Mykola Bazhan
1904–1983
Bazhan, Mykola [Bažan], b 9 October 1904 in Kamianets-Podilskyi, d 23 November 1983 in Kyiv. (Photo: Mykola Bazhan.) Poet, writer, translator, and Soviet Ukrainian political and cultural figure; full member of the Academy of Sciences of the Ukrainian SSR from 1951. One of the most prominent representatives of the literary renaissance of the 1920s, he wrote screenplays, edited the journal Kino, and was associated with the literary groups Vaplite and Nova Generatsiia and the journal Literaturnyi iarmarok. Bazhan's poems were first published in 1923, but he gained recognition for the collections 17-i patrul' (The 17th Patrol, 1926). With Riz'blena tin' (The Sculptured Shadow, 1927), and especially Budivli (Buildings, 1929), Bazhan abandoned futurism and constructivism and emerged as a romantic expressionist, whose poems were characterized by dynamism, unusual imagery, monumentalism, and frequent references to the Ukrainian past. In the poem ‘Budivli’ Bazhan treats historical themes, seeking a link between the modern era, the Middle Ages, and the Ukrainian baroque of the Cossack state. ‘Budivli’ and the poems ‘Rozmova serdets' ’(Heart-to-Heart Talk), in which he presented an unusually harsh assessment of Russia, ‘Hofmanova nich’ (Hoffman's Night, 1929), ‘Sliptsi’ (The Blind Beggars, 1933), ‘Trylohiia prystrasty’ (Trilogy of Passion, 1933), and others display an original poetic style: a bold statement of theme, a rich vocabulary replete with archaisms, syntactic complexity, an abundance of metaphor, and inventive rhyme. These poems, as well as the collections Doroha (The Road, 1930) and Poeziï (Poems, 1930), aroused harsh criticism of Bazhan: he was accused of ‘detachment from Soviet reality’, ‘idealism’, and nationalism. During the terror of 1934–7 Bazhan wrote the trilogy Bezsmertia (Immortality, 1935–7), which was dedicated to S. Kirov, and entered the company of poets enjoying official recognition. His later works, written in the spirit of Stalinist patriotism, all belong to the corpus of official Soviet poetry. These include the collections Bat’ky i syny (Fathers and Sons, 1938), Iamby (Iambs, 1940), Klych vozhdia (The Call of the Leader, 1942), and V dni viiny (In the Days of War, 1945); the collections awarded the Stalin Prize — Kliatva (Oath, 1941), Danylo Halyts’kyi (Danylo of Halych, 1942), Stalinhrads’kyi zoshyt (Stalingrad Notebook, 1943), and Anhliis’ki vrazhennia (English Impressions, 1948); and the collections Virshi i poemy (Poetry and Long Poems, 1949), Bilia Spas’koï vezhi (Near the Savior's Tower, 1952), Ioho im’ia (His Name, 1952), Honets (The Chaser, 1954), Iednist’ (Unity, 1954), Tvory (Works, 1946–7), and Vybrane (Selected Works, 1951, from which poems of the early period were omitted). After Joseph Stalin's death Bazhan did not take part in the cultural renaissance launched by the shistdesiatnyky (poets of the sixties); his later collections and poems, Iasa (1960), Italiis’ki zustrichi (Meetings in Italy, 1961), Polit kriz' buriu (Flight through the Storm, 1964, for which he received the Shevchenko Prize [see Prizes and awards]), Umans’ki spohady (Memories of Uman, 1972), Nichni rozdumy staroho maistra (Nocturnal Reflections of an Old Master, 1976), and others, were also written in the spirit of Party ideology. Bazhan's translation of S. Rustaveli's poem Vytiaz' u tyhrovii shkuri (The Knight in the Tiger Skin, 1927) was published to great critical acclaim, and he has produced many masterful translations from Georgian, Russian, and Polish, as well as of the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. Bazhan is also the author of literary studies, reviews, and memoirs. With the outbreak of war in 1941 Bazhan emerged as a leading political figure. He was editor of the newspaper Za Radians’ku Ukraïnu!, deputy chairman of the Council of Ministers of the Ukrainian SSR (1943–8), a long-term member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine and deputy of the Supreme Soviet of the Ukrainian SSR and of the USSR, and head of the Writers' Union of Ukraine (1953–9). From 1958 he headed the editorial board of the Ukrainian Soviet Encyclopedia publishing house and served as editor-in-chief of many of its publications.
The Trooper's Song
The troop cavalcade moved out, horses neighed,
(Dully rings the steel in the stirrup-rest)
Smoke from fields is acrid,
field-smoke a rust-shade,
Foam from horses’ lips — feather grass suggests.
Through winding leafy wood,
the troop rode forward,
Iron hoof-heats hammer a way through the brush,
The clatter of sabre, the ring of the scabbard
Rupture the ominous hush.
Shading eyes, sheepskin hats highly towered,
Troopers gulped the field scents, sweet and rank,
Their rough working hands smelled of powder,
Their cowhide coats too — of blood stank.
One slumped in saddle. I know you recall
The girl who’s your heart’s shining light.
