of the Parthenon
And the straight statues of the Erechtheion[xi]
And huge statues of Akhenaten[xii]
And in the waters of the Nile, the Ganges, and the Yangtze
*
When your sons, my Moscow
Go forth with great weapons
Wherever you look – the Demon is everywhere
Far from them – the Demon! And near to them – the Demon!
Neighboring them – the Demon! Their father – the Demon!
And the Moscovites catch and banish the specter
And again is lit sacred Moscow
*
Where there shone two famous chasms
O thou, my Moscow, stepped forward, covering your breasts
At the very edge of streaming soot and smoke
And woe to those who will move you from your place
There is an embarrassed smell coming from you
And the Moscovites shall all defend
And it shall strike and save them
*
It would be better just not to live in Moscow
But only to know that somewhere it is there
Surrounded by high walls
High and distant dreams
And gazing at all the surrounding world
That flies and confirms
Personally themselves and asserts
Personally themselves and generates
Personally in their willing heart
This is what it means – to live in Moscow
*
Look, Orlov, since we do not live forever
It is entirely shameful that we miscalculated
That we live with you on the edge of the world
And somewhere out there – the real Moscow
With a bay, lagoons, mountains
With events of world significance
And Moscovites proud of themselves
But no, as it happens, Moscow is where we are
Moscow abides, where we point out to her
To where we were brought – there is Moscow!
That is – in Moscow!
*
No text and won’t be.
*
No text and won’t be.
CAPTIVATING STAR OF RUSSIAN POETRY
It is impossible for a poet to be without a People. The roots of the poet are in the folk – in the People, and the poetic roots of the People, are, again, among the People. All this, the great Russian poet Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin understood.
At that time, the internal and foreign policy situation was complicated. Napoleon loomed over Russia then, blockaded all its ports and roads, preparing to descend on our homeland. But inside the country, in her very heart, in her capital, in old Petersburg, with the connivance and direct assistance of the Tsarist court and government officials, so as to favor French influence, the French ambassador Heeckeren and his nephew brought decadence into Russian society. Already all the highest circles spoke only French, with a perfect accent, even to the French ear, and the Empress was in correspondence, also in French, with Voltaire, one of the instigators of the French Revolution, which later developed into the dictatorship of Napoleon. Unaware, a small handful of youth, with the connivance of the authorities, succumbed to propaganda and, at that difficult and dangerous moment, came into Senate Square with pro-French, anti-popular slogans calculated to split Russian society in the face of the invader.
Only Pushkin understood the danger looming over Russia. Where he could, he reproached Napoleon, that apocalyptic beast, and denounced the cowardice and corruption of high society, which tried to close its eyes to an impending catastrophe of global scale and fear, with balls and receptions, which were to welcome Napoleon's protégé and agent Heeckeren, without regrets, forcing the denigration of all Russians, and especially the great Russian poet, seeing him as a single, but powerful, opponent, thanks to the support of the lower levels of society. The Napoleonic agent Chaadaeva wrote his notorious philosophical letters, where in the end he slung mud at Pushkin and the entire Russian people, saying that it would be nice to be subjects of the French, calling them a good and cultured nation.
Without declaring war, Napoleon crossed our state border and began to reconnoiter the territory of our homeland. But Pushkin decided to lure the usurper into the depths of Russian snows, rightly expecting weak resistance, and that the French, compared to Russian men, would be unaccustomed to suffering. Pushkin decided to allow him to approach closer, and toured the vast expanses of the homeland and urged the people to prepare to fight the invaders: dig trenches, collect weapons and Molotov cocktails, to burn bread and not to surrender.
Heeckeren and his nephew decided to act directly against the poet. They knew that the great poet was intolerant of any kind of bad attitudes or unworthy behavior towards women. One day all the upper crust had gathered at a ball. They talked only of the latest news from Paris, about art exhibitions, literary journals, as though Russia could provide nothing acceptable as a topic of conversation or argument. Among them was Pushkin, tall, blonde, with delicate hands; looking at all this cosmopolitan society, he said in loud voice: "Gentlemen, we move on Napoleon."
Everyone looked sheepishly at each other, as if he had blurted out some nonsense to a foreigner. But Heeckeren’s nephew, small, swarthy, like a monkey, with a face neither of a Negro nor of a Jew, suddenly kicked the great poet’s leg, bruising him, like a beast, while the crowd of big loafers laughed. Pushkin got up, clenching his fists, but he realized that the French had deliberately provoked his protege in order to cause a scandal. He wants a duel so that somehow he can kill me. No, this cannot be - thinks Pushkin – I need the People, and the honor of the People is above personal honor.
Heeckeren’s nephew flashed through the crowd, whispering something in everyone’s ear. It was something about Potemkin, about the Empress herself. And it drove Pushkin from the home of his friends Kuchelbecker and Baratynsky.
Pushkin then came out of this stifling atmosphere into the fresh air, where simple People gathered, and who were delighted to see the learned poet and said:
"Father, the French will not allow us to live, they villainously take all the money and land away. We are exasperated by their extortion, beatings and torments. Don’t let the French plague the Russian people. "
But Pushkin answered, "Take heart, brothers. God has sent us this test. It is just a test – believe it, even as you suffer. A great future awaits Russia, and we must be worthy of it. "
"Thank you, Father", - answered the People.
Then a messenger made his way through the crowd and said that the British had landed in Murmansk. The great poet crossed himself before the crowd, touched the head of his faithful companion, the furious Vissarion Belinsky, embraced him, kissed him three times and sent him against the British. But he still intended to lure Bonaparte in, to allow him to approach closer.
Alexander Sergeevich returned again to the hall. And there he said that the Russian people did not oppose Western culture or history. However, the news media in the West, made everything significant, and so their conclusions appeared to be deeper. Pushkin then said, in a resounding young voice: "Gentlemen, the English have landed in the north."
All looked quizzically at each other. Heeckeren’s nephew, dark-haired, nimble as a bug, ran to the poet, jumping like a grasshopper, and slapped him on the cheek and slipped into the crowd. Pushkin clenched his fists, but realized again that the French agent was deliberately provoking a scandal. He wants to duel in order to kill me. No, this cannot be – thinks Pushkin – I need the People, and the honor of the Nation is above personal honor. But Heeckeren’s nephew flashed through the crowd, whispering something into all ears. It involved something about Arakcheeva, and about Alexander himself. And Pushkin was driven from the home of his friends Zhukovsky and Vyazma.
Alexander Sergeevich came out of this stifling atmosphere into the fresh air, where ordinary People were gathered, who were delighted to see the learned poet and said:
"Father, the French will not allow us to live, they villainously take all the money and land away. We are exasperated by their extortion, beatings and torments. Don’t let the French plague the Russian people. "
But Pushkin answered, "Take heart, brothers. God has sent us this test. It is just a test – believe it, even as you suffer. A great future awaits Russia, and we must be worthy of it."
"Thank you, Father", - answered the People.
Then a messenger made his way through the crowd and said that the Japanese have already landed in Vladivostok. Pushkin crossed himself before the crowd, touched the head of his faithful companion the fierce Nikolai Chernyshevsky, and embraced him, he kissed him three times and sent him against the Japanese. But all agreed to lure Bonaparte in, to allow him to approach even closer.
