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A BRILLIANT SHADE OF BLACK: THE POETRY OF NADZIEJA ARTYMOVIČ
Arnold McMillin
Belarusian literature has flourished in eastern Poland since the middle of the 20th century, with poetry predominant, just as it has been in йmigrй literature, covering a wide variety of ages as well as a diversity of forms and styles.1 This writing, united by ethnicity and geography, is very inconsistent in standard, ranging from the experimental to the deeply traditional, from the profound to the superficial and unsophisticated. It has been extremely well documented, in Polish by Teresa Zaniewska,2 and in English by Shirin Akiner.3 Particularly thorough has been the keeping of records of activities of the ‘Biełavieža’ organization and of publications, including the very useful bibliography of primary sources compiled by Jan Čykvin4 and the recent anthology of Belarusian writing in Poland compiled by Čykvin and edited by M.Skobła.5 With such a wealth of documentation,6 no further background information is needed here.
Three Belarusian poets in eastern Poland stand out: in undisputed first place, Jan Čykvin, amongst the youngest, Mira Łukša, and, not least, Nadzieja Artymovič. 7
Darkness is not, of course, exclusive to Artymovič, even amongst Belarusian poets in Poland, although, to an outsider at least, life as part of a national minority in Poland may seem in many ways easier than that of the intellectual minority in Belarus itself.8 Be that as it may, there is a good deal of existential enquiry and even angst. going far beyond concern over loss of the countryside or the ageing process, in the work of several of these poets, be it Michaś Šachovič’s ‘сёньня ходзяць толькі цені’9 or Čykvin’s ‘пыхлівы чалавечы мык’,10 to give but two examples, not to mention ecological despair, as in Juryj Bajena’s striking poem ‘Chtości pračesvaje les...’,11 or, indeed, the widespread dismay at events in Belarus.
Nadzieja Artymovič, however, occupies a unique position in Belarusian literature, standing apart from the other Biełavieža poets of her generation in both form and content. Despite being far from the youngest, she is the only poet of the diaspora to whom the term postmodernist could be credibly applied. Prosodically, her blank verses, like those of Jaša Burš, are free, with a minimum of punctuation. Her work, though often abstract,12 speaks from the heart, frequently in a very minor key. Indeed, in sheer pessimism Artymovič’s touching lyric poems would stand out in any poetic context. Rather than the texts’ formal distinctiveness, it is the black despair of hopelessness and loneliness, and the force with which it is expressed, her use of startling imagery and word combinations, that make this poet’s work so memorable.
Nadzieja Artymovič was born on 18 February 1946 in the village of Augustowo near Bielsk, and spent her childhood in Bielsk Podlaski, a town for which she has retained great affection. During the years 1965-67 she studied Russian philology in Białystok, before taking a degree at Warsaw University in Belarusian language and literature (1968-72). For a few years she worked as a translator in Warsaw, but is now in retirement, living in Bielsk Podlaski. Since 1986 she has been a member of the Polish writers’ union.
Artymovič’s first poem, ‘oj lacieli husi...’ appeared on the pages of Niva in 1970, and since then she has published a number of small but remarkable verse collections: Rozdumy (1981), Sezon u biełych piejzažach (1990), Z niespakojnych daroh (1993), and (with Aleś Razanau) Dźviery (1994). Two books of her poetry have appeared in Polish translation: We śnie w bólu słowa (1979) and Łagodny czas (1998).
Artymovič’s first poem is no tyro work, and it demonstrates her characteristic way of laying out the words in very short lines without punctuation, apart from the three points at the end of the last two lines:
ой ляцелі гусі
грайце
завіруйма ў танцы
мы ўбачым іх крылы
вялікія
недасяжныя
дайце нам гэтыя крылы
мы ўзьляцім
над шырокім прасторам
будзем сьмяяцца
які наш сьвет малы
і калі ўпадзем
на зямлю чорную
мы ўбачым
сьвет
вялікі
і мы без крылаў
дзе яны
гусі забралі...
