“That Old Life of Ease”: Light Reading with Alexander Voloshin

Cover of “Captain” Mayne Reid’s The Headless Horseman

With the arrival of spring break, I’ve managed to find time for a little light reading—purely for the sake of entertainment, no edifying strings attached. This is also my way to celebrate a week of good news, which included the longlisting of my latest translation, Andrey Kurkov’s The Silver Bone, for the International Booker Prize and my receiving a Literature Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Reading aimlessly had me feeling like a kid again, and it reminded me of this enchanting passage from Alexander Voloshin’s On the Tracks, in which he compares his fantasies of the American Wild West, derived from adventure stories, with the reality of an immigrant’s life in  California. Swift, Verne, and improbable tales of adventure set in the New World made up the bulk of my childhood reading, too, and I suspect Samson Kolechko, the hero of The Silver Bone, was weaned on them as well. It’s a good thing they’ll always be there for us, and for generations of children to come.

You gaze into the past and see
vain seeking, sheer adversity…
And only rarely, in your sleep,
do little fragments of it seep
into your mind — sweet memories
of childhood, that old life of ease…
Distant Crimea… Warm July
in a lush garden… Floating by,
a row of half-remembered faces,
their chatting mingled with the traces
of piano music from the house…
Whispered confessions, solemn vows…

If I had heard of “grief,” “despair,”
they were mere words, as light as air
and utterly devoid of meaning…
Children are selfish, overweening…
Spoiled by my comforts, by routine,
constantly summoned to be seen
by this or that doting relation,
I was the Center of Creation…
I felt I’d never be held back,
proceeding boldly down life’s track!

It often happened, at midday,
when it was just too hot to play,
that I would slip into the study,
where it was quiet, cool. Nobody
every came in to read with me —
for grown-ups, summers are book-free.

Climbing onto the couch, I’d be
transported by the fantasy
of Swift or Verne to some strange land
with Gulliver or Captain Grant.
Texas, the broad plains, a fierce squall —
I dreamt of weathering it all,
and vowed that someday I’d wage war
against the natives… Hear me roar!
My eyes would blaze, my gaze would stun,
I’d settle matters with my gun…
I would win fame and untold riches!

Well, now I’m here… Alas, the hitch is
the truth behind our childhood dreams
is hardly ever what it seems.
Life bears no hint of heroism;
we fear another cataclysm,
remaining shaken and appalled
after the Bolsheviks’ “fierce squall”…

I’d found true poetry in novels —
but here it’s prose, hard work, drab hovels…
Now I approach the final track,
leaving all joy far back, far back…

---

Посмотришь в прошлое — там годы
Исканий тщетных… Там невзгоды,
Что Жизнь дарила щедро мне,
И только изредка, во сне, —
Отрывками увидишь снова
Моменты детства золотого,
Далёкий Крым… Уютный дом…
Июльский день в саду густом…
Ряд лиц — теперь полузабытых…
Из окон, широко-раскрытых, —
Услышишь музыку… Рояль
В тоске звенит — «кого-то жаль…
К кому-то сердце жадно рвётся…».
И гулким эхом отдаётся
Романс старинный — там, вдали, —
Где проплывают корабли,
Где солнца золото, где море…

В те дни я слышал: «Мука»… «Горе»…
«Тоска»… Но был я очень мал
И смысла слов — не понимал…
Слова легко скользили эти, —
Всегда эгоистичны дети.
Рабы обычаев, уюта, —
То люди к нам, то мы к кому-то…
Ряды визитов отдаём —
И мне казалось — создан мир
Лишь для меня!… И я — кумир!
Я — Центр Вселенной!… Бог Великий
Свет создал пёстрый, многоликий, —
На радость мне!… И жизни путь
Я свой — пройду не «как-нибудь»,
А «гордо», «смело», «в славе яркой»!…

Бывало часто — в полдень жаркий
Я шёл в прохладный кабинет, —
Там — книг ряды, там — взрослых нет, —
Большие летом не читают, —
Никто мне там не помешает…

Взобравшись на большой диван,
Читал я сказку, иль роман, —
О «Гулливере», «великанах»,
О солнечных далёких странах,
О «Детях Гранта»… И мечтал,
Что сам увижу «грозный шквал»,
«Техас», «льяносы», «Аризону»,
И — верный «прерии закону» —
Я буду цель иметь одну, —
«Вести с индейцами войну»!…
Мои «так грозны» будут «взоры»,
«Мой карабин решит все споры»!…
И буду славен я, богат, —
«Великий Бледнолицый Брат!»…

На деле ж — вышло всё иначе…
Из этого совсем не значит,
Что не сбылись мои мечты, —
Они — сбылись… Но красоты
И героизма — нет в помине…
Ну вот — в Америке я ныне,
В стране далёких, детских дум,
Но… стал холодным взрослый ум…
Прошли «расплавленные годы»
И гул Российской Непогоды,
Разбив мечты, как «грозный шквал», —
Изнанку Жизни показал!…