Alexander Seergevich returned again to the hall. And right there was the hum of everyone screaming that all Russians should go to the West, to improve their breed for at least two or three generations, to correct and clean up their Asiatic nature, and only then to return to Russia and start from scratch. In a loud, strong voice, Pushkin said: "Gentlemen, the Japanese have landed in the East." All turned toward him, not understanding.
Meanwhile, Heeckeren’s nephew ran into the middle of the hall; he rose up against the great poet, restless as a little devil, and under the approving roar all of high society began to tell all sorts of obscene and totally made-up stories about the wife of the great poet, Natalia Goncharova, accompanying all with obscene gestures and body movements. "And, in general, all Russian women ... "- he said, obscenely cursing. Everyone laughed and applauded, even Nicholas and Benkendorf graciously bowed their heads. Pushkin understood then that he could not tolerate any longer these wounds not only to the honor of his wife, but that of all Russian women. Then he raised his glittering eyes to the enemy and said, "For insulting the honor of women of my beloved land, I challenge you to a duel tomorrow at the Black River."
Heeckeren’s nephew shivered like an aspen leaf, and fell to the floor. Then the imposing Heeckeren come forth and said, with a smile: "We accept your challenge", took his weakened nephew into his arms like a baby, and carried him away. And Pushkin was driven from the home of his friends Turgenev and Tyutchev.
Alexander Sergeevich came out of this stifling atmosphere into the fresh air, where ordinary People were gathered, who were delighted to see the learned poet and said:
"Father, the French will not allow us to live, they villainously take all the money and land away. We are exasperated by their extortion, beatings and torments. Don’t let the French plague the Russian people. "
But Pushkin answered, "Take heart, brothers. God has sent us this test. It is just a test – believe it, even as you suffer. A great future awaits Russia, and we must be worthy of it."
"Thank you, Father", - answered the People.
Then a messenger made his way through the crowd and said that Bonaparte had reached Borodino, and was observing Moscow from the Poklonnaya Hill,[xiii] in order to capture it. Then the great poet crossed himself before the crowd, and with a sharp movement threw his overcoat on shoulders, tied on his sword, had his warhorse brought to him, and led the People to meet the treacherous enemy. When they came to the field at Borodino it was already evening. Alexander Sergeevich ordered that trenches be dug, fortifications and pillboxes put up, bridges and lines of communication be built. All night the people worked and built an impregnable line of defense. And it was the great poet who directed, where someone should stand, which Marshal should lead whom, where to set up the artillery batteries, where to hide in ambush, who should start and who should conclude, who said, what would soon happen, therefore, if such and such happens, and without waiting for the battle to begin, he galloped to the Black River.
Pushkin rode to the Black River, where Heeckeren’s nephew and his accomplices had already had an hour or two to prepare. The nephew himself was pale, weak like a lizard, swallowing pills to calm his nerves, and wore under his shirt some sort of impenetrable armor made of a secret alloy. Pushkin looked at him with some pity even, took his gun, and went away and began to prepare. While he was loading his gun, with his back to his enemies, so as not to embarrass them, a shot rang out and a bullet went right into the heart of the great poet. He fell, and Heeckeren’s nephew, dodging like a rabbit, started to run away, along with his henchmen. "Stop!” - shouted Pushkin. – “Stop!" But he fled into the forest. Then Pushkin, with the last of his strength, aimed and fired. Pushkin's bullet struck Heeckeren’s nephew’s steel armor and lodged there. The remaining bullets lodged in the dying poet and the collaborators of the French agent.
And at that moment, the Russian People, thanks to the skillful disposition of forces planned by the great poet, defeated the French at Borodino and celebrated a total and conclusive victory. They began to look for Pushkin, but could not find him. On the third day, one of the rescue teams came across the still body of the great Russian poet. They picked him up, laid him on the carriage of heavy guns, covered in purple silk, put a shield at his head and a sword between his legs and to the mournful sounds of a brass band took him off to the field of Borodino. The troops lined up, their banners dropped, and with a friendly saluting volley, laid him in a crude grave. And they all wept, even the defeated Bonaparte and his generals. The body of Heeckeren’s young and dastardly nephew remained in the field, at the mercy of the crows and wolves.
There cannot be a poet without a People, but also, a People cannot be without its poet.
AND DEAD FELL THE ENEMIES
Long ago in Russia there lived the Great Russian writer. He was famous throughout the world, even among those who could not read Russian, even among those who could not even read at all.
His origins were noble and pure. On his father’s side he descended from Rurik himself, while his mother was a direct descendant of Ivan the Terrible. His was not a famous surname, and there had not been as talented a writer of that surname.
The writer lived as was appropriate for one of his nobility and wealth, and according to the standards of his circle. He went to dances, ate in restaurants, played cards, fought duels and wrote books. He tried everything and was lucky in everything.
Once, he went with friends and gypsies to the suburban restaurant Yar. Halfway there they stopped. The driver said: "Master, the axle is broken. It must be fixed." The writer got out of the carriage. For the first time in his life he found himself on foot outside his estate or the English Club. In a circle around him, groaning, the peasants were working in the fields, like slaves, the women harnessed to the plow, and the kids crying, swollen with hunger, the skinny beast roaring, and the low grain rustling sorrowfully. The writer looked around, and his soul was beset by painful suffering.
He jumped back into the carriage and gave the order to ride back home. His friends and gypsies were surprised, the writer was silent, and the coachman hurried. They rode home. And immediately the greater writer sold to some friend his estate Yasnaya Polyana, including all the livestock, furniture, clothes, and distributed the money and land to the poor, and went to the People.[xiv]
He got to the People, and hired the Barge Haulers on the Volga. He was of enormous stature and excessively powerful, and everywhere he defended the rights of ordinary working people. The brigade where he worked got bigger, and he fed it more deliciously. The writer was respected among the People, who wondered: how did such a just and literate one wind up among them.
The writer observed the lives of the people and realized that he could never work in all the factories, all the brigades and cooperatives, or mow all the fields, in order to uphold the People's truth. He understood that only Revolution could help. He wrote a song about the Petrel, proudly fluttering over the gray abyss of the sea, entirely unafraid of the storm and the many sorts of dastardly penguins and loons with their fat bodies hiding somewhere warmer. In his song, the great writer exposed the enemies, and called on the People to revolt. The People learned about this song and rose up.[xv]
But not enough People took up arms firmly, and they were defeated. The penguins and loons attacked the great writer, shouting: “You should not have taken up arms." The writer stood up straight and said, proudly, "It had to be, and could only be, with courage and determination." But the People were deceived and believed the loons and penguins, and instituted surveillance of the writer by the Third Department.
Said the writer: "Someday they will realize that I was right, that I was wholeheartedly for them." Then he slipped away from the surveillance and fled to Italy and the deserted island of Capri. He made a hut for himself and began to live there, eating berries and mushrooms. On a small stump, which he used as a table, the writer began to create the greatest books about the working class, to open the People's eyes to deception.
All over the world, in every country, they heard that there lived in Italy, on the desert island of Capri, a sage, who ate only berries and mushrooms, and who wrote day and night. They came to him for advice. He helped the Italian railway workers to win a strike, the British to establish their trade unions, and the Germans to organize the Second International. And he spoke to each his native language, without the least accent, which was his only weakness. To each he discoursed on health, on women, on children, and gave advice, and taught them to let go of the world. And glory came of it.