ой ляцелі гусі... 13
Another early poem, ‘Moj rodny horad maleńki...’ (1975) associates this town, her native Bielsk, with wind and rain: it is compared to a splashed rain drop, and the air provides a source of refreshment for young and old alike:
Дрэва без кораня
усыхае
чалавек без паветра
памірае (Artymovič 1981, p. 9)
Artymovič is undoubtedly an urban poet, and the town is also portrayed enthusiastically in four unusually positive and optimistic poems, ‘P’ju prahna...’ (1978), ‘u rukach našych...’ (1978), ‘u Bielsku staraja muzyka...’ and ‘ikona...’ (1990) where Bielsk is characterized as ‘ікона, малітва, сон, жыцьцё’ (Skobla 2000, p. 469). In ‘śviet ukinuty u bielskuju bajku...’ (the world is cast into the fairytale of Bielsk...) she describes the town as her protective cradle:
мой дзень
у бельскім небе
у дзіцячай калысцы
сьпіць (Artymovič 1993, p. 89)
‘P’ju prahna...’ begins thus:
П’ю прагна
Як цудадзейнае лякарства
Тваё неба мой Бельск
Затрымаў ты для мяне
Свой час (Artymovič 1993, p. 87)
Air and the wind play a more prosaic role in a powerful work, ‘kalarovyja vopratki razryvajuć pavietra...’ (1984), where Artymovič writes bitterly about the standardization of behaviour and meaningless fashions she observes in many dwellers of the ‘wonderful city’, noting ironically that only deaths are different:
каляровыя вопраткі разрываюць паветра
механічныя сэрцы паўтараюць свой цырк
на ўраджайнай глебе спакойна родзяцца
прадбачаньні (апрача пагоды)
горад цудоўны пасолены глухатой
у безупынным продажы сьмех і захапленьне
тыя ж самыя маршруты для ўсіх
ад першых да апошніх дзьвярэй
штучнае сьвятло калыхаецца
пад музыку глухаты
пад моцным лозунгам усё
моднае жыцьцё
сьмерці – розныя (Artymovič 1993, p. 23) 14
At a different level, the poet feels herself also to be in danger of inauthenticity. In ‘krou raźlivaecca va uspaminach...’, for instance, only history seems to be genuine, whilst in the present:
прыкідваемся жывымі істотамі
перад сабой (Artymovič 1993, p. 54)
Lack of self-confidence is undoubtedly a topos of Artymovič’s writing, but none the less pathetic for that. In the following untitled poem (the great majority of her works have no titles), she seems to feel lost as a writer in the modern world. The constant heavy focus on herself through repeated personal pronouns at the beginning of many lines, and the gaps between the lines serve to reinforce the feeling of imminent crisis:
у сваіх кароткіх вершах я нічога не гавару
я нічога не сказала нікому
я нямая
я не люблю эксперыментаў над чалавекам
я аналізавала кепскія сталічныя і правінцыяльныя
біяграфіі
і гладкія лісты ад сваіх знаёмых
я крыху ведаю
мяне не хапае на сэнс маіх Бацькоў
мяне амаль няма (Skobła 2000, p. 469)
Another less extreme poem in a minor key concerns what makes poets die, in other words, what makes bad poetry, as opposed to ‘the living word’. It is worth quoting in full:
паэты паміраюць тады
калі першы раз
заблудзіць жывое слова
і разаб’ецца пшанічнае рэха
аб камень
паэты паміраюць тады
калі ўсьміхаецца добры час для паперы
паэты паміраюць тады
калі знойдзены дакладныя адрасы
сытыя жэсты
паэты паміраюць тады
калі нараджаюцца чорныя лістапады
(Artymovič 1993, p. 100)
In ‘uciakaju ad vostraj łahodnaści dnia...’ Artymovič describes the fear of poetic inauthenticity which is driving her to silence:
баюся ілюзіі слоў у вершах
маўчу праходзячы чужымі вуліцамі
(Artymovič 1993, p. 56)
Later in the poem, after stating in a highlighted separate verse that ‘mankind is a stone’, she goes on to compare her (painfully good- natured) audience with the public in a theatre (described with a venom worthy of Lev Tolstoi in Voina i mir) who receive her important first words as just the shadow of symbols and with huge alienation:
