A Room and a Half

Private Brodsky Museum Opens in Petersburg, Featuring Room Where Poet Lived.  Museum Will Host Tours, Lectures, and Performances
Bumaga
January 25, 2020

brodskyThe furnishings in Brodsky’s room have been recreated using projections. Photo by Anastasia Rozhkova for Bumaga

A private Joseph Brodsky museum opened in the Muruzi House on Liteiny Prospect on Saturday, January 25, according to Maxim Levchenko, the museum’s creator and managing partner at the development company FortGroup.

The museum plans to run closed tours for groups of fifteen people. Visitors will need to register for them in advance, and tickets will be sold on the project’s website. The price of the tour has not yet been set. According to Levchenko, the museum will charge enough to cover salaries and maintenance costs.

The memorial section of the museum occupies the room where Brodsky lived with his family. It was uncoupled from the communal apartment to which it was attached. In his works, the poet dubbed the space “a room and a half.” The furnishings have been recreated using projections.

The second part of the museum is housed in the apartment next door. According to experts, its purchase cost about 35 million rubles [approx. 510,000 euros]. The walls have been stripped, floor boards have been put down, and photographs hung on the walls. An amphitheater, where lectures and performances will be held, has also been constructed.

The museum’s creators note that they are collaborating with the Anna Akhmatova Museum, which will provide them with historical objects in the future.

In 2018, Levchenko stated that total investment in the project would amount to more than one million euros. He planned to attract partners after the exhibition was ready.

RBK wrote that the museum would be curated by the people behind Brodsky.online, a virtual memorial to Brodsky, produced in conjunction with the Anna Akhmatova Museum at Fountain House.

Attempts to open a full-fledged Brodsky museum date to 1999, when the Brodsky Museum Foundation was founded. With support from banks and sponsors, it bought almost the entire memorial communal apartment in the Muruzi House. It was not possible to complete the purchase, however, as the proprietress of one of the rooms refused to leave. Because of this, the room where Brodsky lived had to be separated from the rest of the apartment.

Thanks to Eugenia Kikodze for the heads-up. See more photos of the new museum here. Translated by the Russian Reader

Elegy
Once upon a time this southern town
was the place where a friend and I met.
Both of us were young and had agreed
to meet on the seawall,
built in ancient times: we had read
about it in books.
Many waves have crashed against it since then.
Back on dry land, my friend choked on a petty
but bitter lie of his own, while I
hit the road.
And once again I am
standing here tonight. No one
came to meet me, nor do I
anyone to whom I can say, Come
to such-and-such place at such-and-such time.
The gulls scream.
The crashing waves splash.
The lighthouse is more a sight
for the photographer’s sore eyes than the sailor’s.
I stand alone on an ancient stone,
and my sadness doesn’t defile antiquity,
but compounds it. Apparently, the earth
is truly round, since you arrive
at a place where there is nothing but
memories.

Yalta, 1968

Source

Mish US Tin

mish us tin

PUTIN (PUTIN’ UP)

Tin: Putin?
Tip Putin in?
Put Putin in?

Tin put in input:
Tin put Putin in.
It put Putin up.
It put Putin in.

Up, tin!
In, tin!
Pin, tin!
Put Putin in!

Putin putin’ it in . . . .

Putin in:
It? Tin?

Putin put in input:
Putin put Putin up!
Putin put Putin in!

Up, Putin, up!
In, Putin, in!
Nip, Putin, nip!
Pin, Putin, pin!
Pin tin, Putin!
Nip tin, Putin!

Putin in?
Putin up?
Putin pinup?

Ni, ni, ni, ni!

Putin pun.
Putin tin.
Putin nit.
Putin nut.

Nip Putin!
Pin Putin!
Tup Putin!

Putin
Puti
Put
Pu
P
N
Ni
Nit
Nitu
Nitup

Circa 2001–2002, East Rock

 

_____________________________

Mikhail Mishustin gained notoriety for arranging for two World Bank loans (in the amounts of 100 and 160 million US dollars) in 2002 for the purchase of computer equipment and successfully managing to pocket the money. At the same time, he built himself a luxury house, featuring a large sports complex, on the Rublevo-Uspenskoye Highway.

