![\"Demon](\"http:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/wp-content\/blogs.dir\/3\/images\/demon_sitting_vrubel.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
Demon sitting, Mikhail Vrubel<\/a>, 1890<\/em>\n<\/p>\n T<\/span>he small volume before me is a treasured book that I inherited from my father’s library. It is a posthumous collection of verses by Alexander Blok<\/a> (1880–1921), one of the greatest Russian lyricist of the 20th century, if not the greatest. The book was prepared by the author and published by the Petrograd<\/em> publishing house in 1924, three years after his death. This small book became a constant source of inspiration for me, especially during the 1990s when Russia itself seemed to be fading away. It was then that I felt an urge to preserve Russian poetry, which seemed most precious to me. Among the many beloved Blok’s poems, I unexpectedly came across a series of poems called The Bubbles of the Earth<\/em>, written between 1905 and 1906. An epigraph from Macbeth<\/em>, which prefaced the series, read:<\/p>\n “The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, and these are ones of them”<\/p>\n It intrigued me. After reading several poems, I had no doubt that those were pagan inspirations. The very first poem amazed me with its clear ecological motif:<\/p>\n the marsh priestling<\/p>\n On a spring-thawed patch, His ragged black frock Quietly he prays, Then he would bless it and say, He resumes his quiet praying, Have no fear to be drown in a bog – (17 April 1905, Easter)<\/em>\n<\/p>\n Reactionary symbolist\n<\/p>\n W<\/span>e haven’t heard much about “green” Blok. Moreover, he does not fit into any literary genre<\/em>. In the Soviet times, Blok was portrayed as a ‘reactionary symbolist’ who finally ‘accepted’ the revolution. On the contrary, his friends—symbolists<\/a> and the religiously-minded intelligentsia—turned away from him when he descended on the ‘sinful earth’ and put Christ at the forefront of the revolution in his controversial poem Twelve<\/em>. <\/p>\n In his youth, Blok was captivated by the philosophy of Vladimir Solovyov<\/a>, one of those ‘mad’ prophets that had always been characteristic of Russia. The following lines of Solovyov’s Eternal Feminine<\/em> fascinated him:\n<\/p>\n Eternal Feminine in flesh During his life, Blok would stay loyal to the theme of the Eternal Feminine. Any fashionable religious or political theories that infested Russia could not change him. In the brilliant essays written shortly before death, Blok discovers the essence of his poetry and his life purpose as the service to Earthly Beauty, which is manifested in Eternal Feminine, and only that.\n<\/p>\n The world has long been fed up with violence and brutality. Arguably, this brutality conforms to the masculine ethos<\/em> sanctioned by Judeo-Christianity. This brutality strangely comforms with the ‘otherness’ of the next world, with a dream of after-life. Indeed, why care of the earthly beauty if much more beauty is awaiting us in heaven?\n<\/p>\n Blok turns his gaze away from heavens to the ‘sinful’ earth – it is here, on earth, where he seeks his Beautiful Lady. He anticipates Her arrival, yet fears that he’s not going to live up to Her coming:\n<\/p>\n You retreat to the fields without doubt, In the dark days I’ll press to your flute, You will come in your deep purple gown (1905)<\/em>\n<\/p>\n Extravagant paganist\n<\/p>\n T<\/span>he world is ruled by a feminine archetype, and Blok perceives this archetype not only in women he loves, but, above all, in Nature. Blok sees Eternity not in any fictitious, or speculative ‘heaven’, but in the living, intimate, and tangible earth:\n<\/p>\n Love Eternity reigning in mires, Rusty tussocks and stumps get to know Love the destiny’s solitude glowing, (1905)<\/em>\n<\/p>\n It is not accidental that Blok was infatuated with the paintings of Mikhail Vrubel<\/a> (1856-1910), an original Russian artist, his contemporary. Vrubel is the same ‘enlightened pagan’ as Blok. One may even say, that Vrubel was “Blok in painting”, or Blok was “Vrubel in verse.” Both definitions are equally valid. This paganism of both geniuses was not to the liking of keepers of Christian purity, and it is still frowned upon by them.\n<\/p>\n It must be said that at the dawn of the 20th century, Russia witnessed a new healthy—and in essence, ecological—direction in art and philosophy, which was suppressed on one hand by rising Marxism (strictly a political movement), and on the other hand by those intelligentsia who had gone to mysticism and religion.