During the time of the pandemic, I am thinking of people that have inspired me and my work.
On March 16 Sergey Yursky would have celebrated his 85th birthday. He died last year. While his name needs no introduction in Russian-speaking countries – he is truly legendary, many of my friends who do not speak Russian probably have never heard of him.
Yursky was a legendary actor, I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that he was, perhaps, the most celebrated Russian actor of the 20th century, but his contribution was far greater than acting. He was a writer himself with several books published, and his greatest love was poetry. He was one of the very first artists (if not the first one) who would publicly recite poems by poets who were oppressed at the time when it was still rather dangerous to do. He would tour with his "poetry concerts" reciting poems by Tsvetaeva, Mandelshtam, Hiippius, Brodsky, all his concerts were always full, he was one of my childhood heroes.
I met Yursky for the first time in New York when I came to one of his poetry concerts in Brooklyn. I was 19 years old, shy, and quiet. By that time, my poems have appeared in many Russian magazines and newspapers, and three small books of my poems were published. My parents were living in Chelyabinsk while I was in New York alone since I was 17. I came backstage and gave Yursky one of my small books of poems. I thought he would never open it and that most likely, I will never hear from him again. A few years passed. One day my parents called me. At that time, it was still complicated to call from Russia, not to mention very expensive, so we rarely talked, mostly exchanging long letters that would sometimes take a few months to arrive. My mother’s voice was excited: “Lera, you would not believe this! Last night we went to hear Sergey Yursky’s concert, he is on tour in Chelyabinsk. The program was called “Russian Poets Abroad.” It included poems by Tsvetaeva, Tyutchev, Brodsky and … you!! We are coming again tonight – he is repeating the program."
Needless to say, I was shocked. I asked my parents if they could ask Yursky if he would consider recording a CD of my poetry. They did. He immediately agreed and spent that night in the radio station recording each poem in different interpretations, sometimes five different takes of the same poem, so I could choose the interpretation I liked.
He continued to champion my poetry and even written a preface to one of my books. We met from time to time. Most memorable was a walk through Soho galleries with him and Ilya Kabakov – another legendary Russian artist, but in the visual art world.
Sergey Yursky had a larger than life personality. He was a giant, not only in his stage presence but in his views, his perspective, his fearlessness, his honesty. His presence is forever bound with the history of Russian poetry. I miss him greatly.
Here is a link to him reciting my poem “Seasons” and the English translation of this poem.
Seasons
I
Life is an ouroboros. Spring
Doesn’t keep count, but binds
Everything, everyone, life, death.
For centuries, rebirth has turned
The earth. Only God, surely, knows
What lies behind this endless rotation.
With life ahead, we are more honest;
Stripping down the earth, we lay our deposit on love.
At times like this, we can be happy in a cell,
The poorest shelter can be our palace.
Now, the year seems long
And we battle windmills like the Don.
II
The days pass. Spent Spring feels
Summer’s farewell breath at its back.
We grow used to maturity, it always
Reminds us of home, our native land,
Of household chores, of the family,
Of work and the titles we have taken on …
This time of hot middays, when the sun
Stares straight into its own
single eye shattering the water
(Life allows us to submit to the flow).
Stamping out grains of dust with yellow rays
It reaches the height of its paralyzed state.
III
The days pass and the birds fly by, away.
The leaves fall, fall, but still, they cannot
Quite find a way to settle on the ground …
At times my thoughts cohere –
A sign offered up by my senses
Like a question put to a departing God.
Life resembles a flowing garment sewn
Out of days like a toga’s folds, the last
Made from foreknowledge of winter.
The cradle is draped with sunset’s shroud.
And the fir tree’s fractured trunk
Crooks like a hanging question mark.
IV
The days pass. Crows’ nests –
Old rags on the bare branches.
The snow settling on your temple
No longer even melts, and iron nails
Start to come loose, the frame of the house
Breaks up, springs leaks like a canoe
Or an ancient ship. And the heart’s gasp
Oppresses. Something weighs on your breast.
Sounds are muffled … The scaffold
Rises suddenly, a cross on your path;
So unexpected is it that you have
Time for just three words: “For everything – forgive.”