штучныя вочы ў тэатры
маленькіх людзей
капелюшы аздобленыя сухімі кветкамі
сыплецца густы пыл (Artymovič 1993, p. 56)
Nothing could be further from the complacency, routine and self-satisfied cliche implied in these poems than Artymovič’s anguished, highly personal outpourings. Her intense interest in the poet’s calling and the nature of art may be seen in her frequent references to ‘the word’ and ‘words’. In one of her more elliptical and abstract poems, ‘my pojdziem dalej...’, she pictures her word (poetic inspiration) running away if she abandons its natural context:
А слова
(што знае сваё месца)
само ўцячэ (Artymovič 1993, p. 7)
In a mysterious dream poem, ‘nierealnaja jak učarašniaja radaść...’ (1984), Artymovič declares that what she calls the first and last words lie deep in the ground (Artymovič 1993, p. 71). In ‘heta nie para...’, whilst asserting that a house without words has no roof, Artymovič again worries about the insignificance of her own work, just as she does in the already quoted ‘u svaich karotkich vieršach ja ničoha nie havaru...’: ‘pišu takija małyja słovy’ (Artymovič 1993, p. 11). In a richly imaginative poem, ‘nad antykvaryjatami vykazanych słou...’ (1981) she reinforces the striking image of the first line with the epithet ‘bronze’ for the clouds overhead (a reference to the contents of antique shops?). These bronze clouds become a wall, as the poet goes on to some of her most powerful expressions of loneliness and depression. Here is the opening of the poem:
над антыкварыятамі выказаных слоў
плывуць бронзавыя хмары
час продажу надзеі ўжо мінуў
у бяспальцых руках самотная іржа
сьляды без сьлядоў
Адзінокая сярод адзінокіх
кідаюся ў фіялетавы прастор
каб заснуць (Artymovič 1993, p. 33)
Amongst the most pathetic and memorable of Nadzieja Artymovič’s poems are those of bereavement, separation and loss. Some of them would seem to be applicable to either death or to bitter disappointment in love, although it is sometimes hard to be sure which; this does not, however, lessen the force of extreme emotion. At times the poet’s life seems maximally bleak, as in an almost emblematic poem, ‘śviet zamknuuŕsia...’ (1982), where grim picture follows grim picture, leading into a central despairing incantation before the final image of hopelessness:
сьвет замкнуўся
адплывае спакойнае неба
і цягнікі закрываўленыя
набліжаюцца да бязлюдных гарадоў
таўсьцеюць непатрэбныя вароны
варожкі сядзяць на пустых картах
дзе агонь дзе хлеб салёны дзе жэст
твой жэст прарваны ў чужым паветры
дзе возера каменнае
яшчэ нядаўна зялёнае
дзе ціхія вершы
дзе наша месца глыбокае
дзе нашыя сны спакойныя
дзе мы
дзе ты
дзе я
разглядаюся
вуліцы пульсуюць
сьвятло канвульсіі
непатрэбнасьць у маіх руках
у мяне
няпрошаныя нявыйграныя дні
і голас мой дзікі
таксама непатрэбны
пяскі ляцяць удалячынь
зоры ў пажарах
рака нясе мяне ў вір (Artymovič 1993, p. 12-13)
The references to ‘you’, here and elsewhere, imply missing a loved one, although where the blame lies for the painful separation remains ambiguous. In ‘Raspalu kaścior...’ (1980), for instance, the poet must throw off her armour plating before, memorably, going in search of the echo of his silence:
скіну з плячэй панцыр
пайду за рэхам
твайго маўчаньня...
(Artymovič 1993, p. 32)
Love itself is described in a deliberately alienating way as fornicating shadows in a (blood?) red bed:
дуэт чорна-белых ценяў
блудзіць у чырвонай пасьцелі
(Artymovič 1993, p. 21)
Shadows recur in a short poem of desperate stagnation which is, however, unusual in Artymovič’s work in that it has a modicum of punctuation:
Нерухома стаяць
Мае дні
Шчыліны ў часе
Усё большыя.
Мой каляндар
Патрэсканы.