Then one day, like thunder in clear skies, out into the world came the book of the great writer, the world's first book on the working class. The Russian People understood that they had given an irreparable offense to the great writer, and the People were worried.
The Tsar read the book and realized that it meant he had come to an end. Then he sent an agent of the Third Department to Capri. The agent came and said to the Great Russian writer: "It was the Tsar himself who sent me. Truly, writer, all authority in Russia obeys but one Tsar. And the People shall be happy with him in power." But the Great Russian writer answered: "I do not want to come to the people through authority. I want them to come to me out of love." And the agent went away with nothing.
And the People worried even more. Then the Tsar sent a second agent of the Third Department to Capri. The agent came and said to the Great Russian writer: "It was the Tsar himself who sent me. The people are without food. Truly, writer, all the power in Russia feeds the People, who obey but one Tsar." But the Great Russian writer answered: "I do not want to lure the people with bread. I want them to come to me out of love." And the agent went away with nothing.
And the People worried even more. A deputation of workers came to the great writer and said: "We have offended you, but now we understand everything. Lead us, writer, we will make something unprecedented, hitherto non-existent in the world. Stand as our chief." And the writer answered: "Fine. Now, just pull yourself together."
He came to Russia and led the People to storm the Winter Palace, the stronghold of autocracy. There were cannon firing, machine guns chattering, guns pounding, bombs exploding, hell of a pandemonium, but took the writer was cool as winter. And remarkably, none of his People were killed, or even injured.
And thus Soviet power was established. It established happiness: everyone walks the streets well-fed, happy, smiling. There is the writer out strolling, and all bow to him, give thanks to him and wish him many years of life.
But the enemies were not satisfied and sent spies disguised as doctors to the Great Russian writer. The Enemies of the People convinced the writer that he needed medical treatment. And the people loved the writer, and believed the enemies’ doctor. And thus they doctored the perfectly healthy Great Russian writer to death.
When the People found out about it, they ripped the doctor-spies to shreds, as well as other enemies that had been detected.
But, thanks to the death of the Great Russian writer, this only strengthened Soviet power. People realized what great happiness the writer had been preparing, if his enemies were this afraid. And so every single one of them supported Soviet power.
Thus, with his own death, the Great Russian writer trampled his enemies.
[i] Probably Ignatii Potapenko, minor late 19th century Russian writer (of Ukrainian origin), whose best known work is DIARY OF A RUSSIAN PRIEST. There is also a Ukrainian basketball player of that name who played in the NBA during the '90s
[ii] Various Russian and Soviet writers.
[iii] A town in the eastern part of European Russia, west of Perm and east of Nizhni Novgord.
[iv] German Idealist philosopher of the late 18th early 19th century.
[v] A town in the north eastern part of European Russia, capital of the Komi Republic of the Russian Federation
[vi] Ashurbanipal (685BC-626BC) was the last strong King of the Assyrian Empire. He assembled a large library of cuneiform documents, which survived and are now in the British Museum. He is often identified with an Assyrian King known to the Roman as Sardanapalus. Sardanapalus was reputed to “equate the good life with a life of brute pleasure,” and his decadence became a theme in Romantic literature and art, e.g., as the subject of a painting by Delacroix, and a play by Byron.
[vii] In Greek mythology, Porphyrion was a Giant, the offspring of Gaia and Tartarus – Pindar called him “King of the Giants” – who died in the battle between the Giants and the Gods of Olympus, slain by either Zeus or Herakles or Apollo; accounts differ.
[viii] Pyotr Bagration (1765—1812), Russian General (of Georgian origin), a hero of the Battle of Borodino, at which he was mortally wounded. A leading figure in Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
[ix] “Push to the East,” in Cyrillic transliterated German in the original. Refers to German expansion into Slavic lands.
[x] Soviet “nonconformist” or dissident artists, colleagues of Prigov, all of whom emigrated to the west in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Boris Groys is an art critic and philosopher credited with naming the Moscow conceptualist school of which Prigov is a leading exemplar. Although Prigov lived part of the time in Germany, he did so only after the collapse of the Soviet Union, years after this poem was written.
[xi] An ancient Greek temple on the north side of the Acropolis, dedicated to Athena and Poseidon.
[xii] An Egyptian Pharaoh (d. circa 1335 BC) who introduced a monotheistic form of sun worship; his queen was Nefertiti.
[xiii] The highest point in Moscow, on the west side of the city.
[xiv] Radical movement in late 19th century, “going to the people,” combined with Tolstoyan renunciation.
[xv] “The Stormy Petrel” was a revolutionary poem by Maxim Gorky.
Dimitri Alexandrovich PRIGOV (1940—2007)
Translator's note: Prigov was a member of the “Moscow Conceptual art” school; Lev Rubinstein is another, well-known member. Prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union, Prigov published in underground and émigré journals, and was briefly sent to a psychiatric hospital after being arrested by the KGB. With the onset of glasnost and perestroika, he was able to publish and show his visual art in “official” venues, and also exhibited his art outside of Russia. He won several prizes, including, in 2002, the Boris Pasternak prize. He died of a heart attack in 2007.
ABOUT EMPTINESS (1999)
Prefatory Note
As to the question of emptiness there is no direct non-synonymous and correct answer. There are only evasive and glancing answers. But exactly by the way of purposeful sliding, like curving space around a black hole, it is possible to judge emptiness more or less definitively.
***
Emptiness – male or female? –
Answer to this question: Yes
Emptiness begins with something or something ends emptiness? –
Answer to this question: Yes
Or it answers: Maybe
Or a third answer: Everything revitalizes
Emptiness has appearance or use? –
Answer to this question: directly
Emptiness – it is one or two? –
Answer to this question: to the extent necessary
Does emptiness think of itself in terms of emptiness or fullness? --
This question is not always followed with an answer
The product of emptiness is itself itself, or something else, or producing something else? –
Answer to this question is evasive
Does emptiness reveal itself in something or other, or only in emptiness? –
Answer to this question is to stick up two big fingers on both hands
Emptiness senses apparently or grasps speculatively?
Answer to this question is with two fingers, joined in a circle
Is it worth doing a favor for emptiness or loaning it money? –
Answer to this question is with a nod of the head
You're silent, either because you are emptiness, or because you have nothing to say about emptiness? –
Answer to this question is spoken silently
Everything in emptiness is satisfied with emptiness or is there something that exceeds it? –
Answer to this question is absent
Emptiness manifests as only emptiness, or through emptiness it manifests as all, all manifesting through emptiness, manifests either empty or in extreme abundance? –
This question should be answered emptily
BRAIN POWER
Prefatory Note
It goes without saying that brain power hardly determines our affairs. In our fine perceptions – artistically giving rise to art. Yet, however, alas, it is only that, which maybe more or less exactly definitely expresses it with the correct perspective.
***
Its true, that Tolstoy was 2.5 times as smart as than Chekhov.
But Dostoevsky, depending on the season and cyclical fluctuations, was 3 times as smart as Tolstoy, or twice as stupid as him.
But Chekhov, for his part, was 24 times as smart as Potapenko.[i]
And thus, Tolstoy was 60 times as smart as Potapenko.