So love, comrade mine, so love, but recall
Your gun’s ready loaded to fight.
The soldiers must not sleep on sentry-go,
Nor their looks betray they are weary —
What usefulness could such a soldier show
As sentry?
Now you are their avengers,
And will always be avengers
Of your tormented brothers
And your violated sisters.
Show respect, show respect, render honours
To the names of the famous Red Guards,
Guard and honour your regiment’s colours —
For the way of a hero is hard.
When you hear but one shot of the foe,
Grab your gun, to horse and mount!
And the moment your enemies show,
Ride them down!
Spurring madly his mount,
A trooper rides in pursuit —
His rounds he won’t count,
Nor for wounds care a hoot.
Let the roads not deter,
Though you die, to boot —
Put heart in your spurs
And be ready to shoot!
Let the wind lash your face,
And die, but don’t stop!
Hell for leather we race
And fight till we drop.
Don’t wait for orders:
Who wavers, death finds!
Hundreds of sabres
Cut through the wind.
We would twice over die the death,
For the rich black coal, for dark rye bread;
For workers’ black hands, gladly risk our heads —
And would twice over die the death.1925Hoffman's night
Into a dark abyss, down steps worn-down, rough-caiwen, Down slippery inclines, down heavy, risky stairs, Down rough-hewn steps, into the filthiest of lairs, A fat-paunched basement, a most dingy tavern, A den without a signboard or a name, Refuge of crazy burghers, hungry tramps, Of dreamers, cabmen, dames of evil fame, Pursuing sinful inspiration, in he stamps... Half-buried in the earth, its entrance gapes beneath — A drunkard’s sour-breathed mouth, where, like bad teeth, Stick candles pouring yellow grease from every wick Upon the tables set with mugs heavy and thick As if great fists, round, swollen, far from feeble, Like hefty apples — fruit of good and evil, They stand upon the tables, bulging, knotted, Tin mugs with liquor, smeared with dirt and spotted. The tables creak and sway and dully shine, Fingered and fouled and stained with fat and wine By animals befuddled and besotted. Foul-smelling tallow hisses on the handles And necks of candlesticks with melting candles. The secret rites of thoughtful drinking bouts And pompous banquets here are carried out, Each drunkard a philosopher, fanatic — Serapio’s brother — lunatic, frenetic. Drinking and laughing, Amadeus spends Here countless nights among his bosom friends, Poet of caustic words and crazy escapades King of these solemnly insane assemblies Which somewhat to a funeral bear resemblance, And before which, indeed, description fades. Here now he sits, a Mephistopheles half-sized, And over dark, ungodly feasts presides, Oblivious, not caring in the least About his wife’s shoes, or official ranks and orders, Swallowing rancid smoke, wine and saliva, wordless, Arching his eyebrow, sharp as a bare nerve, Bending in wicked silence, full of verve, Like a predacious cat, his lean, lascivious spine. And so he sits — a giant cat, insidious and sly, A fancy-tortured maniac escorted By poets, roisterers, with grimaces contorted, Both sanctimonious and devilish at once, A sage and wizard, harlequin and dunce; It’s he — the huge cat, kindest Pussy Murr, Arching his back, showing his claws — for sure! — Here, in this tavern blind where smoke-wreathes drift, At home, at magistrates, at the dull Kammergericht. A theatre of monstrosities, drunk cripples Here opens for the dreamer while he tipples And in contempt the dented eyebrow bends, And through his gums, unleashed, his sharp tongue sends: “ No, I’m not drunk — I’m generous as one doomed. Hey, bring us candles! Light the fire! Away with gloom! Wine! Bring us sugar, spirit, lemon-peel, And here’s to poetry! Let’s drink until we reel. Come, light the spirit in a grand auto-da-fe — Let it flare up — in lieu of Christian souls. Scream, crazy oracles, between the wallsOf Berlin’s barmy, blasphemous cafe!” Hot foams the sparkling punch, and blue flames quiver, gay. Like living tongues, they leap into the air, Above the gleaming cauldron’s mouth they play. “Punch for our Theodore, gentlemen!” declare His tipsy colleagues. “Truth and inspiration Are to be found in wine alone, sirs, since creation!” And like the fires lit by the Holy Inquisition Glows the cold sheen of wine, hot, fiery, scalding; “Now, colleagues, let’s drink from this buxom cauldron The infernal fluid, though it bring us to perdition!” The poison-cups boil hot, the liquor steams, Like poking fingers rise the bright blue flames, And over them, besotted, drunk to madness, Whirl spectres in the darkness — smoky shadows, Blurred images arise in his sick fancy, Like red lamps — wine-flushed faces, reeling, dancing; The noble rapiers of blue candleflames point up: A carnival of ghosts born from the midnight cup! In awful silence words like lightning flash From caved-in mouths: like blades the lips they slash. And words roll off the cliffs of phrases into madness Like chunks of rock into a precipice; ' Flames rise in pillars and like serpents hiss, The tables shake and groan as if in sadness. “Ha, cunning soul, once more I’ve snatched from death A stormy night lit up by wine and inspiration. I heave it on my