Three poems and (part of) an introduction, to investigate the value of making poetry and reflect on political changes and everyday life in Russia.
The poet is XNUMX-year-old Kirill Medvedev, artist and activist, known for his strong stance against the big publishing houses, capitalist incarnations, and his criticism of the decadent cultural situation of his country; but also for having transferred without "ifs" and "buts" the rights to all of his works.
The introduction is signed by Keith Gessen novelist, journalist, critic and publisher of Russian origin, co-founder of n + 1, biannual magazine of literature, politics and culture founded in New York.
The text is published here without the author's permission, as strictly requested by him.
Copyright Manifesto [Action]
I have no copyright on my texts and I cannot have this right.
Despite this, I forbid the publication of my texts in any anthology, collection or other type of publication. I consider these publications a disgusting and fraudulent action by another cultural force.
My texts may be published both in Russia and abroad in any language, ONLY AS A SEPARATE BOOK, composed and edited according to the wishes of the publisher in a PIRATE EDITION, that is, WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S PERMISSION, WITHOUT ANY CONTRACT OR AGREEMENT. A state of affairs that must be stated in the information regarding the publication.
I am grateful to everyone who has published me thus far.
— Kirill medveded
Posted on kirillmedvedev.narod.ru the November 30 2004
Putin's Russia by Keith Gessen
How to describe the political, cultural and even human stagnation of the years of mature putism between 2003 and 2008? “Fear” is the right word. Moscow has always been a dangerous place, but it was scarier in 1996 than in 2006, in 2006 it was much less scary. Putin himself, the master of Russia, is an evil man but not a ghost. The atmosphere was one of boredom, suffocation and surrender. Nothing happened, nobody wanted anything to happen. "Stability" was the watchword and in the name of stability people were willing to give up a lot. The liberal opposition still being written about New York Times not only does it have no actual presence in Russia – no party organization, no television, no media – but it is completely discredited. They took power in post-Soviet Russia on the back of popular anger and dashed hopes: empty, immature, blatantly indifferent to the suffering of millions. Unfortunately many urban intellectuals, the so-called, have also been involved in the discrediting intelligentsia. They hated the Soviet Union so much, they were so happy to see it go, that they refused to see the bad coming until it was too late. In late 2003, after the arrest of Mikhail Khodorkovsky ended the hopes of the 2001s, the political opposition to Putin consisted, on the one hand, of a group of half-Stalinist, half-anarchist, goofy teenagers led by a poet turned revolutionary and then persecuted named Eduard Limonov (he spent two years in jail in XNUMX for clandestine trade in fireworks) and on the other by Chechen terrorists. Real power was in the hands of a clique of crooked businessmen, politicians, and businessmen turned politicians (and vice versa). Sometimes, just for prying into the businesses of these people, a journalist could end up killed.
All this plus the money. Russia is a major exporter of oil, natural gas and aluminum. Between 1998 and 2008, the price of these resources and other commodities rose immensely. The country was flooded with money. And so, in addition to political and cultural stagnation, a culture of luxury spread; people bought luxury cars, clothes and leather jackets for thousands of euros. Because of this, a lot of people have thrown in the towel. It was almost impossible to do politics; the remaining institutions were irrelevant, intimidated or (in the case of new tabloid periodicals, such as Russo Esquire) entirely focused on the new bourgeoisie; it was better to grab what you could while there was time.
This was the political, cultural and social situation in the autumn of 2006, when I discovered Medvedev's book…
The wife of a dead activist…
The wife of an activist who died under strange circumstances,
which most likely weren't an accident,
she tells me she is literally shocked
from what is happening, the arrests and interrogations of activists…
I'm sure you know N's story, she tells me.
A union activist, they drugged him, gave him five years.
International campaigns have been useless.
Yes, I said, I know.
So what can we do, he asks, what action can we take,
so that everyone knows? What should we do?
We have two paths, I tell her. Or we build with patience
the unions… or we have to do something really bad,
because here no radical artistic initiative can help us
can lead to a result.