Нерухома стаяць
Мае дні
Як перапалоханы цень
чалавека... (Artymovič 1981, p. 38)
Loneliness is compared to a refrain in ‘na niebaschile rassypany piejzažy...’ (landscapes are scattered on the horizont...):
прыхільна прывітаецца штодзень
самотнасьць як прыпеў (Artymovič 1995, p. 52)
Friendship appears to be as illusory as everything else in Artymovič’s world and is of no help to the poet, judging by the verse ‘i z vybielenaj fihury...’ (1982) in which the question of whether or not parallel lines can ever intersect is deemed irrelevant, for they are as unreliable and illusory as ‘the look of your friends’ (Artymovič 1993, p. 55). At the end of what for many other poets would have been an occasion for praising nature’s beauties, ‘sabrana užo vosień u prazrystych palcach...’, she instead paints a bleak picture of late summer, describing herself as limping along, seeing her days as sewn together only by a question mark:
гляджу ў дні абшытыя адным пытальнікам
кульгаючы
нясу сябе (Artymovič 1993, p. 99)
The same image begins another poem, ‘paśla kožnaha dnia pytalnikau...’(1980), which goes on to confirm that all truth is illusion and vice versa; it ends with one of Artymovič’s most depressing and depressed self-portraits:
з няскончаным маналогам
з чараватым маўчаньнем
блудзім у сваіх ціхіх калідорах
сьмерцяносных
адыгрываем тэатр аднаго акцёра
перад сабой
вечныя манадрамы з рэквізітам
разьбітым збанком (Artymovič 1994, p. 41) 15
It seems, indeed, that the whole world is against the poet, there is no hope. In a quintessentially gloomy poem, a stranger has given her a calendar 16 from which the months of hope (spring) have been cut out:
Праплыла па вячэрнім небе
Аднакрылая птушка.
Прасьпяваў за маім акном
Самотны вецер.
Незнаёмы падарыў мне сёньня
Дзевяцімесячны каляндар
... без вясны... (Skobla 2000, p. 470)
Nadzieja Artymovič is a distinctive and distinguished poet whose gift for creating original and touching images should be evident from the above examples of her work. The lack of punctuation in most of her poems may increase the feeling of nervous desperation, and sometimes ambiguity. In her most lacerating as well as in the relatively happy poems, she is an intensely musical and imaginative poet whose work undoubtedly enriches modern Belarusian literature, although at the present time some of her readers in metropolitan Belarus may feel that they have more objective reasons for depression and self-pity than a citizen of modern Poland. Be that as it may, self-pity is not a concept to apply to Artymovič’s writing: the gloom where even white dreams have a black root17 seems to be inborn, and an inalienable part of her finely wrought and deeply moving poetry.
ARNOLD McMILLIN – professor, University of London.
1 Very heartening is the existence since at least 1996 of a competition for young Belarusian poets and to a far lesser extent prose writers in Poland (many of them still at school) and the publication of their work in attractively produced little collections.
2 Teresa Zaniewska, Podróż daremna: Szkice o poezji białoruskojęzycznej w Polsce, Białystok, 1992; Strażnicy pamięci: Poezja bialoruska w Polsce po roku 1956, Białystok, 1997.
3 Shirin Akiner, ‘Contemporary Byelorussian Literature in Poland’, Modern Language Review, 1983, 78, 1, pp. 113-129.
4 Jan Čykvin, Biełaruskaja litaratura Polščy: Biblijahrafičny davednik 1957-1998, Białystok, 1998.
5 M. Skobła (ed), Biełaruskija piśmieńniki Polščy: Druhaja pałova XX stahodździa, Miensk, 2000 (hereafter Skobła 2000).
6 There are many other sources of general information, as well as monographs on leading writers like Jan Čykvin and Sakrat Janovič.
7 The innovative poetic career of Jaša Burš was cut short in the mid-1970s when he decided to devote himself entirely to painting and the plastic arts. In any case, the present writer is well aware in singling certain poets out that poetry is not an aesthetic football league, and that his judgement is no less subjective than anyone else’s.
8 It is particularly inappropriate for a foreigner to speculate on whether national consciousness belongs to a minority or majority in a country where its open expression is, to put it mildly, not encouraged.
9 From ‘Śmierć vałoški’ in Michaś Šachovič, Pad suzor´jami, Białystok, 1988, p. 36.
10 From ‘Kryk načny savy’ in Jan Čykvin, Kruhavaja čara, Białystok, 1992, p. 7.
11 Juryj Bajena, Viečar nad śvietam, Białystok, 1998, p. 12.
12 ‘In ‘i heta nie para...’, she declares, ‘a dumka / lubić nieviadomaje’: Nadzieja Artymovič, Z niespakojnych daroh, Miensk, 1993 (hereafter Artymovič 1993), p. 10.
13 Nadzieja Artymovič, Rozdumy, Białystok, 1981 (hereafter Artymovič 1981), p. 31.
14 There is a particular irony in the poem’s last words, insofar that death is commonly regarded as the great leveller.
15 Perhaps only a reader familiar with English folk songs would associate a little (brown) jug with alcohol.
16 This may, perhaps, be the same one that figures in ‘Nieruchoma stajać...’
17 See ‘varažyć na čas rastavańniauŕ...’: Artymovič 1993, 42.
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