back, catching my breath — A cross of shame, a black sign of damnation, And mercilessly, till the break of day, My own dead corpse, my own poor lifeless clay Necrophilewise, I maim and torture, full of evil, In shame, disgust, insanity and fever. And now I order to the ghosts of words: From the abyss of consciousness in herds, From the black pits of human minds crawl out Like spiders, in a slimy, hairy crowd, Bearing within your bodies’ poison dread, Through cracks of crippled thought out of my head, That, poet, hypocrite, blasphemer, leper, Your corpses I might put on frightened paper And that my wizened skull might swell and split And stick vile fancy-tentacles from its black pit, And then, gripped in my fingers, with a shriek, My pen should pounce upon the glossy, tear-damped sheet And in the creaky manuscript entomb Heinous visions born of inner gloom. Wine, brothers! Pour me out a glass of wine! Let foaming cauldrons boil again and gleam! Let wine-springs gush, and let their amber stream Thick, crystal-clear, pour forth in sprays sublime! Come, Inspiration, visit me this night, I yearn for your seductive, foul delight!” His angry heart tosses upon its chain, Accursed roamer, tearing forth again. And from an old friend’s hands a glass he takes And with the foaming wine his thirst he slakes. His partners shout, and he stands listening, Mad Amadeus, with his wine-glass glistening. But, crab-like, with its poisoned stranglehold, Weariness grabs the drinkers’ bare, sore throats. Exhausted with the wine and words, he now makes bold To finish the satanic feast with one last toast. The tar-soaked shag he crumples in his cold Damp palm with concentration. While still fumes The fiery liquor in the cauldrons seething hot, And round the table settles silent gloom, A sleepy servant-girl in careless hands has brought New pouchfuls of tobacco, greasy, curly. From porcelain pipes tobacco-wreaths come whirling; Long pipe-stems growl in mouths already hoarse. 0 best-beloved time when without words Float drowzy dreams and thoughts dim, jumbled, glide! With pipes pressed in their lips like clarinets, Sucking the luscious juice in viscous jets, The poets sit there, thoughtful, pacified. 0 music of long pipes, tobacco-melodies, Blue pirouettes of upward-flying wreaths! Now, inspiration, thoughts, death, chatter — disappear! Kind German devil — he won’t make them quake with fear! Where are the notes, Herr Hoffmann? Where are Haydn’s concertos? Maestro, to the clavicord!” For certain He’ll play them something perfect. His pale fingers long to grip The melody, to give it warmth, to shake alive the old musician! And he stands up, and smoke — a flag-like strip Spread by the faithful wind, curls at the feet of the magician. He puts his hairy right hand on the white Jaws of the keyboard, tamed to do his will. The clock strikes twelve, though. Closer, closer still Its two black fingers press as if a rite Of swearing-in they were to carry out this night For a new member of Serapio’s fraternity, Those fingers dipped in sacred Time ’neath Silence's dark hood. And then says he: “Gentlemen, time to leave! Ho, there! Where are our cloaks? Friends, let us not be overly romantic! It’s raining in the street!” Again the shower soaks And scrapes like pens on paper, grim, pedantic; The rain is decorating old Berlin In gothic letters, in a cassock of black rain. Who is it tearing through the prickly drops down the dark lane, Through bushes thick, to fear not giving in? ’Tis Chancellor Hoffmann hopping over puddles In a delirious half-sleep, with wine and shag befuddled. The street behind him like a gamut, long and even Floats, whirls and fades away, no traces leaving In Amadeus’ confused, besotted brain The flat squares are all overgrown with rain, Mobile yet immobile, bush after soaking bush Over the drunkard, artiste, madman — goes Swoosh-Swoosh! Ah, colonnades of thin-stemmed, streaking rain, Ah, rain, chimeric all in slots and arrows! Swing and splash up again, swing and play havoc On that triangular old housefront so well known, That house with his true wife and his hot-water-bottle, His nightcap and his cotton dressing gown, The big stove and the smell, so pleasant, floating Over the*copper censer with half-sour incense; “Amalia! Are you sleeping? Come, have sense!Open the door! Did you not hear the triple knock?” “Off with these shoes, now! Don’t bring any mud in!” The door is opened and upstairs he clambers, thudding. She puts his shoes beside the stove to dry While Amadeus, musing, chuckles on the sly, And from the stove’s glazed tiles smile, rosy-faced Young knights and maidens, chubby, azure-laced And a fat swain coloured in cinnabar and white, (Glazed tiles — the Dutch stonemason’s sole delight!) Clasping his worthy sweetheart tight Also smiles courteously; dreamy, quiet, The hot dutch stove with flowers, birds and bows Like a well fed young wench, stands, never cooling. The oily glaze melts, the fat satellites in rows Shine bright with cochineal, lapis-lazuli. The floors creak stolidly, and doors squeal everywhere. Hoffmann takes refuge in his room — his old abode Where on an old pot-bellied secretaire Wait his winged pen, his inkwell, deep and broad.