But Dostoevsky, depending on the previously described conditions, was 7.5 times as smart as Chekhov, or 1.25 times.
And as for Potapenko, Dostoevsky was either 180 times smarter, or at least 30 times.
To go further into details, with reference to Kuprin, Bunin, Remizov, Zamyatin, Bulgakov, Sholokov, Vaginov and Dobichnin[ii]:
So accordingly we have this distribution:
For Tolstoy – 70, 7, 40, 30, 28, 25, 4, 6.
For Dostoevsky – 210 and 35, 120 and 20, 90 and 15, 84 and 14, 75 and 12, 5, 12 and 2, 18 and 3.
For Chekhov – 28, 2.8, 16, 12, 11.2, 10, 1.6, 2.4.
So, let us talk about something completely different.
It is given that Platonov was on the same mental level as Sorokin, in all circumstances, that can be assumed.
However, there is one system, with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and so on, which we may label as A.
Then the system of Platonov – Sorokin would be termed as B.
Under these circumstances the brain power of Tolstoy relative to Platonov – Sorokin would be A:B.
Or relatively, Dostoevsky in variant 3A:B or 0.5A:B.
Or relatively, Chekhov 0.4A:B.
Detailed circumstances overcome coefficients relative to remaining objects of system A.
And we can also postulate further systems B, C, D, U, F and so on, in order that through which scheme you may calculate its brainpower, as you like.
MY RUSSIA (1990)
Prefatory Note
My Russia, in the sense of the attributes belonging to her, or in the sense of my personal perception of her, like, so to speak: My Pushkin! My Lenin!
So what would be exceptional in my presentation of her – oh, nothing.
Perhaps, only a faint cold shiver reaching out for me by at night in an alien coolness her hand. She tugs, tugs it – or maybe hugs, or maybe (again, in withdrawing and in frostbitten night what it hasn't imagined!) grabs me by the neck. What is that? That's her right! I wouldn't relinquish citizenship in her by law and by desire. So, that's it.
1.
I remember that day Russia
Was May. In the garden blossomed lilacs
And the atmosphere was unbearably blue
I walked in that village spirit
And towards evening in the field indistinct
And hazy
Distant glimmering spark
And I like a little beast
Fuzzy
Lost in the vast folds of
Soviet-Russian reality
In the years 1947-50
2.
Do you remember places? – not remember places?
Where I was young, where I was a kid
And sang the radio playing
With the lost accordion
At the threshold of evening
Surveying our lives
Whispering: wait a little
And there will be, there will be Communism –
But I had already drunk a
Different poison, correcting the dream
Why, why, O True God
Why did I turn out to be right!
And I'm already old
And you too are disillusioned
And no Communism not ever
3.
I remember the start of autumn
It was barely noteworthy
When the river steamer
Suddenly leapt up, sadly
Blew its only horn
The unicorn that lives in the forest
Answered it
4.
He says to me: but in Russia
I might be killed or detained
All the same pardoned
For the highest idea
I understand
At least assassins and kidnappers
– yes – among the people
Of Russia
That's valued
5.
We go somewhere, we go sometime at night
Suddenly from somewhere there came a horror
A strange, incomprehensible, frightening wild horror
It tickled us with a thin hog voice
Russian domestic chatter fable
Oy, unpardonable, a miracle like the fable of the whirlpool
Lord, Lord, we must make preparations for the enemy
Look, look Lord, we are ready like snow
Lord, look at us, Lord, look we are prepared
Lord
6.
When it masturbates under the stars
Russia shoots a white miracle
And all is white! white whiteness! suddenly – smack!
What does she say in response
Russia?
Grateful, that's what she says! –
And to the devil what she gives birth to,
Fuck you
7.
When like storm clouds patriots
Come from the east to Moscow
What strength they have – who is stronger than them
Who you Moscow yourself
Carried like two hundred versts
Or like a thousand five versts
Then return, then again
As soon as she stands in place
So they are right – the patriots! – passion's advantage among vague stands
8.
I remember a field near Orlov[iii]
Unclean wandered strength
Until everything was twisted
And plunged straight home
In sight of that old woman
Who sat skirt tucked up
Working idleness:
What? You don't like it? But our
Orlovites happen to
Like it
9.
When the elephants of another world
Like black breaths of narzan mineral water
At some funereal banquet
Go rolling by – I, like Tarzan
Scattered, absent-minded
Demand to know, somewhat absent-mindedly:
Where do they come from? From Russia
Yes?
No?
10.
Sink into me, the song of poor Moscow
My starving Moscow
With shudders I gaze, not having cut
In half the dancing worms
Pale angel with transparent fingers
Pulls them out one by one
Lord, how long is needed
This is already made wise
Not dyed blue
11.
Direct relations broken off
The horrible dream of the people
Again exits like in years past
The words of Lermontov on the balcony
Cut out prophetic eyes
Fly towards the side of the women
Words a girl's wardrobe soaks
By uncontrollable internal
Blood
Her
12.
-- I love suburban Moscow groves –
-- Do you love my grove? –
I love, I love!
Faint odor of pond on pond! –
-- Do you love it too? –
Yes, yes! –
-- Faint odor of pond on pond?
I love, I love!
Faint odor of pond on pond
And bloody headlong flourish –
You really love that too? –
I love, I love it!
Moreover, for example, All-Union
Significance
Each new maniac of yours
That we take up in the autumn and that disappears in winter! –
-- You love? –
-- I love!
13.
Oy, it isn't easy to be honest
When everything around you is porous
Like that –
One cell kills
Like a Communist Youth League member
Another cultivates tears
Like a Christian
But a third loves them
Both
And wanders alone
In the heavens
14.
I went out to walk in the garden
But none came out
I went out against
He didn't come out
I exited the garden
Where I screamed out: Holy Shit!
To suss out, suss out that had walked in the garden
Me
15.
Release me, annoying monster (monster Oblomov)
In my simple Russia
You shut both of your tired
Eyes, but like a sorcerer
Pre-celestial
Third eye never-fading blue
You tell me, stuffed with crazy
Space:
Here it is: third death of Russia
So to there you I in disgrace
Release alone
16.
I saw a dream, at first it was
Everything that there was, and then dead
Or dead, and everything drifted
Everything was wild and crazy
What introduced a pure maniac
And I recalled previous force
When sleeping I was in Germany
And then thrust into I was in Russia
And I myself with insane force
Found myself again in Germany
Awake
For the time being
17.
There are women unfinished of my native land
When I go – that weep on the wires
High voltage
From superconductor, when
They go out from the earth everything and forever
Blown all the way through
Them are there – Russian
Women them
18.
Now we talk about mice
There are a billion in Russia
Or already more than a billion
Exceeded – all quiet!
She comes out single – a mouse
And you look her in the face
Just one
19.
When a little kid
Is carried in living hands
Sufficiently small
So that he is separately conceived
From the superabundant living now itself
Especially that fear
Of the firstborn, of the son
Like my Russia
Soviet
The absolute most tender
That could be – not conceived
Just happened to be alive itself
20.
I remember the garden – one was happy there
Where the atmosphere was like saint April
Sarmatian
Hung
And all talked in poetry
Entirely without my own participation
And everything was an insane strength
Hanging – apparently that Russia
Was
21.