Нет радости и в этих странах…
Поэзия — была в романах,
На деле ж я увидел тут
Лишь прозу и тяжёлый труд…

«Лишь там прекрасно — где нас нету»!…
Невольно поговорку эту —
Частенько повторяю я, —
Мои читатели-друзья…

Короче, — грустные итоги:
Уже кончаются — дороги…
И перепутья… И пути…
А счастья — нет… и — не найти!…

“A Man Can Dream”: A Tulsan Cold Snap and Vernon Duke’s “Heat Wave”

Our new year got off to a bit of a rocky start, but it has also given us much to celebrate — first and foremost, our new home. The little Tulsan bungalow is a transplanted Angelono’s dream.  It looks to have been airlifted from the San Fernando Valley in the 1950s.  As I wrote to a friend just after we moved, I’m surprised it didn’t come with a poodle skirt and a hula hoop.  The move itself, alas, was a hard one.  Winter has set in here in Oklahoma, and there was snow and ice on the roads.

The sight of snow was a joyous one, of course, but Jenny and I would rather have watched it fall through a window…  It did remind us of the pleasure we took in translating Taras and Marjana Prokhasko’s heartwarming children’s book, Who Will Make the Snow?, from Ukrainian.  This was Jenny’s and my first official co-translation, and we were happy to see it make not one, but two New York Times best-of lists.  Kind reviewers have brought us another couple of presents this holiday season.  Jenny’s novel, The Extinction of Irena Rey, and my translation of Andrey Kurkov’s historical detective yarn, The Silver Bone, got twin stars in Publishers Weekly.  Both are due out in March.

But back to the snow…  When the temperature drops to the single digits, this shivering Californian needs a reminder of the other extreme.  Luckily, Vernon Duke is Johnny-on-the-spot.

Heat Wave

Today the sun is unrelenting,
its rays refusing to recede,
pouring their oil upon the wilted
salad of houses in the street.

The evening couldn’t get much warmer.
While sails hang limp and seamen mope,
a lazy cop sulks on the corner
and nurses an illicit hope:

a glass, a juicy, springy olive,
a whispering ambrosial stream
in a secluded bar — the call of
some tinkling voice… A man can dream…

August 1966

---

Жара

Сегодня солнце не желает гаснуть,
Его лучи уняться не хотят.
И обливают беспощадно маслом
Домов и улиц сохнущий салат.

Под вечер  — полдень. Вянет хлам житейский
И паруса безжизнены в порту,
А на углу ленивый полицейский
Лелеет нелегальную мечту:

Хрусталь, и хруст пружинистой оливы,
В укромном баре шепчущий ручей
Амброзии нездешнего разлива
И чей-то рай… а может быть ничей.

Август 1966

“Come on Down to Arizona”: Vernon Duke Hits Phoenix

The past few months have been difficult for our family. We lost one of our pillars, my father-in-law, Jerry Croft, who was as close to a superhero as real-life affords. You can learn more about Jerry, whose joyous fighting spirit will continue to inspire me for as long as I live, here and here. He was a cultural geographer with a deep knowledge of Oklahoma and a deep love for the American West. We bonded over our mutual addiction to old oaters, like Death Valley Days, and I suppose it was memories of our Western-themed conversations — and of Jerry’s goodnatured yet sly sense of humor — that sent me back to Vernon Duke’s cockeyed sendup of a tourism advertisement for the inhospitably hot state of Arizona. I’m sure it would have brought a smile to Jerry’s face.

Arizona

Are you gaga over ozone?
Does it simply make you swoon?
Come on down to Arizona,
as befits a proper loon.
Cowboys with their copper faces,
Gary Cooperish attire,
loaf around, twanging like oboes,
wet with sweat, smelling of mire.
With their legs encased in leather
boots of an enormous size,
they appear as Gullivers
to our Lilliputian eyes.
They make money in fake gunfights
staged for television screens,
but when those long shoots are ended,
Arizona’s where they spend it —
the calm desert is their scene.
Rich old ladies much admire
all these cowboys, tall and plain —
they expect erotic fire,
but they wait for it in vain.
The main city here is Phoenix —
rather sleepy, rather dull,
all the buildings single-storeyed,
nondescript… “Oh, what a cynic,”
I can hear my readers drawl.
In the evenings, out of bars,
comes the strumming of guitars.
In the mornings, after golf,
stingy gentlemen ride off
in Mercedes, Jaguars…
And at middays, with a groan,
everyone, in unison,
cools off with a bit of gin.
Come to Arizona, campers,
where the palm trees reek of camphor!

