The Poet from the Black List

Poet Sasha Chyorny (1880-1932)  has never been on the list of “must-read” authors for Russian students. Nor does he belong to any well-established movement of poets. But his art left too noticeable a trace in Russian poetry for us to ignore the 120th anniversary of his birth (October 1).

In fact, Chyorny (“Black”) was even loved by the “leading light” of Soviet poetry, Vladimir Mayakovsky. The latter reportedly adored Chyorny and knew many of his verses by heart. Of course, in the official rankings of Russian poets, Chyorny would not likely make it into the top ten. He does not have the philosophical or historical genius of Pushkin, who could encapsulate an epoch in a stanza. Compare Pushkin’s famous lines about Peter the Great, who “raised Russia ... with an iron hand” and the line dedicated to St. Petersburg: “I love you, Peter’s creation,” with  how Chyorny, worn down by the city’s nasty weather, “praises” Tsar  Peter:

èfiÚ ÇÂÎËÍËÈ, èfiÚ ÇÂÎËÍËÈ

í˚ Ó‰ËÌ ‚ËÌÓ‚ÌÂÈ ‚ÒÂı

—Îfl ˜Â„Ó Ì‡ ë‚Â ‰ËÍËÈ

èÓÌÂÒÎÓ Ú·fl ̇ „Âı?

ÇÓÒÂϸ ÏÂÒflˆÂ‚ ÁËχ, ‚ÏÂÒÚÓ ÙËÌËÍÓ‚ — ÏÓӯ͇.

ïÓÎÓ‰, ÒÎËÁ¸, ‰Ó ‰Ë Ë Ú¸Ï‡ — Ú‡Í Ë ÚflÌÂÚ ËÁ ÓÍӯ͇

ÅflÍÌÛÚ¸ ‚ÌËÁ Ó ÏÓÒÚÓ‚Ó˛ Ӊ˘‡ÎÓÈ „ÓÎÓ‚ÓÈ ...

çÂ„Ó‰Û˛, ÌÂ„Ó‰Û˛ ... óÚÓ   ‰‡Î¸¯Â, ·Ó  ÏÓÈ?!

 

Peter the Great, Peter the Great

It’s all your fault, more than anyone’s

Why, the hell, were you driven to the crazy North?

An eight-month winter, cloudberries instead of dates

Cold, slush, rain and darkness

Makes one want to jump out of the window

And hit the pavement with one’s wild head

I’m mad, so mad ... How to go on, my God?!

 

Indeed, Chyorny writes about the Northern capital in a more down to earth, less bombastic style. But when Chyorny is at his scintillating best, his verses can be bright and refreshing, like a glass of fruity wine savored on a hot afternoon in the South of France.

Perhaps this is because Chyorny has Southern roots. He was born on the Black Sea, in the port city of Odessa. Yet he spent his childhood and adolescence in Zhitomir (Ukraine). In 1905, he moved to the “Northern Palmira” — St. Petersburg, where he began working on one of the best satirical journals of the time—Zritel (Spectator). But the journal did not last long, thanks to Chyorny’s sharp satires on the Russian emperor and the Ministry of the Interior.

Later, Chyorny joined other satirical journals, and his pen was still targeted at the Russian government, and, later, Russia’s petit bourgeois. In fact his satirical vignettes where he offers glimpses of the daily life of the obyvatel (petit bourgeois) — eating, loving, cursing — are some of his strongest.

 

êÓ ‰fiÌÌ˚È ·˚Ú¸ ͇ÒÒËÓÏ ‚ ÚËıÓÈ ·‡ÌÂ

àθ ‡„ÂÌÚÓÏ ÔÓ Á‡„ÓÚÓ‚Í ¯Ô‡Î

ëÂÏfiÌ ÅÛ·ÌÓ‚ ‚Ì ‚ÒflÍËı Ó ˉ‡ÌËÈ

à„ÓÈ ÒÛ‰¸·˚ ‚ ‰‡ÍÚÓ˚ ÔÓԇΠ...

 

Born to be a cashier in a quiet bathhouse

Or a sales agent in railroad ties

Semyon Bubnov, despite all expectations

Ended up in the editor’s seat ...

 

In 1906 Chyorny fled the post-revolutionary crackdowns in St. Petersburg and ended up in Germany. He lived there for two years, producing the collection  of verses Satires and Lyrics. (Satiry i Lirika). In 1908, he returned to Russia to become a staff writer on the new journal Satirikon (arguably the best and most famous satirical magazine of the era — a Moscow theater is named after it to this day). Those were reactionary times. Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin was carrying out liberal economic reforms with an iron hand. Chyorny’s Satirikon verses, meanwhile, earned him nationwide fame.

