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A variety of approaches are available to describe
any given historical period. You may use such descriptors as the type of
economy or the government structure; or you may approach the epoch with
the measure of human values. The latter method, though somewhat underdeveloped
from the scientific point of view, was at all times highly useful in expressing
the spiritual essence of what happened through fine literature and art.
The epoch is then measured with such principal variables as prevalent personal
beliefs, values and motives.
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The real drama of our common 'here and now' is safely veiled with the currency
curtain. And still the drama is here - breaking through in hysterical feats
and sarcastic laughs, hateful cynicism and sentimental tears. Miners play
their part in it with their helmets on the railroad xylophone. Themes they
choose as the basis for their improvisations, however, are all too trivial:
"give me more", "don't take it away from me",
and - the most popular - "wanna take it away from you".
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All these are mainstream cliches, though they sound somewhat differently
today: no signs of false enthusiasm of heroic sacrifice and reckless service
to the idea are visible anymore. Banality of themes, therefore, has finally
found its perfect match with the banality of how they sound, and this harmony
is the best safeguard against miners capacity to unwillingly trigger a
sort of Russian renaissance at the dawn of the 21st century. This perfect
harmony of the two banalities - of form and contents - is the principal
determinant of the drama we witness. Something broke in the social instrument;
some mutation irreversibly changed its individual human parts. In ecologically
clean past, there used to be hot debates about the meaning of life and
the nature and the purpose of a human being. By now, having adapted to
muddy waters and car exhausts, we seem to abandon such debates completely.
Why argue? We are here to produce and consume more goods. A new toilet-cleaning
fluid may effect orgiastic joy in us. As for another brand of chewing gum,
a promotion campaign may make us believe that its development and marketing
are events of real universal impact.
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Economic crisis, banking crisis, authority crisis - all these themes are
loudly voiced today. The only silent crisis is the crisis of spirit due
to substitution of 'meaning' of things with their 'utility'. Anything of
no practical value has suddenly become rejected as meaningless. Freedom
is useless and hence meaningless. Truth is useless and, therefore, meaningless.
Conscience is useless and meaningless. And so on. Poetry today is just
on of the items in the long list of futile things.
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What shall we do with the eternal verse? There's neither food, nor drink,
nor kiss in it...
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Nikolai Gumilev. The Sixth Sense.
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Real poets always used to live tragic lives. Today they look doomed - with
the complete lack of demand for them, with the consumption cult leaving
no space for creative arts. Individuals with the atavism of poetic gift
are already rare, and soon they are going to become extinct, for poets
make bad house managers and are reluctant to what market dictates. Gella
belongs to this nearly extinct species. Writing verse is her principal
preoccupation, because she is good in this. Her poems hurt. They pierce
you with the feeling of profound lack of intergrity in the world around
and the shame for it... As I talked with Gella, she used to affront the
prose of my questions with her poetic answers. On good thought, we agreed
to leave questions out as clumsy and inappropriate. Thus our interview
was reduced to a monologue. Poet's monologue.
A Poet in Russia Is No Longer
a Poet
by Gella
Real art is absolutely useless.
Oscar Wilde. "The Picture of Dorian Gray"
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Once upon a time, horses used to fly high in the sky time and again.
By now, they have learned the skill of how to keep safe on the ground -
be it Russia or England. At least one horse, however, still serves the
purpose of getting high - namely, the "White Horse". This horse bears all
the characteristics of public utility. Some users of the "White Horse"
may even imagine themselves riding the notorious Pegasus. Availability
of other heaven-sent utilities (e. g., a pencil, a computer, etc.) is deadly
for an artist high on the White Horse. He simply cannot fight the drive
to write it down in words like:
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The answer to your question is that I am not your mother:
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Your mother was another mother, and she died in Russia.
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Paul Durcan. "Trauma Junction"
Once upon a time, the fabulous Rat-trapper used the weapon of his flute
and would not descend to any dialogue with his auditorium - and his art
was one hundred per cent effective. Today this art is lost irretrievably.
Probably, Russia was the last nation to support the magic listening capacity.
Back in 80's, there was plenty of those who would listen and hear the music
of words, and the verbal implication of music... By now, this skill is
gone... or was it taken away?