June 1963

---

Аризона

Если верите озону
И покорны кислороду,
Поезжайте в Аризону,
Как пристало сумасброду.
Меднорожие ковбои
В Гэри-Куперовых шляпах
Там гнусавят, как гобои,
И от них медвежий запах.
Ноги в сапоги обуты
Исполинского размера.
Визитёры — лилипуты,
А ковбои — Гулливеры.
Зарабатывают бойней
На экранах телевизий,
Но в песчаном парадизе,
В Аризоне им покойней,
В Аризоне — take it easy.
Престарелые богачки,
Эротической подачки
Ожидая тщетно — что им? —
Не выплевывая жвачки,
Восхищаются ковбоем.
Главный город — это Финикс,
Монотонный, сонный; даже
Все дома одноэтажны,
На одно лицо. «Вы циник-с!» —
Мне читатель в скобках скажет.
До-ре-ми иль си-ля-соль-фа —
В кабаках трещат гитары.
По утрам, устав от гольфа,
Сядет люд скупой и старый
В Мерседесы, Ягуары.
В полдень в Финиксе пустынно
Все, как по команде, стонут,
От жары спасаясь джином.
Пальмы пахнут нафталином:
Поезжайте в Аризону.

Июнь 1963

“Give It All, Love Everybody”: Vernon Duke and a Mirage of Yuletide in LA

October was a brutal month, and November shows no signs of improvement. Ethnic and political conflicts continue to flare up around the world. This year many thousands of civilians in Sudan, Ukraine, Israel and Palestine, Nagorno-Karabakh, and elsewhere have been slaughtered and displaced. Having just finished translating the first part of Alexander Voloshin’s mock epic On the Tracks and at Crossroads, which covers the flight of hundreds of thousands of émigrés from the south of Ukraine at the end of the Civil War in the late 1910s and early 1920s, I felt I needed to remind myself that the journey these men, women, and children undertook did not always end in heartbreak. Some of them eventually found peace and even joy, if only temporarily, in their adoptive homes. It seems hardly possible that the people affected by today’s turmoil will one day find peace and joy, but poems like the one below, by Vernon Duke, offer a small shred of hope.

I should add that I write this from Tulsa, where for the past two days I’ve had to scrape ice off our car’s windshield in the morning, so Duke’s description of the incongruously warm holiday season in LA proves especially appealing at the moment.

Christmas in Santa Monica

Heat in December — not the frost
that pokes us with its unseen pins.
The mouths of tykes emit no steam
and paper Christmas trees look out
onto the merry, decked-out scene.
Instead of snow — fluff, cotton wool,
and a glass floor posing as ice.
People gaze up and feast their eyes,
for free, as a fake angel flies
amid the strings of ersatz pearls.
The traffic lights, like cigarettes,
flicker in rhythm down the street,
while a supposed Santa Claus,
sweating right through his fur-trimmed coat, 
explains, in tones so rich and sweet,
the charms of winter at the Pole.
On TV youngsters smile profusely,
sing carols, then, in swimming trunks,
race one another to the waves
(without the beach, we can’t have music).
And farther down, beside the bridge,
on fragrant eucalyptus trees,
a triptych of bright lanterns swings
to glorify the newborn King.
The night descends. A star’s suspended
between the palms; this strange and shoddy
mirage of Yuletide makes no sense.
Still — Merry Christmas, my dear friend!
You’ll give it all, love everybody.

January 1965

---

Рождество в Санта-Монике

Зной в декабре, не холод колкий,
Что жжёт невидимой иголкой.
Из детских ртов не пышет пар,
Бумажные глазеют ёлки
На принаряженный бульвар.
А вместо снега пух и вата
И пол стеклянный, словно лёд;
И лицезреют все бесплатно
Поддельных ангелов полёт,
Поддельных жемчугов мерцанье,
Сигналов уличных мельканье
Подобно вспышкам папирос.
В очках и меховом кафтане
Потеет мнимый Дед Мороз;
Он детям объясняет гладко
Зимы невидимый уют.
По телевизии Колядки
Юнцы зубастые поют,
Потом в трусах купальных липких
(Без пляжа музыка не та)
С разбега в волны. У моста,
На благовонных эвкалиптах
Фонариков подвешен триптих
Для прославления Христа.
Ночь. Над крыльцом звезда повисла
Меж пальмами; в ней мало смысла,
Убог рождественский мираж.
Но все же — друг мой, Merry Christmas!
Ты всех полюбишь, всё отдашь.

Январь 1965

“Two of Everything”: Vernon Duke’s Fine Romance

Vernon Duke found true love relatively late in life, in the mid-1950s, when his musical secretary introduced him to Kay McCracken. A mezzo-soprano from Bozeman, Montana, Kay was less than half his age — but I gather age was never anything but a number for Duke. The romance was a whirlwind, and the two tied the knot on October 29, 1957. It was a happy marriage, cut short by Duke’s sudden death on the operating table on January 16, 1969. The memory of that day, and of the happiness that it shattered, are very much alive for Kay, with whom I spoke by phone last week.

The occasion for my call was the completion of another translation — this time of a poem Duke had dedicated to his bride. Kay vividly recalls picking up copies of the book in which the poem is found, Picture Gallery, from the publisher in Munich in 1965. But of course she couldn’t read its contents, which included, among other things, a lyric about Christmas in Santa Monica and a lighthearted skewering of the hippies at the Whisky a Go Go on Sunset Blvd. (No scene was too wild for the young-at-heart Duke.)

