Over the past six months I’ve occasionally ventured beyond the Angeleno émigré scene, which continues to hold most of my attention, in order to translate the work of Russophone exiles who landed on other shores. One of these is the fabled poète maudit of the First Wave, Boris Poplavsky (1903-1935), who made his career, such as it was, in Paris, but whose earliest poems of note were written during the initial stage of his exile, in Constantinople — one of the primary way stations for those fleeing the Civil War from southern Ukraine. I’ve translated and written about Poplavsky before, but this time I had the occasion to render his dazzling youthful cycle of sonnets about his temporary home for a soon-to-be published volume dedicated to the literary legacy of “Russian Constantinople.” In 1920-21, the young poet found himself wandering through the streets, squares, and alleys of this borderland between east and west like a proper flâneur, as well as waiting for free and cheap meals at the Russian Lighthouse (“Mayak”), a social club for refugees established by the Y.M.C.A. at what was then 40 Rue de Brousse and is now 40 Sadri Alışık. He was one of some 200,000 thousand former subjects of the Russian Empire in the city and, as fate would have it, encountered another young man of extraordinary gifts, though of a quite different, more stable temperament.
That young man was the composer and poet Vernon Duke, or rather Vladimir Dukelsky; he wouldn’t adopt the Americanized monicker for a few years yet. Duke and Poplavsky grew close and even founded a “Guild of Poets” in the city, but they were soon to drift apart — the accursed poet settling in Paris, the bon vivant songster dividing his time between Paris, London, and New York, before coming to stay in Los Angeles. It was in Southern California, in 1961, a quarter of a century after Poplavsky’s overdose, that Duke wrote a brief memoir in verse of their time together. I love the poem dearly. I can’t think of a more effective evocation of the fitful blossoming of those adolescent friendships that stay with us, if only in memory, for the rest of our lives. And the whole smell of it, from Alexander Vertinsky’s incensed fingers to the ouzo, is simply intoxicating.
Look out for the appearance of three of Poplavsky’s fourteen sonnets in Schlag Magazine, co-edited by the great poet Cynthia Cruz, and for the publication of the entire cycle, along with Duke’s poem, in Russian Constantinople (Academic Studies Press).
In Memory of Poplavsky
I knew him in Constantinople,
the Russian Lighthouse on de Brousse,
where, in a worn toupée, a singer
received the refugees’ applause,
where ladies, elegantly grazing,
handfed their erstwhile millionaires,
where, my composer’s lyre abandoned,
I dabbled in a stream of verse.
From time to time, for our enjoyment,
the ones in charge would throw a ball,
where, squinting raffishly, Vertinksy,
intoned “Your Fingers Smell of Incense,”
and faeries fluttered through the crowd,
enraptured by the fluty waltzes,
cooling their pallid little foreheads
with rapid flicks of homemade fans.
Through this American-built dwelling
scurried a hungry profiteer:
“Hold on a minute, Mr. Jackson —
five-carat diamond — make a deal?”
There, cast adrift by Reds advancing,
a portly journalist would wail —
this former henchman of Denikin
was craven, voluble, depraved.
A priest, a kindergarten, high school,
the Boy Scouts’ Motto: be prepared…
for inactivity, monotony —
the fate of children and old men.
Once, in the main room, in the evening,
I saw a youth, his shoulders broad,
off in a corner, leaning slightly —
an athlete, maybe, or a clerk.
Hair parted. Jacket and a bowtie.
I thought, “Some model… Drop the pose.
You might be dressed like a romantic,
but you’ve an onion for a nose.”
At sixteen, we’re all prone to envy…
That jacket’s what I hankered for —
unthinkably extravagant;
and yet my dandy was quite poor.
Failing to track down a librarian,
he said: “Poplavsky. Got Renan?”
But he would surely have preferred
a baker with a warm croissant.
We were both young. We got to talking —
a lot of nonsense, truth be known.
But then he read his sweet-stringed poems,
in a peculiar nasal tone.
His lines were awkward and uneven —
strange poison seemed to ooze from them;
the verse of helpless love, it sounded
like sinful cherubs at their song.