By 1914, however, Chyorny had lost faith in the future and found himself on the brink of a deep spiritual and ideological crisis. In fact, he had anticipated this in an earlier poem, called “Into the Space” (“V prostranstvo”):

 

 

Ç ÎËÚÂ‡ÚÛÌÓÏ ÔÂÈÒÍÛ‡ÌÚÂ

ü Á‡ÌÂÒÂÌ Ì‡ ÒÍÓ·Ì˚È ÎËÒÚ:

çÂθÁfl, ÏÓÎ, ÓÚ͇Á‡Ú¸ ‚ ڇ·ÌÚÂ,

çÓ ·ÂÁ̇‰fi Ì˚È ÔÂÒÒËÏËÒÚ

 

In the literary annals

I am entered on the blacklist:

It could be said that I have talent

But I am a hopeless pessimist

 

Needless to say, Chyorny’s pessimism was at odds with the enthusiasm of the Bolshevik era. Seeing no place for himself in Soviet Russia, he emigrated to Lithuania in 1920, then to Berlin and finally France, where he lived until his death in 1932 (he died of a heart attack helping to put out a fire in the village of Faviére). In emigration, Chyorny published a collection of verses Thirst (1923) and Children’s Island (1921), as well as some collections of prose and original works called Soldier’s Fairy Tales. Chyorny never felt at home in emigration, and, like so many of his fellow émigrés suffered from anguish, solitude and nostalgia for Russia ...

 

é Ó‰ËÌ ͇ ‰˚È ËÁ Ì‡Ò ‚ÒÔÓÏË̇fl,

Ç ÚÓÒÍÛ˛˘ÂÏ ÒÂ‰ˆÂ ÛÌfiÒ

äÚÓ ÇÓ΄Û, ÍÚÓ ÏËÌ˚ ÒÍÎÓÌ˚ LJΉ‡fl,

äÚÓ Á‡ÓÒÎË flÎÚËÌÒÍËı ÓÁ ...

 

Each of us took his own piece of homeland

In a heart full of anguish

Some took the Volga, some the Valday slopes

Some the rose bushes of Yalta ...

 

The “problem”  with Sasha “Black” (born Alexander Mikhailovich Glikberg) was that, as literary critics in Soviet times pointed out, the poet “didn’t have a broad enough political outlook.”

However, for those to whom political outlook and art are infinitely separable, Chyorny’s verses show talent and skill.  In fact, it is the lack of political outlook which makes  Chyorny’s poetry timely even today (try, for instance, to read today Mayakovsky’s now-incongruous poem “Lenin,”  for example; it makes one cringe). With his light, ironic style, without heavy or overly-sophisticated rhymes, Chyorny shines. In fact, as should always be the case with fine poetry, you never notice the rhyme when reading Chyorny’s verse.

 

Even his lyrical poems are full of light charm and self-deprecating humor. When you read Chyorny, you realize this truly amazing thing: one can be a poet in Russia without raising earth-shaking issues like the October Revolution or the Destinies of Humanity.

Who of us does not recognize him or herself in the lazy student from Chyorny’s “Exam”? Languishing while he should be cramming, all the hero can think of on this hot summer day is kissing the beautiful blonde from the institute who is supposed to help him prepare for the exams:

 

àÁ ‚ÒÂı ·ËÎÂÚÓ‚ ‚˚ÁÛ·Ë‚ ˜ÂÚ˚Â

ëÓ ÒÍÓÏ͇ÌÌÓÈ ÔÓ„‡ÏÏÓ˛ ‚ ÛÍÂ

çÂÒfl ‚ ‰Û¯Â ‡Ò͇ÌËfl „ËË

ü Ï‡˜ÌÓ ¯ÂÎ Ò Û˜Â·ÌËÍÓÏ Í ÂÍÂ

 

í‡Ï Û ÂÍË ·ÎÓ̉ËÌ͇ „ËÏ̇ÁËÒÚ͇

åÓË ·ËÎÂÚ˚ ‚˚ÒÎÛ¯‡Ú¸ ‰ÓÎ ̇

Äı, ÔÓ‚‡Î˛Ò¸! Äı, ·Û‰ÂÚ Á·fl ˜ËÒÚ͇!

çÓ ‚‰¸ ÓÚ˜‡ÒÚË Ë Âfi ‚Ë̇ ...

 

ᇘÂÏ Ó ÌÂÈ fl ‰ÓÎ ÂÌ ‰Ûχڸ ‚˜ÌÓ?

ᇘÂÏ Ó̇ ·ÎËÁ͇ ÏÌ ͇ ‰˚È ÏË„?

lj¸ ˝ÚÓ, ̇ÍÓ̈, ·ÂÒ˜ÂÎӂ˜ÌÓ!