Duke had told Kay that he’d written the poem for her, but it remained inaccessible, locked away in another language, for exactly six decades. Last week I shared my translation. I wish I could express how much in meant to me to hear her giggle at each witty line, and sigh occasionally, and finally say, through tears, “That got me right in the belly.” I felt it too. Here’s the poem.

Two Dollars

In all the dizzying pre-wedding turmoil
(like Gogol’s hero, I had awful jitters),
running around to get champagne and flowers
(they didn’t smell like flowers from Crimea)
and every other necessary trifle,
I nearly didn’t make it to the office,
my darling Kay, where newlyweds, by law,
have to obtain a proper marriage license.
I found you waiting there, impatiently,
casting quick glances at your bracelet watch
(my Scottish heather brought up in Montana).
Then, holding hands, like children off to school,
we rushed up to the counter, panting wildly,
and I declared, “Here are the documents,”
as I threw down the papers with great pride.
“Two dollars,” grunted the unfeeling clerk,
who looked to me just like a sunburnt cactus.
In desperation, I took out my wallet
and found no money. I had spent it all
on things we needed for the celebration
(an L.A. wedding is a big production).
But, hastily, you drew from your own wallet
a crumpled, crinkly pair of greenish bills,
resembling two squirmy little lizards,
and slipped them to the clerk — “Two dollars, is it?” —
then, with a faint smile, added shyly, “Thank you.”
Pursing his lips, the gruff clerk merely grunted,
and we raced off towards the church, like mad.
Along the way, you whispered to me, “Honey,
always remember who paid for the wedding.”
And I’ll remember, always, darling Kay
(my Scottish heather brought up in Montana).

* * *

Then came the hour of our first real parting —
of that sweet sorrow, as the Bard described it.
I had to travel to New York, for reasons
I’ve long forgotten. At the sooty station,
we kissed each other sadly and embraced,
reluctant to let go. True newlyweds.
“I’ll have to eat all by myself tonight,”
you said so sweetly, with a little sigh,
then rummaged in your wallet. “I’m afraid
I have no money.” I pulled out two dollars.
“All right,” you said. I stepped aboard the train.
The smoke of it smelled strange, rather disturbing.
A little later, in the Pullman car,
where it was cool, I wore my blue pajamas
and thought of you. I drifted off, and dreamt
of Scottish heather growing in Montana…
Then came a vision of my own finale
(I hope it, too, will come with some delay):
Bottles of medicine. Half-darkness. By my bed,
you, darling Kay — clenched tightly in your hand
a crumpled, crinkly pair of greenish bills,
resembling two squirmy little lizards.
Brimming with love and fear, you say to me,
“Here, honey… Don’t forget the telegram…
Send it as soon as you arrive… It won’t be easy
for me to stay here, all alone, on earth…”
As difficult as it may be, God willing,
I’ll still discern your words, with gratitude,
but I’ll no longer need to take your money.

* * *

Friend, you and I have two of everything.
Two homelands — your America, my Russia
(a Scottish heather and a Slavic birch).
A pair of dogs. And a duet for piano.
Two dollars. And two lives. Until the end.

June 1963

---

Два доллара

В нелепой суматохе перед свадьбой
(Как Подколесин, свадеб я боялся)
Я бегал за шампанским, за цветами
(Они не пахли, как цветы в Мисхоре),
За разной разностью необходимой —
И чуть не опоздал в бюро, Катюша,
Где, по закону, новобрачным нужно
Свидетельством о браке заручиться.
Ты там ждала меня нетерпеливо
(Шотландский вереск, выросший в Монтане),
Смотря украдкой на браслет с часами;
И, за руки держась, как дети в школу,
Мы кинулись галопом, задыхаясь,
К чиновнику. «Вот, мистер, документы», —
Я заявил, их бросив на прилавок.
«Два доллара», — мне процедил чиновник,
Похожий на сожженный солнцем кактус.
В бумажнике, порывшись бестолково,
Я денег не нашел. Я их истратил:
Расходов перед свадьбой очень много
(В Лос-Анжелесе свадьбы театральны).
Из кошелька ты вынула поспешно
Зеленые, помятые бумажки,
Похожие на ящериц вертлявых;
Чиновнику их сунула: «Возьмите…
Два доллара, не правда ль?» — улыбаясь,
Ему застенчиво сказала: «Thank you».
Чиновник буркнул, поджимая губы,
И мы помчались в церковь. «Помни, милый,
Твоя жена за свадьбу заплатила», —
Шепнула, подбоченившись, Катюша
(Шотландский вереск, выросший в Монтане).