We went out in the morning, it was near evening
Suddenly we smelled cheese and heat
And clean-smelling sheep
But a wolfish mad dog
Smelled burning wool –
In that corner Russia died
In the feminine sense, that on the expiration of
Two aeons must have a son
Born
To begin sharply, notably
22.
Spring in Russia. Gummy leaves
Everywhere sweet vodka-y
Sparkling
On each mouse and bleak
Such a tiny little star
Blushing
Whispering to someone, totally tenderly
Touch, touch my crotch –
Yeah right! –
O-o-ooooo!
23.
In Russia, I remember, at the edge of the earth
Turgenev-ish women blossoming
Finding them like that, and they blossom
And singing country songs
Touching – they blossom redder
Run, run along the linden-lined lane
They remember, say, Schelling[iv] and there
Doing the national circle dance with them
And looking back at me
24.
A brief interval of time
I was famous in my country
When, with my immortal name
On their lips
Girls came to me
And said: clear falcon!
Save us, lead us! – it was clear to me
That I had already died again
25.
In the evening sky the sunset glow burns down
Red, the siren-ish atmosphere taunts
In the twilight the village women play with
A tree trunk and torment it marvelously
Something with seven feels like that
Either supplication or China
Something salvational, native
With only an answer: disappear! –
Listen
26.
I float through Russia and everything I don't
Fall asleep, like an angel of the testament
Dividing me, revealing it to me:
Free freedom, easy spine
Already very broken
27.
Oh my dear, in Russia summer
Mushrooms and berries – no strength! –
Yes, dear, but epaulets
Of the German armed forces
On my shoulders! –
But, my dear, you see the sphere
Metaphysically above us?
See it – like the Russian soul
And the gloomy German genius
Conversing
28.
Dark autumn day
Drizzle slapping on the roof
Lord, to me
Nothing but little mice
Destroyed, choked itself
Crazy, within Soviet life
It was crazy
In an just-repaired amulet
Fine children's button-hole
It was crazy
29.
Dragging along in heavy boots
In Syktyvkar,[v] swaying
From weakness, suddenly to come up
A memorial to Doctor Goebbels –
I read the inscription
Exclaim mournfully: My God!
Hungering spiritual thirst
The world is unforgivably wide
I would narrow it – but it isn't narrow
30.
I am soon returning to Russia
Where every whatever is ruined
Historically
But I, but I do not make it worse
Even if I am asked about it
Life itself asked
But no, no I do not make it worse
It isn't my business to execute by firing squad the unhappy souls due to gloomy morals
31.
I see Moscow in my mind
Capital on a shaky edge
Where on the roadside little groves
Like a young girl
The invisible world's tears
Moaned wept wiped away
Silvery dragonflies
So pensively rubbed away
Between the fingers
MOSCOW AND THE MOSCOVITES (1982)
Prefatory note
One must say that in Russian poetry the theme of St. Petersburg (Leningrad) has found a fairly complete and adequate resolution, in terms of the poetic norms and historiosophical concepts of its time.
This book is an attempt to lay the methodological foundations for the study of the poetic theme of Moscow, in accordance with the historiosophical concepts of our time. Like any initial attempt, it will very likely be out of date almost immediately.
Nevertheless, overall, it will stand for us as a total monument to Moscow enlightened.
*
There was ice and powerful smoke
That entered into the sky in a precise order
There was labor – clearly distinct from the scene
But providing a preference to something
And I to them said: Orlov
Your labor – distinct from the scene
But providing a preference to something
Which will be mystical Moscow
*
How beautiful my ancient Moscow
When it stands modestly reflecting
In the bluish waters of the gulf
And reads a dream of Ashurbanipal[vi]
Swooping down on the hot wind of the south
That carries the neighboring desert sands
Swirling onto the streets of Moscow
And further, further, higher and higher – up!
To the snow-covered peaks, half-naked
From whence rises the Eagle
A mighty Porphyrion[vii] beating its wings
And looks down, at the movement of white
Noting it, and folding its wings
It swoops, to meet the Snow Leopard
All sixteen bones and teeth
Exposed fiercely and sudden
And the Moscovites watch the terrible battle
And welcome the winner with “Hurrah!”
*
When the scope of Napoleon
Exceeded the European dimensions of
Thought: we moved Moscow aside, to the depths
Imagine: here, we set a flashing muzzle
There – artillery, there -- Bagration[viii]
Behind him, the entire fabulous Russian nation
And that’s better! Because, it’s better
In every sense
*
Oh Moscow – there’s her and Moscow
What amazes the stranger to death
And affects him so terribly
There is no other choice:
Remain overwhelmed until death
Or come to us – to the Moscovites
*
Everyone tries to harm her
The French, the Germans, and Chinese
All try to grasp her by the throat
She just says to them, Here I am!
And they seem numb with surprise
And retreat, retreat, and go away
And the house is only coming to its senses, groaning
To Moscow! To Moscow! Retreat! Oh, Drang nach Osten[ix]
Run, run – and again they are numb …
As it must be – clearly, God preserves Moscow
*
Who won’t you find in Moscow
Since antiquity, Germans and Poles
Chinese and Mongols, Georgians and
Armenians, Assyrians, Jews
But since then they have all dispersed
Throughout the world, to establish their own States
By the Yellow Sea, in the Caucasus, in Judea
In Europe, in the New World, God knows where
But they remember their holy first homeland
And with begging hands reach for ancient Moscow
Return to Moscow and be received with affection
But some she does not accept
Since it is too soon, not yet the time
A sentence they do not understand, will not serve
Have not matured
*
Once on this site was ancient Rome
That established law and the State
So Moscovites went to the Senate in togas
Crowned with laurel wreaths
Now the punks are different, with their jeans
But they too are the envy of the world
And under the country’s modern clothing
Beats in all the hearts of proud Moscovites
*
When here the movement arose
For a separatist Moscow
They summoned the Mongols at once
Poles, Germans and French
And the whole thing was strangled in the cradle
But even now there is
In any girl’s gait, in the words
There will flash a crazy spark
Of National Moscovite pride
*
When Moscow was still a wolf
And ran in the woods of suburban Moscow
It was then that she settled down
And became a first-class capital
It was then that she went to her children
A large tribe of white-toothed Moscovites
To whom it was given only to see
Both the heaven of barely visible dots
Snatching the suddenly growing flame
And then the sky takes it all to itself
Moscow stands – though there are no Moscovites
*
When the Moscovites promenade
And observe the living slogans
They immediately come to notice
That in the sky is Heavenly Moscow
Scenes of Rome, Constantinople,
Of Poland, Beijing, of the universe
And with scenes of underground Moscow
Where ferocious fire eats, flutters
Through the cracks live breaking
And Moscovites skip, molving
As if through the sky – going to Moscow
*
But in the Moscow of my own epoch
Here is Leninsky Prospekt, and his Mausoleum
The Kremin, Vnukovo, the Bolshoi Theater and the Maly
And the Offisa is at his post
Spring is here, gardens and parks blooming
With acacia, cherry, apple, lilac
Tulips, roses, hollyhocks, dahlias
Grass, fields, meadows, forests and mountains
Above – the heavens, and below – the earth
In the distance – Chinese, Blacks, Murricans
Close at heart – the whole world is deprived of civil rights
It is all the same – all of Moscow grows and breathes
To Poland, grows to Warsaw
To Prague, to Paris, to New York
And everywhere, if you look objectively
Everywhere is Moscow – everywhere are its peoples
And where there is not Moscow – there is only emptiness
*
After all, when one leaves Moscow, escapes the world of its light
Going outside, withdrawing completely from it
The greatness of its soul hits you
And the bravery of its soul proposes
But like an obligation imposed
They did not survive their going forth
Groys and Kosolapov and Shilkovsky
Gerlovin and Sokov and Roginskii[x]
Because of their weak human understanding
They do not deserve to be known as Moscovites
*
When Moscow starts a song
And sings with a fearsome voice
Then who will echo
Even more, what is there
It may be me – I do not fear
To be convicted of self-satisfaction
And it could happen in another place
It may be that’s what I fear
The place where you do not sing along
*
What is Moscow – not a girl, not a bird
Because we fear for her every day
That she does not fly off and we do not disgrace ourselves
She does not marry and does not flee
And is not wife, nor sister, nor mother
But a song: if sung – and there it is
But not sung – that, too, is so
But in a certain sense, otherworldly
*
The White Swan Moscow
Meets a Black Raven
The European wisdom of the scientists
She is innocent and pure
And a hero descends – he shoots
An arrow from his bow but unexpectedly
Accidentally he misses
And falls to Moscow
And he begins to grieve
Walking the empty streets
And he encounters no one
And there he remains and lives
*
When in the world there were mass arrests
And cannibalism and genocide
Various Jews saved themselves
Russians, and Germans, and Chinese
Ran secretly to the forests outside of Moscow
And founded there a city that is Moscow
Of them later it was rarely heard
And Moscovites live without seeing them
Or maybe people just lie without shame
And the name of the country is Moscow
*
Imagine there sleeps a huge giant
Then suddenly, in the north, his foot awakens
Everyone in the north then escapes to the south
Or, in the south, his hand awakens
All over again, they escape from the south to the north!
