"I would like to bring Nefertiti to Pushkin on a troika ..."

[cosmolinguist]

Tonight an English professor introduced the writer of what she says is the best poem ever written.

I felt bad for her because she was so nervous that she seemed about to explode or something, but I was also excited that something could have such an effect on her.

My grammar professor, Janet, encouraged her class to go to this, by saying, "It is rare that a famous famous person comes to Morris." We chuckled in recognition and assent. "But this," she continued, is a famous famous person." This was not the first time the magnitude of his visit had been impressed upon me. I hadn't heard of Yevgeny Yevtushenko, but then I hadn't heard of any Russian poets. I had never heard anyone read their own poetry, either. Janet also said that hearing poets read their own work can be an interesting experience; she says she heard a famous poet read so badly that the experience deadened his poetry for her, and she's also heard people whose poetry she found unremarkable read it in such a way that it came alive. I wondered what would happen to poems I'd never heard, by a poet I'd never heard of, who apparently has an adequate but not overwhelming grasp of the only language I speak.

He wore shiny teal pants and a shiny, pale yellow shirt. He had a friend with him, Bill Davidson, who I think is a professor of something or other at UW-Stevens Point, who read in English, sometimes accompanied by Yevgeny in Russian. The first thing he did was explain that it's hard to translate poetry from Russian into English, because you lose all the subtleties, the nuances of rhyme and meter and aliteration and such. Hearing him in his native language was in some ways more fun than hearing the versions I could understand, because his careful English and the warm familiarity of Davidson's Midwestern accent could hardly match up to the impassioned delivery of the original Russian. The English was always there, before, after, or intermingled with the Russian. I got the meaning from one and the emotion from the other.

I found the guy extremely cool; now I know why Janet encouraged us to go, and I might have a hint of an idea why Argie was going to expire from happiness and amazement.

He speaks Russian and English, he wants to bring Nefertiti to Pushkin, he's funny and serious, my split brain likes him.

Comments

[tragicallyjulia.livejournal.com]

On a sort of related note... My favorite poet is Pablo Neruda. I speak very little Spanish: not so much that I would grasp the meaning if I only read the original, but enough that, if reading it side-by-side with an English translation, I am often unhappy with said translation and can decipher the original to my satisfaction. Does that make sense? :-)

Your description of Yevtushenko's reading, and the accompanying translation, sounded very interesting. Hearing poetry read aloud does make a world of difference...

[cosmolinguist]

It does make sense. I don't know enough of any other language to be useful, but even so I can sometimes catch intricacies, if shown the original, that I don't get in the translation. I think it's pretty crazy, that our brains can work like that. (Even if I'm just deluding myself into thinking I understand more, which seems possible with me, it still seems cool.)

I'm glad to hear I wrote it well enough to make it sound interesting, since I thought it was indeed interesting.

[writerdog.livejournal.com]

Golly, you've never before heard poetry read aloud by a poet? And you're from MN? One of America's greatest poets (as well as one of poetry's greatest promoters) lives in MN -- Robert Bly.

People dismiss American poetry as if it's of a lower class than that of Europeans or elsewhere -- especially College profs.

Poets like Bly, William Stafford, Sylvia Plath, Rita Dove, Lucille Clifton, Adrian Rich, Jane Kenyon, Sharon Olds, WS Merwin, Gary Snyder, Sekou Sundiata, Naomi Shihab Nye, Quincy Troupe, and Billy Collins to name but a few, are all worthy of attention.

I suggest you read (and view the video) Bill Moyers The Language of Life which shows poets in their best light at the Dodge Poetry Festival in New Jersey -- maybe the best celebration of poetry in the nation. Moyers does a lot of poetry stuff, you should check him out...

BTW there's a pretty good poem by Ted Kooser (about Yevtushenko) that may interest you and your Prof -- if you can't find it anywhere, e-mail me, I'll send you a copy of it.

[cosmolinguist]

Well, I like poetry, and I read poetry, I'm just not used to anyone cool coming to the middle of nowhere--I go to college in the prairie-ish part of Minnesota--to read their poems. My current favorite poetry anthology that I have was put together by a rather famous Minnesotan, Garrison Keillor. It's called Good Poems, because that's what they are.

I've read Billy Collins and Robert Bly, and I love Adrienne Rich. Most of my experience with contemporary poetry (as opposed to the Romantics I talked about in class) consists of random things I've stumbled across myself; the classes I've had don't deal with that kind of thing much (though my creative writing class sort of did; it was taught by the professor who introduced Yevthushenko and was in fact most ressponsible for bringing him here). It has given me an interestingly random knowledge of and appreciation for poetry, but I do my best.

I found mention of Kooser's Yevtushenko poem on Google, but not the poem itself ...

[writerdog.livejournal.com]

Yes, it's strange how college profs overlook homegrown poets. My favorite American poets are the late, great William Stafford (who was a very close friend of Robert Bly) and Wendell Berry. Both are amazing, at once simple and complex.

Anyway here's that poem by Ted Kooser:

Yevtushenko

Yevtushenko, you came to Nebraska.
Yes, of all places, Nebraska--
cornfield, wheatfield, cow and college.

You had a sore throat and you smelled of camphor.
Your blue eyes were small in your face.

You read your windy poems, Yevtushenko,
like a tree in the wind you read them,
waving your branches. We sat back
as far as in our seats as we could,
frightened of Russia. Then it was over
and you scooped up your leaves and sat down.

After the party, we drove across town
to the Governor's house. It was already late.
You wanted to sit in the Governor's chair
and he let you. You drank his red wine
and showed us the long movie you'd made
of your life. You recited a list of the people
you knew: Kissinger, Nixon, Kennedy (Bob).

The Governor's eyes were as hollow as Lincoln's.
He nodded as Lincoln must have nodded
while mary Todd Lincoln went over the menu.
At three in the morning, we finally left,
and when you thanked him, Yevtushenko, for his time,
he said it was all part of his job.


Anyway, that's the poem I'm familiar with, there may be others who have written about their experience with Yevtushenko, but I haven't read any -- maybe you should write something.

You can find that poem in book titled, A New geography of Poets. It also features the poem, "What's That Smell in the Kitchen" by Marge Piercy, the writer and poet, as an opening introduction, and it's a pretty cool statement on feminism.

[cosmolinguist]

This idea that I write something has plagued my brain all day. I hate it when that happens, because I'm a terrible poet. I've never written anything I really like and would admit to writing. That isn't me being self-deprecating or falsely modest to get compliments, or anything, I'm just a bad poet. :-)