* * *

Вот подошла и первая разлука —
«Чужая сторона», как пел шарманщик.
В Нью-Йорк мне съездить — а зачем, не помню —
Пришлось, и на измызганном вокзале
Мы на прощанье грустно целовались,
Как полагается молодоженам.
«Придется в первый раз одной обедать», —
Вздыхая, ты промолвила печально.
Порылась в кошельке. «Боюсь, не хватит…» —
Два доллара я вытащил мгновенно.
«Аll right, спасибо»… — и пыхтящий поезд,
Пропахший чем-то странным и тревожным,
Меня увез — ив Пульмане прохладном,
В пижаму облачившись голубую,
Я думал о тебе; потом приснился
Шотландский вереск на холмах Монтаны,
Потом представился финал грядущий
(Придет и он; надеюсь, с опозданьем).
Лекарства. Полумрак. У изголовья,
Катюша, ты; в руке твоей зажаты
Зеленые, помятые бумажки,
Похожие на ящериц вертлявых;
Суешь мне их с испугом и любовью.
«Вот, милый… не забудь мне телеграмму
Послать, как только ты по назначенью
Прибудешь. На земле одной остаться
Мне нелегко…» Твои слова, даст Боже,
С трудом и с благодарностью расслышу,
Но деньги больше мне не пригодятся.

* * *

У нас с тобой, мой друг, всего по паре:
Две родины — Америка, Россия
(Шотландский вереск, русская береза),
Дуэт роялей. Две больших собаки.
Два доллара. Две жизни. До свиданья.

Июнь 1963

“The Smoke of Time”: From Crimea to Santa Monica with Vernon Duke

I thought I was finished with Vernon Duke’s Los Angeles poems, but it turns out that the sequence from his 1962 collection wasn’t the end of the story. He kept on writing funny, touching verses about Southern California. Santa Monica seemed to exert a special pull on him, and a poem from June 1963 reveals one good reason for that. The beach reminded him, as it reminds me, of the Black Sea.

Duke spent the happiest years of his childhood in Crimea, partly in the resort town of Alupka, the splendors of which he describes in his joy-ride of an autobiography, Passport to Paris (1955):

The Black Sea is bluer than the bluest Mediterranean; the fish more varied and far tastier; the flowers larger and more fragrant; and above all, the fruit not to be compared with any obtainable elsewhere. My most vivid recollection of Crimea is the taste of the local grapes and the astonishing variety in their shape, size and flavor. I particularly remember three: the huge yellow-green Chaoosh, the subtly perfumed Isabella, and the common but infinitely juicy Shashla. The everyday drink of all tourists and residents of Crimea was a fresh grape juice squeezed before your eyes from a pound of Shashla; this drink, amber-green in color, in no way resembled commercial grape juice as we know it in the U.S.A.

His adoptive home may have lacked suitable grape juice, but in other ways the shore of the Pacific brought him back to his boyhood. In this poem, even a fiddler crab’s Soviet-style salute can’t dampen his mood. As the smoke of time drifts away and one nears one’s final destination, why not let bygones be bygones?

Nature Morte

Is this Crimea? Is it the Pacific?
Same salty water, same sweet sun, same view:
a picture-postcard seaside panorama
beneath the same clear sky, same shade of blue.
The water has the smell of fresh cucumbers.
A jellyfish coils like a blown-glass snake.
Rising behind him with its snowy lining,
a wave’s thick shirt descends to overtake
and drape a swimmer. On the shore, a crab
offers his well-worn communistic greeting
and millions of fish with crimson gills
commence their International’s big meeting.
Yet in Alupka I was but a boy,
while Santa Monica’s my denouement…
The smoke of time swirls like a curly cloud
above the figure of a tanned old man,
who lies with fingers laced behind his head.
He smiles, recalling his unlikely story.
America, Crimea — does it matter
where I cross over into Purgatory?

June 1963

---

Nature Morte

Неясно — Крым иль Тихоокеанский пляж.
Соленая вода и сахарное солнце,
Песка, цветов и гор открыточный монтаж,
Ито же небо, что такой же синькой полнится.
Вода знакомо пахнет свежим огурцом,
Стеклянною змеей свивается медуза;
Подкладкой снежною вздымаясь над пловцом,
Его окутывает голубая блуза
Податливой волны; вот подползает краб
С коммунистическим, как водится, приветом,
И рыбы миллионами баровых жабр
Участвуют в интернационале этом.
Но я в Алупке был мальчишкою шальным,
А эпилог мой — Санта Моника… и дым,
Дым времени кудрявым облаком клубится
Над загорелым господином пожилым,
Что руки заложил под черепом своим.
Он улыбается. Какая небылица!
Не безразлично ли — Америка иль Крым
Перед чистилищем последняя граница?

Июнь 1963

“How Nice to Bask Upon the Beach”: A Beachy Birthday in Tulsa with Vernon Duke and Irena Rey

Last Friday my wonderful wife Jenny helped me celebrate my birthday in Tulsa with an approximation of beachy Californian living by summoning a small group of friends to our neighborhood tiki bar, the Saturn Room. Squinting (as I did in the photo above), I almost felt I was back at the Tiki-Ti on Sunset Boulevard. It was the best of sloshy bashes; even Oklahoma’s sky pitched in with a cocktail-colored rainbow.