And if you suddenly were to wake up
The mind, the conscience, say, or honor and intelligence
What will happen! Where can they run?!
*
Often it happens, that gloomy picture
That for some reason visits the minds of the Moscovites
Often, it seems to them, that winter
Surrounded by snow, frozen by frost
But it is important to find the right word
And again, in its fullest sense here,
So that the Moscovites may edify their progeny
*
Here they replaced Moscow
And hid it from the poor Moscovites
And she sits underground and weeps
All standing in the domes and turrets
All in the transparent portico of the Parthenon
And the straight statues of the Erechtheion[xi]
And huge statues of Akhenaten[xii]
And in the waters of the Nile, the Ganges, and the Yangtze
*
When your sons, my Moscow
Go forth with great weapons
Wherever you look – the Demon is everywhere
Far from them – the Demon! And near to them – the Demon!
Neighboring them – the Demon! Their father – the Demon!
And the Moscovites catch and banish the specter
And again is lit sacred Moscow
*
Where there shone two famous chasms
O thou, my Moscow, stepped forward, covering your breasts
At the very edge of streaming soot and smoke
And woe to those who will move you from your place
There is an embarrassed smell coming from you
And the Moscovites shall all defend
And it shall strike and save them
*
It would be better just not to live in Moscow
But only to know that somewhere it is there
Surrounded by high walls
High and distant dreams
And gazing at all the surrounding world
That flies and confirms
Personally themselves and asserts
Personally themselves and generates
Personally in their willing heart
This is what it means – to live in Moscow
*
Look, Orlov, since we do not live forever
It is entirely shameful that we miscalculated
That we live with you on the edge of the world
And somewhere out there – the real Moscow
With a bay, lagoons, mountains
With events of world significance
And Moscovites proud of themselves
But no, as it happens, Moscow is where we are
Moscow abides, where we point out to her
To where we were brought – there is Moscow!
That is – in Moscow!
*
No text and won’t be.
*
No text and won’t be.
CAPTIVATING STAR OF RUSSIAN POETRY
It is impossible for a poet to be without a People. The roots of the poet are in the folk – in the People, and the poetic roots of the People, are, again, among the People. All this, the great Russian poet Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin understood.
At that time, the internal and foreign policy situation was complicated. Napoleon loomed over Russia then, blockaded all its ports and roads, preparing to descend on our homeland. But inside the country, in her very heart, in her capital, in old Petersburg, with the connivance and direct assistance of the Tsarist court and government officials, so as to favor French influence, the French ambassador Heeckeren and his nephew brought decadence into Russian society. Already all the highest circles spoke only French, with a perfect accent, even to the French ear, and the Empress was in correspondence, also in French, with Voltaire, one of the instigators of the French Revolution, which later developed into the dictatorship of Napoleon. Unaware, a small handful of youth, with the connivance of the authorities, succumbed to propaganda and, at that difficult and dangerous moment, came into Senate Square with pro-French, anti-popular slogans calculated to split Russian society in the face of the invader.
Only Pushkin understood the danger looming over Russia. Where he could, he reproached Napoleon, that apocalyptic beast, and denounced the cowardice and corruption of high society, which tried to close its eyes to an impending catastrophe of global scale and fear, with balls and receptions, which were to welcome Napoleon's protégé and agent Heeckeren, without regrets, forcing the denigration of all Russians, and especially the great Russian poet, seeing him as a single, but powerful, opponent, thanks to the support of the lower levels of society. The Napoleonic agent Chaadaeva wrote his notorious philosophical letters, where in the end he slung mud at Pushkin and the entire Russian people, saying that it would be nice to be subjects of the French, calling them a good and cultured nation.
Without declaring war, Napoleon crossed our state border and began to reconnoiter the territory of our homeland. But Pushkin decided to lure the usurper into the depths of Russian snows, rightly expecting weak resistance, and that the French, compared to Russian men, would be unaccustomed to suffering. Pushkin decided to allow him to approach closer, and toured the vast expanses of the homeland and urged the people to prepare to fight the invaders: dig trenches, collect weapons and Molotov cocktails, to burn bread and not to surrender.
Heeckeren and his nephew decided to act directly against the poet. They knew that the great poet was intolerant of any kind of bad attitudes or unworthy behavior towards women. One day all the upper crust had gathered at a ball. They talked only of the latest news from Paris, about art exhibitions, literary journals, as though Russia could provide nothing acceptable as a topic of conversation or argument. Among them was Pushkin, tall, blonde, with delicate hands; looking at all this cosmopolitan society, he said in loud voice: "Gentlemen, we move on Napoleon."
Everyone looked sheepishly at each other, as if he had blurted out some nonsense to a foreigner. But Heeckeren’s nephew, small, swarthy, like a monkey, with a face neither of a Negro nor of a Jew, suddenly kicked the great poet’s leg, bruising him, like a beast, while the crowd of big loafers laughed. Pushkin got up, clenching his fists, but he realized that the French had deliberately provoked his protege in order to cause a scandal. He wants a duel so that somehow he can kill me. No, this cannot be - thinks Pushkin – I need the People, and the honor of the People is above personal honor.
Heeckeren’s nephew flashed through the crowd, whispering something in everyone’s ear. It was something about Potemkin, about the Empress herself. And it drove Pushkin from the home of his friends Kuchelbecker and Baratynsky.
