Yevgeny Aleksandrovich

"A poem can be finished," wrote Lawrence Ferlinghetti many years ago, "a translation can only be abandoned."

But can an original poem ever truly be finished either? Even great poets are notorious for returning to old poems throughout their careers and tinkering with them, re-working them constantly until it is difficult for anthologists to work out exactly what the definitive version is. All a poet really does is drag thoughts or scenes or ideas from the subconscious and translate them into words in one of our flawed, limited human languages, and perhaps this is the same thing all along.

My plan now is to publicly abandon several of the poems I wrote in Russia last winter on my blog over the course of the next few weeks. I'm used to surfacing in this medium only at the occasional poetry reading at a bar or café in Berlin, where the words fly by at a merciful rate and the audience only has a chance to reflect on the poem once the flurry of sentences has vanished into the ether. Nothing needs to be fixed, and you can ad lib or change bits that didn't work for next time. It's a different, rather more daunting prospect to hang the words out to dry, but here we go.

Poem number one was written on Christmas Eve in St. Petersburg and is addressed to the Siberian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko. I'd been reading an old Penguin edition of his early poems, and knew absolutely nothing about him apart from that. I typed it out in Olya's mother's warm little kitchen as we hid ourselves away from the brutal Russian winter, using the few pages of verse ('Zima Junction', about his hometown, being the apparent masterpiece, but my favourite was 'In Georgia'), a translator's introduction written in 1962, and an old photograph of an angry young man smoking a cigarette as my research material.

Here it is, then. Unfinished, perhaps, but I hope that these poems collectively will serve to explain what I'm trying to say in the awkward silence that I fall into whenever people ask me, "Well, how was Russia?".

Yevgeny Aleksandrovich

The ash-cat tangles
with emptiness on the linoleum
Crumples the autumnal pages on
discarded Yevtushenko

The tight bay window
Holds a wheeling barrage of snow
Stifling the year-heavy cobblestones beneath
Sighs disrupt the dust
in the used light

Cream cupboards scrubbed cleaner
and the gas flame
chewing patiently, blue gold
at the charred rear of the squat silver saucepan

Yevtushenko!
You’re young!
and wearing a cigarette
and a tie clip
Pale and Irate, writing the blonde truth
Lacking Mayakovsky’s sinister
handsome shotgun darkness

And the
Introduction
tells me you were attacked 21st June 1957 in Komsomolskaya Pravda
A publication which I actually saw yesterday
behind the smeared glass of
the counter as I waited in line at the shabby
Vassilyostrov post office with its bored ponytails
Who don’t chew bubblegum but should
Writing raucous rhythms in saliva as they spit
Davai, davai
Give me your documents
A tragic old Siberian song
Heard once upon a time in bearded mouths
At Zima Junction

Yevgeny Aleksandrovich, your name is a tug of war of the consonants
I, too, would like to be “a fearless spokesman of his generation”
(Any generation would do)
And I’m jealous of your adjectives

- Yevtushenko 52 years and 6 months and 3 days after they slandered You
Are you still muttering new words
above the anemic linoleum
of some lucky girlful Moscow kitchen?

Or are you a literary footnote deep
Beneath the subdued, lamp-bitten courtyards
In this one evening’s surrendering light
And unbroken snow?

It would be easy enough to find out.

Death of a Patriot

In the first verse of the song 'Radio Maryja', recorded in 2007, the Zatopeks criticised the homophobic, anti-Semitic Catholic radio station in Poland of the same name. More specifically, we were attacking the ruling Law & Justice party for its connections to Radio Maryja and the degree to which the station's values were shared by members of the Polish government. It won't have escaped many peoples' attention that the head of this government, Lech Kaczyński, was one of the 96 people who died in a plane crash at Smolensk on Saturday.

The reaction in Poland, even among Kaczyński's political enemies, was and still is one of shock and devastation. This is natural given that the crash took so many lives, regardless of who they happened to be. As it turned out, it was a presidential delegation comprised of many major figures from various walks of life, from politics to the military, finance and academia.

In the tributes to Kaczyński that trickled out after the tragedy, it is difficult not to detect the contradictory nature of his life and career amidst the cautious words of praise. "It was one of the great ironies of Polish history," notes the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, "that a nationalistic, ultra-conservative Catholic who may have counted some anti-Semites as his supporters was a pivotal figure in the post-Communist healing of grudges that have so long divided Poles and Jews."

Further food for thought is provided by Adam Michnik, a leading dissident during the 1980s and later editor of Gazeta Wyborcza, who wrote:

"We often differed in political views. However, I've always remembered what a great patriot Lech Kaczyński has been all his life. This was the first thought that came to my mind when I heard about this terrible accident."

It's worth examining this comment in a little more detail. The tainted word 'patriot' is, in itself, a rather dubious compliment. However, regardless of how it appears today, for the duration of the Soviet occupation this same Polish patriotism was a tool of resistance and unity against the authorities. The British historian Timothy Garton Ash recalled striking shipworkers at the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk watching a meeting of the communist party Central Committee on television. As the party leaders rose to sing the Internationale, the workers responded by singing the Polish national anthem.

Perhaps Michnik is trying to gently remind us of this as we remember the uglier sides of Kaczyński's patriotism. It is easy to forget that his earliest political involvement, from 1977 onwards, was with the unique cooperation between workers and intellectuals that began with the Workers' Defence Committee (KOR) and culminated in the massively influential Solidarity (Solidarność) trade union. Kaczyński was a member of KOR, lectured workers on labour law, wrote for dissident publications and served as an adviser to Solidarity's leaders in their negotiations with the authorities.

This patriotism served, then, as a kind of binding force for what the Czechoslovak dissident Václav Havel referred to as parallel culture in a 1984 essay:

"All those hundreds, perhaps thousands of people of all sorts and conditions - young, old, gifted, untalented, believers, unbelievers - gathered under the umbrella of 'parallel culture' were led to it by the incredible narrow-mindedness of a regime which tolerates practically nothing."

It is a shame that Kaczyński himself would come to represent that same narrow-mindedness and intolerance, this time in the name of ultra-conservatism and reactionary Catholicism. Several years ago I asked a girl in Kraków what she thought of the political situation in Poland; she just groaned and put her head in her hands. Not a particularly wordy critique, but somehow a rather eloquent summary of the situation (at that time Lech and his twin brother Jarosław were still a political 'double act', President and Prime Minister respectively).

The political career of this walking contradiction serves as a lesson in the complexity of Central Europe's recent history, and a warning to those of us outside of Poland who would pass judgement too quickly. The man I criticised (and will continue to criticise) in 'Radio Maryja' for his regressive socio-political attitudes was also fêted for his reconciliatory work with Poland's Jews and played a part in one of the great resistance movements of the 20th century. A resistance movement in a country where, once upon a time, 'patriot' was not yet a four letter word.