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- Here we are!
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- Are we, in fact?
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- I tell you, guys!
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- And where's that fellow?
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- What fellow?
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- U-u-u-uh, 'his hair was brown, his eyes pale blue', remember?
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- You mean that poet...
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- ...who would preach: 'Don't kill.
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- Which one of them?
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- The mind controller.
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- Why, could he really do it?
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- Yes, he did it with his songs.
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- So, let him do it...
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- Do you feel ashamed of having killed him?
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- Shut up, now it's your turn!
And potential promoters reduce in number in the process of gunfire exchange.
As the result, every artist/poet/musician (underline) enjoys the absolute
freedom of market choice: To sing or not to sing? (the question is "To
voice or not to voice your creative power?")
The two optional choices - 'to sing' and 'to be' (in its traditional
interpretation by Hamlet) - are closely intertwined. Some choose to be
heard and to exist concurrently: they deliver their mess[age] daily on
TV and need not to be named here. At the other extreme we find those who
- on having probed the world - preferred the combination of silence and
non-existence: Mike Naumenko, Alexander Bashlachev, Yanka Dyagileva...
Nikolai Gumilev, Serguei Yesenin, Marina Tsvetayeva... the list is endless
and timeless. The last follower of Utesov's "Song is our helper in life
and in love" made his choice in favor of being heard, rather than merely
being: If I'm not to survive, let me sing this song through..."
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- I wonder, how does it feel to be a poet?
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- A wonderful feeling, I gather...
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- Nothing to do...
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- Nothing to worry about...
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- All they have to do is collect copyright dues...
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- While we have to...
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- Keep shut!
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- Shit!
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- What?!
And potential promoters reduce in number, killing each other with powerful
blows. However, the question remains: To sing or not to sing?
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- Any questions? I pay, you sing. Go ahead, sing 'Horses' for me.
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- Ho-o-orses, ho-o-orses...
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- Stop it! You sing out of tune!
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- No, sir. I sing it the way it was intended...
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- Shut up!
And the only potential 'promoter' left kills the only potential 'star'.
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What shall we do?
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Sink to the bottom of it.
True poets know the old recipe of staying alive deep beneath the chaotic
surface of being.
From the starry abyss of their seclusion, they would occasionally address
us with a SOS signal: seemingly, they are short of oxygen supplies out
there. As time goes by, however, some of them suffocate to death, while
others learn to breath with star dust and other available substances.
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The world is full with sun, and wind, and motion
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Of fairy tales related by the ocean
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In words of jewels scattered in the sand:
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"The world is made of joy, and laughter, and
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Is not for humans. Earthbound, humble creatures,
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They serve their gods. And though they find no fun
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In service, they ignore us or mistreat us
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With changing wind and challenging the sun..."
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Man, are you destitute or simply blind
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To forward selfish prayers to God above?
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You are too small and shy for him to see.
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It takes some disobedience to find
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Yourself apart from harmony of love
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Distributed by spirits of the sea.
Summing up, true poetry is the product of free[dom and] spirit. True poets
would reject any compromises. In present socioeconomic environment, however,
failure to compromise is equivalent to death sentence. Therefore, true
poetry is extinct. A 'poet' in Russia is no longer a Poet. He is an entry
in the 'Lyrics by ... ' template.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God... And on
the eleventh day he created Internet and plastic cards!
The Game
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Look, when someone's waiting for you
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It attracts you like magnet does.
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A cat would wait by a mouse-hole for few
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Silent hours - and here comes the mouse.
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On the sea-bed, under the rock,
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Watchful octopus stands on the guard:
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Floater-by feels a gentle stroke,
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Gets drawn into and torn apart.
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It is only a sort of sport:
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Tiger wins, and constrictor wins
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In a game with no rings, with no courts,
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With no king on the worldwide swings.
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You can't finish this game in a draw.
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Fortune leaves you, and courage fails.
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Silent Referee keeps your score,
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Incorruptible, Unavailable.
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As you are neither hot nor cold,
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He will spit you out of His mouth.
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So, you'd better buy you a ball
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And go practicing streetball right now.
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And remember: the moment when
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Heaven signals that game is over,
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You are not to bother, my friend,
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Go and play for another hour!