Pushkin then came out of this stifling atmosphere into the fresh air, where simple People gathered, and who were delighted to see the learned poet and said:
"Father, the French will not allow us to live, they villainously take all the money and land away. We are exasperated by their extortion, beatings and torments. Don’t let the French plague the Russian people. "
But Pushkin answered, "Take heart, brothers. God has sent us this test. It is just a test – believe it, even as you suffer. A great future awaits Russia, and we must be worthy of it. "
"Thank you, Father", - answered the People.
Then a messenger made his way through the crowd and said that the British had landed in Murmansk. The great poet crossed himself before the crowd, touched the head of his faithful companion, the furious Vissarion Belinsky, embraced him, kissed him three times and sent him against the British. But he still intended to lure Bonaparte in, to allow him to approach closer.
Alexander Sergeevich returned again to the hall. And there he said that the Russian people did not oppose Western culture or history. However, the news media in the West, made everything significant, and so their conclusions appeared to be deeper. Pushkin then said, in a resounding young voice: "Gentlemen, the English have landed in the north."
All looked quizzically at each other. Heeckeren’s nephew, dark-haired, nimble as a bug, ran to the poet, jumping like a grasshopper, and slapped him on the cheek and slipped into the crowd. Pushkin clenched his fists, but realized again that the French agent was deliberately provoking a scandal. He wants to duel in order to kill me. No, this cannot be – thinks Pushkin – I need the People, and the honor of the Nation is above personal honor. But Heeckeren’s nephew flashed through the crowd, whispering something into all ears. It involved something about Arakcheeva, and about Alexander himself. And Pushkin was driven from the home of his friends Zhukovsky and Vyazma.
Alexander Sergeevich came out of this stifling atmosphere into the fresh air, where ordinary People were gathered, who were delighted to see the learned poet and said:
"Father, the French will not allow us to live, they villainously take all the money and land away. We are exasperated by their extortion, beatings and torments. Don’t let the French plague the Russian people. "
But Pushkin answered, "Take heart, brothers. God has sent us this test. It is just a test – believe it, even as you suffer. A great future awaits Russia, and we must be worthy of it."
"Thank you, Father", - answered the People.
Then a messenger made his way through the crowd and said that the Japanese have already landed in Vladivostok. Pushkin crossed himself before the crowd, touched the head of his faithful companion the fierce Nikolai Chernyshevsky, and embraced him, he kissed him three times and sent him against the Japanese. But all agreed to lure Bonaparte in, to allow him to approach even closer.
Alexander Seergevich returned again to the hall. And right there was the hum of everyone screaming that all Russians should go to the West, to improve their breed for at least two or three generations, to correct and clean up their Asiatic nature, and only then to return to Russia and start from scratch. In a loud, strong voice, Pushkin said: "Gentlemen, the Japanese have landed in the East." All turned toward him, not understanding.
Meanwhile, Heeckeren’s nephew ran into the middle of the hall; he rose up against the great poet, restless as a little devil, and under the approving roar all of high society began to tell all sorts of obscene and totally made-up stories about the wife of the great poet, Natalia Goncharova, accompanying all with obscene gestures and body movements. "And, in general, all Russian women ... "- he said, obscenely cursing. Everyone laughed and applauded, even Nicholas and Benkendorf graciously bowed their heads. Pushkin understood then that he could not tolerate any longer these wounds not only to the honor of his wife, but that of all Russian women. Then he raised his glittering eyes to the enemy and said, "For insulting the honor of women of my beloved land, I challenge you to a duel tomorrow at the Black River."
Heeckeren’s nephew shivered like an aspen leaf, and fell to the floor. Then the imposing Heeckeren come forth and said, with a smile: "We accept your challenge", took his weakened nephew into his arms like a baby, and carried him away. And Pushkin was driven from the home of his friends Turgenev and Tyutchev.
Alexander Sergeevich came out of this stifling atmosphere into the fresh air, where ordinary People were gathered, who were delighted to see the learned poet and said:
"Father, the French will not allow us to live, they villainously take all the money and land away. We are exasperated by their extortion, beatings and torments. Don’t let the French plague the Russian people. "
But Pushkin answered, "Take heart, brothers. God has sent us this test. It is just a test – believe it, even as you suffer. A great future awaits Russia, and we must be worthy of it."
"Thank you, Father", - answered the People.
Then a messenger made his way through the crowd and said that Bonaparte had reached Borodino, and was observing Moscow from the Poklonnaya Hill,[xiii] in order to capture it. Then the great poet crossed himself before the crowd, and with a sharp movement threw his overcoat on shoulders, tied on his sword, had his warhorse brought to him, and led the People to meet the treacherous enemy. When they came to the field at Borodino it was already evening. Alexander Sergeevich ordered that trenches be dug, fortifications and pillboxes put up, bridges and lines of communication be built. All night the people worked and built an impregnable line of defense. And it was the great poet who directed, where someone should stand, which Marshal should lead whom, where to set up the artillery batteries, where to hide in ambush, who should start and who should conclude, who said, what would soon happen, therefore, if such and such happens, and without waiting for the battle to begin, he galloped to the Black River.
Pushkin rode to the Black River, where Heeckeren’s nephew and his accomplices had already had an hour or two to prepare. The nephew himself was pale, weak like a lizard, swallowing pills to calm his nerves, and wore under his shirt some sort of impenetrable armor made of a secret alloy. Pushkin looked at him with some pity even, took his gun, and went away and began to prepare. While he was loading his gun, with his back to his enemies, so as not to embarrass them, a shot rang out and a bullet went right into the heart of the great poet. He fell, and Heeckeren’s nephew, dodging like a rabbit, started to run away, along with his henchmen. "Stop!” - shouted Pushkin. – “Stop!" But he fled into the forest. Then Pushkin, with the last of his strength, aimed and fired. Pushkin's bullet struck Heeckeren’s nephew’s steel armor and lodged there. The remaining bullets lodged in the dying poet and the collaborators of the French agent.
And at that moment, the Russian People, thanks to the skillful disposition of forces planned by the great poet, defeated the French at Borodino and celebrated a total and conclusive victory. They began to look for Pushkin, but could not find him. On the third day, one of the rescue teams came across the still body of the great Russian poet. They picked him up, laid him on the carriage of heavy guns, covered in purple silk, put a shield at his head and a sword between his legs and to the mournful sounds of a brass band took him off to the field of Borodino. The troops lined up, their banners dropped, and with a friendly saluting volley, laid him in a crude grave. And they all wept, even the defeated Bonaparte and his generals. The body of Heeckeren’s young and dastardly nephew remained in the field, at the mercy of the crows and wolves.
There cannot be a poet without a People, but also, a People cannot be without its poet.
AND DEAD FELL THE ENEMIES
Long ago in Russia there lived the Great Russian writer. He was famous throughout the world, even among those who could not read Russian, even among those who could not even read at all.
His origins were noble and pure. On his father’s side he descended from Rurik himself, while his mother was a direct descendant of Ivan the Terrible. His was not a famous surname, and there had not been as talented a writer of that surname.
The writer lived as was appropriate for one of his nobility and wealth, and according to the standards of his circle. He went to dances, ate in restaurants, played cards, fought duels and wrote books. He tried everything and was lucky in everything.
