Having spent the last decade writing a novel set during the Russian Revolution, I was thrilled to come across this brand-new anthology of poetry and prose not just about those events, but written while they were still taking place. There are times in life when historical change is so great that people can barely take a breath, let alone get perspective or bearing on their moment in history.
The late twenties were full of marvelous books about the Revolution and the Civil War, such as Babel’s Red Cavalry and Bulgakov’s White Guard, novels and poetry written from both the émigré and the Soviet perspective. But this book fills a unique place on the bookshelf because it helps us understand how it feels to be in the midst of such overwhelming change, without any idea how it will all settle out. It’s a lot like being in a rollover car accident as everything you’ve tossed onto the floor begins to rain down your head. The immediacy of these poems and short fictions is what grabs you, the way people tried to understand what was happening as the events were occurring. It speaks a lot to our own time of unbelieveably rapid political shifts, and how one might find something to say about this experience. 2017 is the hundredth anniversary of the Russian Revolution and the echoes to the present day are everywhere.
The book's poems and fictions are grouped in fascinating and surprising ways. Certain writers one would never think of in the same breath—like the cosmopolitan, openly homosexual Mikhail Kuzmin and the precocious bad-boy peasant poet Sergei Yesenin, yet their poems both embrace the revolution and are invigorated by it, though Kuzmin perfectly exemplifies the confusion of such rapid change:
It seems a century has passed, or just one week!
What week? A single day!
Its editor, Boris Dralyuk, wonderfully contextualizes each group of two or three writers, bringing the reader into a literary scene marked by circles like families into which these works were born.
In general, the poems in this volume are more well-known than the fiction. Poets can respond very quickly to changes in events, where fiction writers often take years to ‘digest’ events. Many of these poets were already in their maturity at the time of the Revolution in what’s known as the Silver Age of Russian literature (Pushkin’s being the Golden).
Here are the fiery, iconoclastic Tsvetaeva, the decadent, rancorous Zinaida Gippius, and the clarity of deeply cultured Mandelstam. There’s a beautiful translation of his famous “Let’s praise O brothers, liberty’s dim light...”
the great and somber year!
A forest of thick snares is plunged
into the boiling waters of the night.
You are ascending into god-forsaken years,
O people—sun and judge.
....
We have bound swallows
into warring legions—now
we cannot see the sun...
Here’s the grave, brave dignity of Anna Akhmatova, in a stunning new translation of one of her most famous poems--“When the nation, suicidal...”--a poem about the temptation to emigrate:
“I heard a voice. It called to me.
“come here,” it spoke consolingly,
“and leave your senseless, sinful land,
abandon Russia for all time.
I’ll scrub your hands free of the blood,
I’ll take away your bitter shame,
I’ll soothe the pain of loss
and insults with a brand new name.”
But cool and calm, I stopped my ears,
refused to hear it,
not letting that unworthy speech
defile my grieving spirit.”
There are also worker-poets like Gerasimov, including his beautiful poem, “Iron Flowers”:
“I forged my iron flowers/
beneath a workshop’s smoky dome—"
Most impressive, there are two brand new full-length translations of the great Silver Age poet Aleksander Blok’s monumental long-poems The Twelve and The Scythians. The Twelve, about twelve Red Guardsmen making their tour of Revolutionary Petrograd (St. Petersburg) streets during a blizzard, uses the language of the street and the Revolution in a brand new way, and it seems less obscure in this translation than it usually does. And the lesser-known poem, The Scythians, about Russia’s historical role to be a buffer between Europe and the invading Mongols, is Blok going out in a blaze of glory.
For me, the jewel of the poetry section, and probably the book as a whole, is a single translation--Pasternak’s “Spring Rain.” Pasternak as a nature poet was every bit the equal of rambunctious Yesenin, yet more than that golden hooligan, Pasternak was a deep, cultured, subtle thinker to rival Mandelstam, with an enormous heart all his own.
Although Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago, his great novel about the Revolution, published in the 1960’s in the West, shows much of his poetic ability, and his descriptions of nature are always glorious, I often find his poetry difficult. This translation of “Spring Rain” helped me get my mind around Pasternak the poet and how he writes. He’s like a garden laid out by a master, so that the whole isn’t visible from any one point, you have to walk down its paths, and let it unfold for you slowly, until you can take in the whole.
“It grinned to the bird-cherry, sobbed and soaked
the gloss of carriages, the flutter of pines
Under the bulging moon, fiddlers in single file
make their way to the theater. Citizens, form lines!
Puddles on stone. Like a throat full of tears,
deep in the heart of a rose’s furnace
damp diamonds burn, and on them, on clouds,
on eyelids, the wet lash of happiness...
The second half of 1917 is devoted to prose work. It would be a few years before the great novels and collections about the Revolution would began to emerge. Yet Boris Dralyuk has found wonderful examples of stories and other prose from the period, such as the ascerbic humorist Teffi, who makes her appearance with two pieces. One “A few Words about Lenin,” certainly will sound familiar:
“...actually, if Lenin were to talk about a meeting at which he, Zinoviev, Kamenev and five horses were present, he would say, ‘There were eight of us.’”
In a short story “The Guillotine,” Teffi presents an absurdist little tale about how the bourgeoisie makes way for its own destruction. It begins as a friend of the family drops in at dinnertime and is invited to stay:
“No, I can’t. I’m in a hurry. I only popped in to say goodbye. I’m due to be guillotined tomorrow.”
“But Vera darling!” we exclaimed. “What a wonderful coincidence. We’re all scheduled for tomorrow!”
“Spend the night at my place,” I said. “We can all go together...”
“Sasha and Yasha” by Kuprin is a classic, its heroes a pilot and his little sister’s pet stuffed monkey which becomes his totem. “The Drum” by Kataev, which follows a boy in cadet school who joins the school orchestra so he can visit his girlfriend an extra hour a week, shows the sudden changes in the boys' lives as the revolution breaks out. There’s a sobering small essay by Bulgakov, who fought on the White side in the South, and a furious little piece by Zoshchenko, who later became a well-known humorist, bemoaning the worship of the strong--very resonant for our times. Stories by Zamiatin, Alexander Grin, and Prishvin, were other favorites in the collection.
It is a gripping and emotionally challenging experience to read these Russian writers struggling with and reacting to the turmoil of their times exactly one hundred years ago, and to see many of the same issues which are coming back to haunt us in different clothing.