Yet they were wonderful, these poems —
yes, they gave off a magic smell.
Each one to me seemed like a window
swung open to an unknown realm.
It was divine — a transformation —
to me his jacket now appeared
to be the toga of young Horace:
from hell to heaven! Then a bar,
where we lapped up the local ouzo
(a blend of anise and wild flames);
poetry’s captivating music
flowed in and filled me up again.
…
Wore a beret. And slouched a little.
Wasn’t a looker, but quite strong.
Adored Rimbaud, the streets, and football.
Was quick to fall in love — headlong.
Even back then, he’d raise a scandal
to ruffle up a boring scene.
Never would he salute a general.
Galata’s crooks ate from his hand.
His strange grandiloquence would leave
people bewildered, at a loss,
and yet this Russian Don Quixote
would blush before a buxom lass.
Beneath the careful decoration
and the romantic suit of mail,
there lurked a pitiful, befuddled
hero of unheroic scale.
What bound us to each other? Europe?
No — we took off for different lands.
But there, in gold Constantinople,
we swore we’d stay eternal friends.
1961
Памяти Поплавского
Я знал его в Константинополе,
На Бруссе, в Русском Маяке,
Где беженцы прилежно хлопали
Певцу в облезлом парике;
Где дамы, вежливо грассируя,
Кормили бывших богачей,
Где композиторскую лиру я
Сменил на виршевый ручей.
Распорядители в усладу нам
Порой устраивали бал,
Где «Ваши пальцы пахнут ладаном»
Вертинский, жмурясь, распевал,
Где, тешась вальсами свирельными,
Порхали феи средь толпы
И веерами самодельными
Свои обмахивали лбы.
В американской сей обители
Шнырял голодный спекулянт:
«Вот, мистер Джаксон, не хотите ли –
Пятикаратовый брильянт!»
Приходом красных в море выкинут,
Там плакал жирный журналист,
Приспешник некогда Деникина –
Труслив, развратен и речист;
Священник, детский сад, гимназия,
Завет бой скаутов: Будь готов…
К спокойствию, однообразию –
Удел детей и стариков.
Однажды я, в гостиной, вечером,
Увидел гнувшегося вбок
Молодчика широкоплечего –
Не то атлет, не то дьячок.
Пиджак, пробор и галстук бантиком.
«Напрасно просишься на холст», –
Подумал я. «Одет романтиком,
А нос, как луковица, толст».
В шестнадцать лет мы все завистливы –
Меня кольнул его пиджак,
Для бедняка наряд немыслимый;
Мой франт – беднейший был бедняк.
Он, не найдя библиотекаря,
Сказал: «Поплавский. Есть Ренан?»
Но предпочёл бы, видно, пекаря
И разогретый круассан.
Разговорились. Оба – юные:
Плели немало чепухи.
Потом прочёл он сладкострунные
Гнусавым голосом стихи.
Стихи нелепые, неровные –
Из них сочился странный яд;
Стихи беспомощно любовные,
Как пенье грешных ангелят.
Но было что-то в них чудесное,
Волшебный запах шёл от них;
Окном, открытым в неизвестное,
Мне показался каждый стих.
И тогой юного Горация
Мне померещился пиджак –
Божественная трансформация!
Из ада в рай – потом в кабак.
Лакали приторное дузико
(Союз аниса и огня);
Стихов пленительная музыка
Опять наполнила меня.
…
Носил берет. Слегка сутулился.
Был некрасив, зато силён;
Любил Рэмбо, футбол и улицу,
Всегда в кого-то был влюблён.
Уже тогда умел скандалами
Взъерошить скучное житьё;
Бесцеремонен с генералами,
Пленял Галатское жульё.
Грандилоквентными причудами
Уже тогда смущал народ,
Но с девушками полногрудыми
Робел сей русский Дон-Кихот.
За декорацией намеренной,
Под романтической бронёй,
Таился жалостный, растерянный,
Негероический герой.
Что нас связало? Не Европа ли?
О, нет, – мы вскоре разошлись.
Но в золотом Константинополе
Мы в дружбе вечной поклялись.
1961
Boris Dralyuk 