Actually, we were marking two special occasions, my birthday and the cover reveal of Jenny’s utterly original new novel, The Extinction of Irena Rey. Jenny is a forest person, and the painting by Inka Essenhigh ton the front ofThe Extinction really captures that aspect of her personality.

As for me, I’m all about the sea, so indulge me as I sink into another lighthearted Angeleno poem by Vernon Duke.

Santa Monica Beach

How nice to bask upon the beach;
the water is so clear, so light.
On one side is a swan-white chest,
and all around are meaty thighs.

Awakened by a gentle breeze,
I’ll sidle up, lean on your shoulder,
while a slim boy dives in the waves,
as does — his aunt? Plumper and older.

The dogs have fun digging up sand
and barking loud without their muzzles.
A mother feeds her newborn son
while bodybuilders flex their muscles.

Sailing near shore, a merry boat
pierces our ears with its sharp whistle.
Schoolboys and schoolgirls take no note —
pour Coca-Cola down their throats
to wash down undigested lessons.

A lady quite advanced in age
eclipses, even blinds the young —
her skin puts all their tans to shame:
a scintillating scarlet-brown.

Bustling about are rowdy crews
of poets, acrobats, and swimmers.
The damsels’ swimsuits are the hues
of sunset, rich in reds and blues.
It’s sunset? Off for home and dinner.

---

(Santa Monica)

Пляж

Приятно нежиться на пляже;
Вода прозрачна и легка.
Направо — чья-то грудь лебяжья,
И чьи-то вкруг окорока.

Разбужен ласковой прохладой,
Я к твоему плечу прильну,
А мальчик с тёткой толстозадой
Ныряют в тёплую волну.

В песке собаке сладко рыться
И воздух лаем оглашать:
Сосед-атлет напружил бицепс
Младенца грудью кормит мать.

Вблизи маячит чёлн весёлый
И, в слух вонзясь, сверлит свисток;
Юнцы пренебрегают школой
И заливают кока-колой
Свой недозубренный урок.

А дама спелая, пожалуй,
И зрячих превратит в слепых,
Раскраской кожи буро-алой
Затмив загары молодых.

Пловцы, поэты, акробаты
Шныряют гулкою гурьбой;
Трико прелестниц полосаты,
Как сине-красные закаты.
Уже закат? Пора домой.

“Reserved for Natives”: Alexander Voloshin on the Status of Refugees

The plight of refugees stalks the headlines: devastating wrecks off the coast of Greece, Ukrainian children orphaned and uprooted, often welcomed but sometimes mocked and bespattered by their peers. For those of us who have experienced displacement in the past, such stories bring back painful memories and old fears. I recall my family’s early days in Los Angeles — recall my mother’s struggles to clear the bureaucratic hurdles all immigrants face, as well as the playground bullying to which my friends and I were subjected. One of the chapters in the second part of Alexander Voloshin’s On the Tracks and at Crossroads recounts some of those perennial émigré troubles, applying to them a therapeutic layer of absurdist humor. Laughter was how my friends and I coped with our challenges, too; eventually, those challenges fell away, while we, I’m happy to say, are still laughing.

At this point in his poem, Voloshin juxtaposes the relatively stable existence the First Wave émigrés found in the United States in the 1920s and ’30s with the unholy tangle of woes they encountered in interwar Europe. There, the best they could hope for was a Nansen passport for stateless people, which Vladimir Nabokov describes in Speak, Memory:

The League of Nations equipped émigrés who had lost their Russian citizenship with a so-called “Nansen” passport, a very inferior document of a sickly green hue. Its holder was little better than a criminal on parole and had to go through most hideous ordeals every time he wished to travel from one country to another, and the smaller the countries the worse the fuss they made. Somewhere at the back of their glands, the authorities secreted the notion that no matter how bad a state — say, Soviet Russia — might be, any fugitive from it was intrinsically despicable since he existed outside a national administration; and therefore he was viewed with the preposterous disapproval with which certain religious groups regard a child born out of wedlock.

Another, even less respectable, option, was the purchase of a false passport — and it is the consequences of this step on which Voloshin dwells. Ultimately, what Voloshin mocks and bemoans is not only the inherent injustice of nativism but the repellent smugness of its enforcers. Would that these things were all behind us.

Now that six years have taken flight,
there are no “refugees” in sight:
we are “Americans,” for we
have pledged allegiance — honestly!
Our English skills are much improved
and citizenship claims approved;
whatever threats the Reds may wield,
the Stars and Stripes will be our shield.
Our children grow, their peace assured,
as we have finally secured
a proper home where we’ve been hurled
by fate — this free and brave New World.