\n<\/p>\n Blok had no need to invent mysticism or seek otherworldliness: all nature was to him mysterious, enigmatic, and marvellous. This infatuation with Nature had not been shared by many of his colleagues, which earned him the label of extravagance.<\/p>\n marsh sprites\n<\/p>\n I have whipped you out of sight Now – we’re sitting on a moss I’m like you – a nature geek, Loosely hangs a parting bell And we’re sitting, little fools – Dream deliriums of water, (1905)<\/em>\n<\/p>\n Accepted the Bolshevik revolution\n<\/p>\n T<\/span>o the horror of his friends, Blok was one of the few who accepted the Bolshevik<\/a> revolution, not because he shared its ideals (although he probably did at the outset), but because he saw in it the manifestation of Nature’s elements. The time for humanism of the individual was gone (this was proclaimed by Nietzsche<\/a>), and was replaced by a new era of mass homogeneity and Anti-Christ (‘a leader’). Having the intuition of an artist, Blok spoke in a masterly way of this period in his 1919 essay The Collapse of Humanism<\/em>. In the face of the current ecological apocalypse, the poems of Blok seem prophetic. What is the artist’s role in new circumstances? Blok gives the answer in this definitive poem: to continue to be yourself, and to get back to the ‘ancient work’:\n<\/p>\n requital – a prologue<\/p>\n No end in life’s unfolding space, Now, view the light – the dark is lit, “To erase the accidental visage…”, and “to permit all things’ unhurried flow”… Blok appeals to the myth of Ziegfried, in search of a needed courage:\n<\/p>\n Thus Ziegfried tempers sword o’er furnace: But, having sensed the impending world war, the poet doubts his ability to withstand the challenge:\n<\/p>\n Who forges sword? – The fearless knight, But the tune forever stays, instead: The Beauty that moves minds\n<\/p>\n “M<\/span>y own mass…” In the end, the only refuge for an artist is his or her religious ideals that are beyond the control of the masses, or their pastors. These ideals, or ‘vows of the ancient past’, have been nurtured for many generations, and were handed from father to son; from poet to poet. This is the Beauty that moves minds and inflames hearts.\n<\/p>\n Thou breathed this dawn, now, bless my tales! (1911)<\/em><\/p>\n Blok continues a lineage that starts from Pushkin<\/a> and Lermontov<\/a>. It is hard to name another lyricist that has had such a deep understanding of the artist’s role in the turbulent times. He himself however, could not survive the revolution and civil war, dying at the age of 41. But after all, no great Russian poet lived any longer. It is highly symbolic that Blok entitled his last autobiography (which he didn’t finish) The Confession of a Pagan<\/em>. His entire life can be viewed as a poet’s desperate attempt to serve and perpetuate Earth’s beauty, despite all hardship and human follies. It was indeed, a demonic attempt.\n<\/p>\n O, I would madly, madly live, Let hardship suffocate with sorrow, We must forgive his gloomy features, (Note<\/span> : All translation from Russian by the author of this article)<\/em>\n<\/p>\n
\nLittle Priestling of Marsh
\nIs staying
\nAnd saying his prayer.\n<\/p>\n
\nLike a barely seen rock
\nOver tussock
\nAnd in tranquility of the reddish light
\nLittle devils are out of sight;
\nAnd the evening grace
\nHas entwined him with delicate lace…
\nAnd the charms of the twilight,
\nAnd the rustling of space…\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd he smiles as he stays,
\nBowing his head to the bog.
\nAnd with medicinal herbs
\nHe would heal every hurt,
\nEvery sickened and dying frog.\n<\/p>\n
\n“Now you’re free on your way,
\nYou can go to your native log;
\nMy heart is pleased
\nWith every beast
\nAnd every creeper that exists”.\n<\/p>\n
\nFor the weed
\nThat is swaying,
\nFor a sickened beast’s hope,
\nFor the Roman Pope…\n<\/p>\n
\nYou’ll be saved by his blackened frock.\n<\/p>\n
\nNow treads the earthly quarters,
\nNew Goddess prophesies light
\nWhere heavens mixed with waters.\n<\/p>\n
\nLet Your Name be forever praised!
\nThe spears of sunset will touch on my brow,
\nThe reddish light will spill on to my face.\n<\/p>\n
\nTo your sweet golden flute I’ll succumb,
\nAnd if prayers are silenced and mute,
\nI will sleep, long-oppressed, in the tomb.\n<\/p>\n
\nTo enlighten yet another abode.
\nLet me breathe in this half-drowsy crowd,
\nLet me kiss the curved edge of your road…\n<\/p>\n
\nTheir powers never deplete.
\nGrassy lands never yield to the fires,
\nSmallest thickets will stand up the sleet.\n<\/p>\n
\nYour reposeful captivity age;
\nThey are staying unchanged in the flow –
\nYou are full of perennial change.\n<\/p>\n
\nInconceivable sacred Unknown.