äÓ̘ÌÓ, ÏÌ Ì ‰Ó ÔÓÍÎflÚ˚ı ÍÌË„.

 

è˯ÂÎ - ̇‚ÒÚÂ˜Û „ÓÁÌ˚È „ÓÎÓÒ ã˛·˚:

“äÓ„‰‡ ãÓÈÓ· Ó‰ÂÌ ÓÒÌÓ‚‡Î?!”

Ä fl ‚ ÓÚ‚ÂÚ ÂÂ  ÂÒÚÓÍÓ ‚ „Û·˚,

ÜÂÒÚÓÍÓ ‚ „Û·˚ ‚‰Û„ ÔÓˆÂÎÓ‚‡Î ...

 

Having learned by heart just four topics

Clinching the exam program in my hand

Here I am, my soul sinking low

Feeling down as I neared the river

 

There, a blonde student

Must listen to my recitations

Oh, I will fail! Oh, it will be an evil purge!

But then she is also to blame ...

 

Why must I think of her all the time?

Why is she so close by every moment?

In the end, this is very inhuman of her

Of course, I can’t even think of the damned books.

 

I arrived, and Lyuba asked severely:

“When did Loyola found his Order?”

In response, I kissed her hard on the lips

Hard on her lips I kissed her suddenly...

 

Chyorny is good to read for his very light, almost effortless Russian. Even when you are in the dark, when you feel like there is no light at the end of the tunnel, read Chyorny in search of consolation. You will realize that a poet born 120 years ago also felt like you do now — he just expressed it in a more artful way:

Ç  ËÁÌË Ú‡Í Ï‡ÎÓ Í‡ÒË‚˚ı ÏËÌÛÚ

Ç  ËÁÌË Ú‡Í ÏÌÓ„Ó ·ÂÁ‚Â¸fl Ë ˜fiÌÓÈ ‡·ÓÚ˚.

å˚ÒÎË Ó ÔÓ¯ÎÓÏ ÏÓ˘ËÌ˚ ̇ ·Î‰Ì˚ Îˈ‡ Í·‰ÛÚ,

å˚ÒÎË Ó ·Û‰Û˘ÂÏ ÔÓÎÌ˚ Ò‚Ë̈ӂÓÈ Á‡·ÓÚ˚ ...

There are so few beautiful moments in life

There is so much unbelief and dirty work

Thoughts of the past put wrinkles on pale faces

Thoughts of the future are full of dark preoccupation ...

 

Chyorny is the right poet not only to express anguish, but also to set a mood — like the light sadness and warmth in this stanza:

 

ïÓÓ¯Ó ÔË Ò‚ÂÚ ·ÏÔ˚

äÌË ÍË ÏËÎ˚ ˜ËÚ‡Ú¸,

èÂÂÒχÚË‚‡Ú¸ ˝ÒÚ‡ÏÔ˚

à ÔÓ Í·‚˯‡Ï ·Â̘‡Ú¸

 

ôÂÍÓ˜‡ ÏÓÁ„Ë Ë ˜Û‚ÒÚ‚Ó

é·‡flÌËÂÏ Í‡ÒÓÚ˚

ãËÚ¸ ‰Û¯ËÒÚ˚È Ïfi‰ ËÒÍÛÒÒÚ‚‡

Ç ·ÂÁ‰ÌÛ ÛÒÒÍÓÈ ÔÛÒÚÓÚ˚

 

It feels so good

To read nice books under the lamp light

To look through the miniatures

And comb through the keys of a piano

 

Tickling the brain and the feelings

With the charm of beauty

Pouring the fragrant honey of art

Into the abyss of Russian emptiness

 

As to his self-accusation of “hopeless pessimism,” Chyorny nonetheless sometimes found solace in life, looking at the bright side of things with his typical, sardonic humor:

 

Å·„Ó‰‡˛ Ú·fl, ÒÓÁ‰‡ÚÂθ,

óÚÓ fl ‚  ËÚÂÈÒÍÓÈ ÍÛÚÂ¸ÏÂ

ç ‰ÂÔÛÚ‡Ú Ë Ì ËÁ‰‡ÚÂθ

à Ì ÒË Û Â˘fi ‚ Ú˛¸ÏÂ

 

Thank You, God,

That in this bustling life

I am neither a deputy, nor a publisher

Nor do I yet sit in prison

 

Everyone can find something of his own in Sasha Chyorny’s art. He is exactly the type of poet who must be read and learned by anyone trying to look beyond the beaten path of Russian literature.

 

— Lidia Melnikova