She says yes, and then what? Are we doing a terrorist act? Today
equals
to stick his head out of the trench
and get her unraveled…
And what about unions, he says
I know union activists
it's great people but
that's all
so slow…
How long will it take,
even if, it is true, it is the only way.
After all, it's the unions
the true laboratory of communism.
Yes, I say, at present the situation is this,
no matter what they say
or who knows what the future holds for us, but today
progressive union activists are more politically aware
of intellectuals,
of the professors,
it is a pity that there are so few of them.
But strategically this is the most important thing.
You're right, she says, I'm disappointed that I haven't been able to unionise
who controls,
they are too tied to their self-interest.
The night comes,
the cold penetrates, penetrates, penetrates
and enter
through the doors, through the sleeves
through the skin
gets into the blood,
and somewhere in a warm room
on a soft bed among white
sheets
a pretty young mother
she is cradling her own baby
sleep, sleep my little one,
sleep, sleep, don't listen
in the howling wind
to the rustle of the machines
hug me my baby
gather strength
you will need a lot of strength
the working class needs fighters, strong, brave and tough
we have difficult times ahead.
Da Attack on the town hall
. . .
A big rubber cock
I see him every day on the way to school
I know it's not the best way
to start a poem
but I can't help my memories,
I can't slip the rubber cock out of my mind and replace it
with, say, a Christmas tree.
Every day going to school I saw big rubber cocks –
anything could be done then –
it was 1991 –
and sometimes best friends
buddy-buddy, as the Americans say
they swapped them
as gifts
simultaneously
random,
and it wasn't even in jest
it was natural
a down payment on eternity
a symbol of one's success and prowess,
eternal skill,
the authorities
they could not control the situation
they didn't know what to do
some rubber cocks
those huge rubber cocks
they did not know how to concentrate them in one place,
these dicks were everywhere,
they weren't even built here,
they were imported from America,
they didn't even know its true value,
no one knew its value
for no one knew the value of anything,
we all lived like poets – and the fate of poets smells like rubber
so this sticky and smelly substance
it has kept us together through the ages
everything said seen and experienced
and you can hear the hum of every killed nerve ending
each glass of eight year old wine
ended up making you vomit
for a long time –
the imagination is alive
like a comedy on stage,
and the wine is poured,
the mind works,
cigarettes burn,
the mind relaxes,
eyes close,
the tension grows
the authorities are rats
but how many times
we will say about our homeland
of our innocent and kind
though sometimes cruel but ultimately beloved homeland:
THIS FUCKING COUNTRY
Da Pornocracy
I wrote a haiku
I wrote a haiku
early in the morning
I buy a condom
in a kiosk
This actually happened –
a Turkish worker standing
close to me
while the seller rummaged for the rest.
he was looking at me.
gave me a condom with a naked woman on it,
thinking, probably, that I was up early and needed a fuck
when instead I was trying to collect a urine sample
of my baby.
the doctor advised me
to put a condom on his dick,
stopping it with a shoelace
tied around the waist,
and then wait.
while the seller looked for the rest
I told myself this story in my head, in silence, for Turkish,
without stuttering once,
and he listened to me patiently, even though he didn't understand
and when I got to the words "and then wait"
he even laughed.
but really I should have said:
for the first six months
a child is terribly alone,
throughout his life
he will never be so alone.
there's nothing to do
and it's hard to believe
but it is not something to look for proof of
assuming this is possible.
Da Pornocracy
. . .
Kirill Medvedev (Медведев, Кирилл Феликсович). Born in 1975, he graduated from the Maxim Gorky Institute of Literature in Moscow. Medvedev has published articles and reviews about Russki Zhurnal, Nezavisimaya Gazeta and other newspapers and magazines. He has translated contemporary English-speaking authors, including The Novel Women by Charles Bukowski and some poems by the American author. Among his works are: Everything is bad (2000); Invasion (2002); Text published without the author's permission (2005); 3%. Poems (2007); That's no good (2012). He actively participates in the opposition movement to Putin. He is a member of the socialist group Avanti and founded the Free Marxist Press, which publishes authors such as Ernest Mandel, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Herbert Marcuse, Terry Eagleton and contemporary Russian thinkers.