That Nansen nonsense is behind us;
no dense bureaucracy can bind us.
From here, it really looks absurd,
the bedlam of that bad Old World…
If you should get a chance to see
the sort of passports Russians hold
in Europe — why, your eyes would roll
in shock and utter disbelief…

These émigrés saved up some dough
to purchase passports of their own —
a bulwark against more distress,
but, in reality, a mess…
Now they are all a bit embarrassed
to say dad’s Greek and mom’s from Paris,
daughter’s a Pole, son is from Rome,
uncle is Czech, aunt’s from Trabzon —
while grandma is from Mexico,
grandpa’s a Hindu, don’t you know…
Though her appearance may well fool you,
mother-in-law is now a Zulu —
no, wait — Chinese? Is it Korean?
Morozov’s Dutch, it’s plain to see, and
old Koryakov’s from Budapest…

Rather a nightmare for these guests,
whom Europe wants out of its hair:
“here” is off-limits, can’t go “there.”
No state is keen to issue visas
and a policeman’s wild caprices
are, for the émigrés, the law…
Yet what has stuck most in their craw
are not refusals and detentions,
but all the shameless condescension…

“Equality” and “Liberty” —
reserved for natives of these nations…
Yes, what awaits the refugee
are prison cells and deportations.

---

Шесть лет промчалось, и отныне
Уж нету «беженцев» в помине, —
«Американцы» мы, зане —
Клялись на верность сей стране!…
Язык английский подучили,
Права гражданства получили,
Не страшен больше «красный враг», —
Нас охраняет Звездный Флаг!…
Растут спокойно наши дети,
И, наконец-то, в Новом Свете, —
Завоевали мы с трудом —
Свой угол, крышу, словом — дом!…

Забыты — Нансен, Лига Наций,
Проверок нет, нет регистраций,
И кажется нелепым нам
Европы старенькой «бедлам»!… 
Конечно — не легко поверить,
Но если-б вы могли проверить
В Европе — русских паспорта, —
Не разобрали-б ни черта!…

Они деньжонок прикопили
И — паспорта себе купили, —
Покоя в будущем оплот,
Но получился… анекдот:
Грек — папа… Мама — итальянка…
Дочь — полька… Внучка — мексиканка…
Брат мамы — чех… Свояк — румын…
Зять — трапезундский армянин…
Признаться всем им в том неловко.
Но эфиопка их золовка,
У зятя — дедушка индус,
Свекрови брат — не то зулус,
Не то — манджур, не то — кореец!…
Морозов — тещи брат — индеец!…
Тесть папы — Коряков — мадьяр!…

И жизнь у всех — сплошной кошмар…
Их европейцы не выносят, —
«Туда» — нельзя… «Оттуда» — просят…
Давать им не желают виз,
И — полицейского каприз —
Для русских заменил законы…
И все — в отказах непреклонны…
И все хранят надменный вид…
И все забыли слово: «стыд»!…

Девизы — «Равенство», «Свобода» —
У них — для своего народа,
А русским — притеснений тьма,
Аресты… Высылки… Тюрьма!…

“I’ll Perish in the Concert Hall”: Vladimir Korvin-Piotrovsky Foresees a Californian Death

Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 1960s

As I noted at the start of this year, although I’m far from LA, I still keep one eye on the latest Angeleno developments. The Los Angeles Times is always a reliable source — a source, as I told my wonderful audience at the LA Times Festival of Books a week ago, which I’ve often plundered for epigraphs when writing poems about the city. Yesterday’s edition brought to light an incident that… well, I’ll let reporter Christi Carras tell it:

Molly Grant was enjoying the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s fifth symphony on Friday at the Walt Disney Concert Hall when she heard what she described as a “scream/moan” erupt from the balcony.

“Everyone kind of turned to see what was happening,” Grant, who was seated near the person who allegedly made the noise, told The Times on Sunday in a phone interview.

“I saw the girl after it had happened, and I assume that she … had an orgasm because she was heavily breathing, and her partner was smiling and looking at her — like in an effort to not shame her,” said Grant, who works for a jewelry company and lives in Los Feliz. “It was quite beautiful.”

I can’t imagine a more delightfully SoCal reception of Tchaikovsky. As another concert-goer told Carras, “I think everyone felt that was a rather lovely expression of somebody who was so transported by the music that it had some kind of effect on them physically.” Angelenos are nothing if not full-bodied in their appreciation of art.

This life-affirming story also brought to mind a poem by the Russophone Angeleno émigré Vladimir Korvin-Piotrovsky (1891-1966), whose work I’ve shared twice before and also included in My Hollywood. This poem — a part of Korvin-Piotrovsky California cycle — also speaks to the bodily impact of music, but paints a darker scene. In it the poet, who had survived two world wars and imprisonment by both the Bolsheviks and the Gestapo, foresees his demise in a concert hall. I wouldn’t be surprised if Korvin-Piotrovsky had one of Tchaikovsky’s pieces in mind.