Once, he went with friends and gypsies to the suburban restaurant Yar. Halfway there they stopped. The driver said: "Master, the axle is broken. It must be fixed." The writer got out of the carriage. For the first time in his life he found himself on foot outside his estate or the English Club. In a circle around him, groaning, the peasants were working in the fields, like slaves, the women harnessed to the plow, and the kids crying, swollen with hunger, the skinny beast roaring, and the low grain rustling sorrowfully. The writer looked around, and his soul was beset by painful suffering.
He jumped back into the carriage and gave the order to ride back home. His friends and gypsies were surprised, the writer was silent, and the coachman hurried. They rode home. And immediately the greater writer sold to some friend his estate Yasnaya Polyana, including all the livestock, furniture, clothes, and distributed the money and land to the poor, and went to the People.[xiv]
He got to the People, and hired the Barge Haulers on the Volga. He was of enormous stature and excessively powerful, and everywhere he defended the rights of ordinary working people. The brigade where he worked got bigger, and he fed it more deliciously. The writer was respected among the People, who wondered: how did such a just and literate one wind up among them.
The writer observed the lives of the people and realized that he could never work in all the factories, all the brigades and cooperatives, or mow all the fields, in order to uphold the People's truth. He understood that only Revolution could help. He wrote a song about the Petrel, proudly fluttering over the gray abyss of the sea, entirely unafraid of the storm and the many sorts of dastardly penguins and loons with their fat bodies hiding somewhere warmer. In his song, the great writer exposed the enemies, and called on the People to revolt. The People learned about this song and rose up.[xv]
But not enough People took up arms firmly, and they were defeated. The penguins and loons attacked the great writer, shouting: “You should not have taken up arms." The writer stood up straight and said, proudly, "It had to be, and could only be, with courage and determination." But the People were deceived and believed the loons and penguins, and instituted surveillance of the writer by the Third Department.
Said the writer: "Someday they will realize that I was right, that I was wholeheartedly for them." Then he slipped away from the surveillance and fled to Italy and the deserted island of Capri. He made a hut for himself and began to live there, eating berries and mushrooms. On a small stump, which he used as a table, the writer began to create the greatest books about the working class, to open the People's eyes to deception.
All over the world, in every country, they heard that there lived in Italy, on the desert island of Capri, a sage, who ate only berries and mushrooms, and who wrote day and night. They came to him for advice. He helped the Italian railway workers to win a strike, the British to establish their trade unions, and the Germans to organize the Second International. And he spoke to each his native language, without the least accent, which was his only weakness. To each he discoursed on health, on women, on children, and gave advice, and taught them to let go of the world. And glory came of it.
Then one day, like thunder in clear skies, out into the world came the book of the great writer, the world's first book on the working class. The Russian People understood that they had given an irreparable offense to the great writer, and the People were worried.
The Tsar read the book and realized that it meant he had come to an end. Then he sent an agent of the Third Department to Capri. The agent came and said to the Great Russian writer: "It was the Tsar himself who sent me. Truly, writer, all authority in Russia obeys but one Tsar. And the People shall be happy with him in power." But the Great Russian writer answered: "I do not want to come to the people through authority. I want them to come to me out of love." And the agent went away with nothing.
And the People worried even more. Then the Tsar sent a second agent of the Third Department to Capri. The agent came and said to the Great Russian writer: "It was the Tsar himself who sent me. The people are without food. Truly, writer, all the power in Russia feeds the People, who obey but one Tsar." But the Great Russian writer answered: "I do not want to lure the people with bread. I want them to come to me out of love." And the agent went away with nothing.
And the People worried even more. A deputation of workers came to the great writer and said: "We have offended you, but now we understand everything. Lead us, writer, we will make something unprecedented, hitherto non-existent in the world. Stand as our chief." And the writer answered: "Fine. Now, just pull yourself together."
He came to Russia and led the People to storm the Winter Palace, the stronghold of autocracy. There were cannon firing, machine guns chattering, guns pounding, bombs exploding, hell of a pandemonium, but took the writer was cool as winter. And remarkably, none of his People were killed, or even injured.
And thus Soviet power was established. It established happiness: everyone walks the streets well-fed, happy, smiling. There is the writer out strolling, and all bow to him, give thanks to him and wish him many years of life.
But the enemies were not satisfied and sent spies disguised as doctors to the Great Russian writer. The Enemies of the People convinced the writer that he needed medical treatment. And the people loved the writer, and believed the enemies’ doctor. And thus they doctored the perfectly healthy Great Russian writer to death.
When the People found out about it, they ripped the doctor-spies to shreds, as well as other enemies that had been detected.
But, thanks to the death of the Great Russian writer, this only strengthened Soviet power. People realized what great happiness the writer had been preparing, if his enemies were this afraid. And so every single one of them supported Soviet power.
Thus, with his own death, the Great Russian writer trampled his enemies.
[i] Probably Ignatii Potapenko, minor late 19th century Russian writer (of Ukrainian origin), whose best known work is DIARY OF A RUSSIAN PRIEST. There is also a Ukrainian basketball player of that name who played in the NBA during the '90s
[ii] Various Russian and Soviet writers.
[iii] A town in the eastern part of European Russia, west of Perm and east of Nizhni Novgord.
[iv] German Idealist philosopher of the late 18th early 19th century.
[v] A town in the north eastern part of European Russia, capital of the Komi Republic of the Russian Federation
[vi] Ashurbanipal (685BC-626BC) was the last strong King of the Assyrian Empire. He assembled a large library of cuneiform documents, which survived and are now in the British Museum. He is often identified with an Assyrian King known to the Roman as Sardanapalus. Sardanapalus was reputed to “equate the good life with a life of brute pleasure,” and his decadence became a theme in Romantic literature and art, e.g., as the subject of a painting by Delacroix, and a play by Byron.
[vii] In Greek mythology, Porphyrion was a Giant, the offspring of Gaia and Tartarus – Pindar called him “King of the Giants” – who died in the battle between the Giants and the Gods of Olympus, slain by either Zeus or Herakles or Apollo; accounts differ.
[viii] Pyotr Bagration (1765—1812), Russian General (of Georgian origin), a hero of the Battle of Borodino, at which he was mortally wounded. A leading figure in Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
[ix] “Push to the East,” in Cyrillic transliterated German in the original. Refers to German expansion into Slavic lands.
[x] Soviet “nonconformist” or dissident artists, colleagues of Prigov, all of whom emigrated to the west in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Boris Groys is an art critic and philosopher credited with naming the Moscow conceptualist school of which Prigov is a leading exemplar. Although Prigov lived part of the time in Germany, he did so only after the collapse of the Soviet Union, years after this poem was written.
[xi] An ancient Greek temple on the north side of the Acropolis, dedicated to Athena and Poseidon.
[xii] An Egyptian Pharaoh (d. circa 1335 BC) who introduced a monotheistic form of sun worship; his queen was Nefertiti.
[xiii] The highest point in Moscow, on the west side of the city.
[xiv] Radical movement in late 19th century, “going to the people,” combined with Tolstoyan renunciation.
[xv] “The Stormy Petrel” was a revolutionary poem by Maxim Gorky.