\nIt is just the Eternity flight
\nThat has silenced the lips of our own.\n<\/p>\n
\nThrough the midday soot;
\nTo await the evening light
\nOf quiet solitude.\n<\/p>\n
\nIn the heart of fen;
\nCrescent with a crooked mouth
\nIs our only friend.\n<\/p>\n
\nWith a spooky face;
\nQuiet and shy like forest creek
\nIn a hidden place.\n<\/p>\n
\nOn my foolish cap.
\nRivers weaving through a spell
\nOf a nature’s lap.\n<\/p>\n
\nGreenish caps on heads;
\nPeeping from the low-land pools
\nInto wider meads.\n<\/p>\n
\nRusty run-off wave…
\nWe’re forgotten echoings
\nOf a someone’s rave…\n<\/p>\n
\nWe live commensurate with chances,
\nWe either face the gloomy sentence
\nOr see the brilliance of Face.
\nBut you, the artist, keep your credence
\nIn laws unshaken. Be resolved
\nTo tell the scoria from gold.
\nYou’re bestowed with impassive edge
\nTo measure all that you envisage.
\nYour mind – let it be firm and cute
\nErase the accidental visage –
\nAnd you will see: the world is good.\n<\/p>\n
\nPermit all things unhurried flow,
\nAll which is sacred, which is low,
\nThrough heat of soul, through cold of wit.\n<\/p>\n
\nNow enters into the red-hot ambers,
\nNow dips into the water deep –
\nAnd the magic sword receives its firmness.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhile I am helpless in my rave,
\nAs you, as all – just a clever slave,
\nCreated from the dust and blight.
\nThis world seems terrible to me …
\nThe hero is deprived of stand –
\nHis hand is in the peoples’ hand,
\nA conflagration broke the land.
\nAnd every heart, and mind, and thought –
\nHas its own despotism and law…
\nAnd the thirsty dragon opens jaw
\nTo gorge the Europe in glee.
\nWho shall defeat the dragon plight?
\nDon’t know: our side, obscure in sight,
\nAs in the past, its future’s dim,
\nAnd smells of ashes in the night.\n<\/p>\n
\nThere’s always someone there to sing
\nAmid the crowd. Lo! His head
\nA beauty offers to a king.
\nThere, on a scaffold, singer stands
\nAnd looks into the butcher’s eyes;
\nHere, for his poems and his stance
\nThe crowd gets him stigmatized.
\nAnd I will sing… You won’t succeed
\nIn stifling my inflaméd creed.
\nLet church is empty and obscure,
\nLet pastor sleeps; before the mass,
\nI‘ll tread into a dewy pass,
\nAnd turn the rusty door-lock key
\nTo sneak into eternity,
\nAnd in the scarlet dawn will serve
\nMy own mass.\n<\/p>\n
\nMay I expose you some details
\nof secret life? Of what is thriving,
\nOf how the wrath consumes the striving,
\nHow freedom and the youth are one,
\nHow spirit reigns in everyone,
\nHow father to his son imparts
\nThe vows of the ancient past ?
\nSome two-three links of generation
\nAnd carbon went a transformation;
\nUnder a kick of stubborn strain
\nIt turned into a precious grain.
\nSo blow, without a restful sleep,
\nLet living vein is running deep,
\nThe diamond glistens from afar –
\nMy angry iambus, crush the stones!\n<\/p>\n
\nPerpetuateall the existent,
\nEnnoble all the petty instant,
\nand realize all the conceived !\n<\/p>\n
\nLet heavy dreams preclude my way,
\nThe cheerful fellow of the morrow
\nWill say of me, some other day,\n<\/p>\n
\nHe’s got a jolly inner mind,
\nA bright and effervescent creature,
\nA freedom’s celebrated kind!\n<\/p>\n
![\"Viktor](\"http:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/wp-content\/blogs.dir\/3\/images\/mugs\/Victor_2007_95x122.jpg\")
Viktor Ivanovitch Postnikov is a Russian-born independent scientist (DSc.) who lives in Kiev, Ukraine. A prolific ![\"Demon](\"http:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/wp-content\/blogs.dir\/3\/images\/demon_sitting_vrubel_small.jpg\")
Alexander Blok (1880–1921) was one of the greatest Russian lyricists of the 20th century. A posthumous collection of his poetry became a constant source of inspiration for writer and translator Victor Postnikov. This small book of verse from his father’s library launched him on his quest to to preserve Russian poetry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,7,14],"tags":[17,139,94,95,111],"class_list":["post-416","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-deep-ecology","category-literature","category-spirituality","tag-alexander-blok","tag-poetry","tag-russia","tag-russian-poetry","tag-victor-postnikov"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/416","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/7"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=416"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/416\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=416"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=416"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.stuzog.com\/dandeliontimes\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=416"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}