Screenshot, written and translated by the Russian Reader

Landwehr Canal, Berlin

DSCN2952

Landwehr Canal, Berlin
The canal where they drowned Rosa
L. like a stubbed out papirosa
Has almost virtually gone wild.
So many roses have moldered since that time,
It is no mean feat to stun the tourists.
The wall, concrete forerunner of Christo,
Runs from city to calf and cow
Through fields blood has scoured.
A factory smokes like a cigar.
And the outlander pulls up the native gal’s
Frock not like a conqueror
But like a finicky sculptor,
Getting ready to unveil
A statue fated to live a while
Longer than a reflection in the canal
Where Rosa was canned.

Source: Radio Svoboda. Photo and translation by the Russian Reader

Osip Mandelstam: “Oh, How Much I Would Like”

О, как же я хочу,
Не чуемый никем,
Лететь вослед лучу,
Где нет меня совсем.

А ты в кругу лучись –
Другого счастья нет,
И у звезды учись
Тому, что значит свет.

А я тебе хочу
Сказать, что я шепчу,
Что шепотом лучу
Тебя, дитя, вручу.

Он только тем и луч,
Он только тем и свет,
Что шепотом могуч
И лепетом согрет.

27 марта 1937

Source

DSCN3778-EFFECTS

Oh, how much I would like,
Sensed by no one or caught,
To chase a beam of light
To somewhere I am nought.

You should shine in the ray,
With a star for tutor
(Bliss knows no other way)
On how the light matters.

But to you I would like
To say that I whisper,
That you, child, to the light,
Whispering, I’ll deliver.

For the light is the light,
And the beam is the beam,
Only in whispering’s might,
Kindled by babbling’s heat.

March 27, 1937

Photo and translation by the Russian Reader

 

Boris Mirkin, 1937-2019

boris merkinBoris Mirkin, 1937–2019. Photo courtesy of Iofe Foundation

Boris Savelyevich Mirkin, poet, political prisoner, board member of the St. Petersburg Memorial Society, and our comrade, died on April 1, 2019.

Boris Savelyevich was born in Leningrad in 1937. During the Siege, he was evacuated from the city. He graduated from the Leningrad Chemical and Pharmaceutical Institute in 1964 and went to work at Research Laboratory No. 1 of the Military Medical Academy. After Soviet troops invaded Afghanistan, Boris Savelyevich wrote poems condemning the invasion. He was arrested in 1981 and charged with violating Article 70 Part 1 of the RSFSR Criminal Code [“anti-Soviet agitation”]. The Leningrad City Court convicted him, sentencing him to three years and six months of forced labor. He served his time in the camps of Perm Region. After his release, Boris Savelyevich worked as a lathe operator at the Krasny Vyborzhets factory in Leningrad, a trade he had picked up in the camps. In 2004, he wrote and published a book of memoirs and poems entitled I Face the Music (Derzhu otvet...).

The book included this poem, which he wrote in a labor camp in Perm Region in 1982.

Since childhood I hated lies.
They sickened my soul.
Truth alone is light and power,
Piercing the heart like a knife.
Those who lied from podiums
And pulpits, who regaled
The baron’s hollow tales
As truth, I found odious.

Who sent us far not knowing why,
Who knew only head-on attacks,
So no one got off with a scratch,
Who marched us to heaven not knowing the way.

Alas, to this day the liars thrive,
Ignoring the truth for falsehoods.
Oh, the world is filled with mugs,
The smug faces of those who worship lies.

People are invited to pay their last respects to Boris Savelyevich Mirkin from ten to eleven in the morning on April 5 at the morgue of the Elizabeth Hospital, 14 Academician Baykov Street.

Source: Iofe Foundation Newsletter, April 4, 2019. Translated by the Russian Reader

Sonnet 133

DSCN4449

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is’t not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross’d:
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross’d.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,
But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

Source: etc.usf.edu. Photo taken at Volkovo Lutheran Cemetery in Petersburg on December 22, 2018, by the Russian Reader

Sonnet 130

DSCN4325

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Source: poets.org. Photo by the Russian Reader