Fortune has ruled that I won’t die
on any battlefield:
I’ve seen the jolly shrapnel fly,
have dodged my share of steel.
It won’t be violent at all,
death in this foreign land.
I’ll perish in the concert hall,
and by the lightest hand.
Wearing a tailcoat, raven-black,
a vest as white as snow,
his gray hair carelessly swept back,
one strand on his cold brow,
a violinist will delay
his stroke, hiding a sneer,
and I will sense it right away —
I’ll know my death is here.
No one will stir within the hall
amid the music’s boom;
the lightning of the bow will fall
into the piano’s gloom.
As I peel off a narrow glove,
my heart will cease to beat;
the hiss of ripping silk is smooth,
the tear is straight and neat.
I will collapse without a sound,
as battle laws decree,
and some stern doctor will pronounce
what should be done with me.
Then, pushing back the little crowd,
a scrawny clerk will say
that there are worse ways to go out —
he wouldn’t mind this way.

---

Не от свинца, не от огня
Судьба мне смерть судила, —
Шрапнель веселая меня
Во всех боях щадила,
И сталь граненая штыка
Не раз щадила тоже, —
Меня легчайшая рука
Убьет в застенке ложи.
В жилете снежной белизны
И в чёрном фраке модном,
С небрежной прядью седины
На черепе холодном
Скрипач, улыбку затая,
Помедлит над струною,
И я узнаю, – смерть моя
Пришла уже за мною.
И будет музыка дика,
Не шевельнутся в зале,
И только молния смычка
Падёт во тьму рояля.
Перчатку узкую сорву
(А сердце захлебнётся),
И с треском шёлковым по шву
Перчатка разорвётся.
Я молча навзничь упаду
По правилам сраженья,
Суровый доктор на ходу
Отдаст распоряженья.
И, усмиряя пыл зевак,
Чиновник с грудью впалой
Заметит сдержанно, что так
Не прочь и он, пожалуй.

“Free Yet Dry”: Alexander Voloshin Takes Down Prohibition

When our man Alexander Voloshin and his fellow émigrés, who had seen their share of suffering in the Old World, landed in the United States in the 1920s, they found much to celebrate — but one thing stuck in their craw. That something was prohibition and the Volstead Act, the puritanical law of the land, which wasn’t done away with until 1933. The émigrés had already had a taste of dry living. As I show in one of the first sections of 1917: Stories and Poems from the Russian Revolution, the Tsarist ban on the sale of alcohol during the Great War led to much frustration and, with the coming of the Revolution, to mass raids on cellars and warehouses where wine and vodka were stored. It also led to clever workarounds.

In the brief third chapter of the second part of his epic, On the Tracks and at Crossroads, Voloshin reveals that those who fled the collapsing Russian Empire brought with them a few helpful recipes. A little bison grass or nutmeg and cinnamon and a visit to a drugstore (the kind Jay Gatsby owned a lot of) were all the émigrés needed to prepare some homemade Polish Żubrówka or Ukrainian Spotykach. Who cares about store-bought Shustov vodka when you can make your own? Never underestimate the entrepreneurial spirit of the spirit-loving immigrant.

Drinking is the joy of the Rus.
— from the Primary Chronicle

We had one headache: “Prohibition.”
All émigrés were grumbling, wishing
for a safe means to get a drink.
We often ended up hoodwinked
by “bootleggers,” with phony “whiskey.”
Quaffing that stuff was somewhat risky,
to say the least… Birthdays were bad —
there was no vodka to be had…
Who needs Dutch herring, when you dine
without a glass of beer or wine?
The shame of it! The country’s free
yet dry… However, presently
we found that every old drugstore
would sell us alcohol galore!
Physicians put us in the know,
explaining how to make solutions —
we’d learned all that already, though,
as sons of wars and revolutions…

Infusions were our sacrament:
with wormwood, bison grass, and mint,
as our forebears had done before,
we made liqueur upon liqueur…

These set our ladies’ eyes ablaze!
Wouldn’t you know it? Within days,
some ancient doctor made a batch
of real, authentic “Spotykach”!

With Shustov’s secrets all revealed
and breaded cutlets for our meal,
we’d down the “sixth part of an hin”
of Brooklyn’s finest rowan gin…

---

Руси есть веселье пити.
Из летописи

Сначала мучил «прохибишен»,
И среди русских — всюду слышен
Был недовольства мрачный гул:
Того — «бутлегер» поднадул
И продал дрянь под видом «виски»,
Тот — под горячия сосиски —
Вчера налег на местный «джин»
И отравился … Именин
Нельзя устроить, — нету водки…
К чему-ж голландские селедки,
Коль нет ни пива, ни вина?!…
Позор!… Свободная Страна,
А выпить — нечего!… Но — вскоре —
Мы приспособились: в «Дрог-Сторе»
Нашелся — спирт!… Гип-гип-ура!…
Тут помогли нам доктора,
Они рецепты нам писали,
Как разводить — мы сами знали,
Не даром были мы — войны
И революции — сыны!…

Нашлись: полынь, зубровка, мята,
И, чтя заветы дедов свято, —
Мы приготовили в момент
Весьма большой ассортимент…

Чтоб милых дам блистали взоры, —
Варить мы начали ликеры,
А некий старый русский врач,
Так даже делал — «Спотыкач»!…

Открылись Шустова секреты,
И под пожарские котлеты
Мы выпивали «по шестой» —
Рябины «бруклинской» настой!…