The Daily Worker Newspaper, April 19, 1924, Page 12

Ps By LOUIS LOZOWICH. Had your international affiliation or * personal curiosity led you to the new Jerusalem of Communist Russia in . the busy lecture season of 1918, a cer- tain poster would have, doubtless, at- tracted your attention, for it an- * nounced to red Moscovy a discourse of the famous Bolshevik poet, Vassily , Kamensky. The title of the discourse was “The Career of a S— of a B—" ‘ (Karyera Sukinavo Syna), and lest you misunderstood the drift and pur- port thereof a parenthetic subtitle came obligingly to your aid: “The Story of the Russian Intelligentzia” (Istoria Russkoy Intelligentzii). The piquant incident is significant. Communist Russia is recasting old standards in new moulds, and, in the process, Intelligentzia comes in for a heavy drubbing. Well deserved, it must be admitted. The Intelligentzia dreamt the Revolution, gloried in it, deified it. From Hertzen to Plecha- nov, from Lavrov to Merezshkovsky the Revolution had been foreseen and foretold with prophetic exactness—its whole course can be narrated in ex- tracts from their works, The Reyolu- tion came, and behold the Intelligent- zia scatter precipitously to all corners of the globe squealing pitifully its dis- affection. Well may the poet take it severely and mockingly to task: eae You trembled apprehensively Like children in some happy expecta- tion. * 7 * * * * You welcomed the ruin and tragedy And horror of a new deluge. * * “ + . * And it came. We hear reverberating thunders, Eternal foundations crash into the abyss. * * * ° * ” Why then do you not plunge into the storm of events, Intoxicated by the strangely terrible hurricane? Why do you still look sadly to the past As to some land of promise? Is it not because the past has now taken place of the future? Is it not because: The dream was welcome only from afar And originality pleased you Only in books of poetic inspiration? (Valery Bryussov, “Invective.”) Apparently, for revolutionary ardor has evaporated at the first approach of rough reality, and past prejudices still hold the Intelligentzia in the grip. And who is this? Long haired And speaking in a whisper: “Traitors! Russia is lost!” Must be a writer.... (Alexander Blok, “‘Twelve.”) . And sticking out From amidst the canon roar Is seen the round-shouldered back Of a bespectacled, sickly Intellectual. A shaggy head Is mutterng Indignant words About the importance Of Constantinople And the Straits. (Andrey Bely,;:“Christ Is Risen.”) The world is shattered to its foun- dation, but the Intelligentzia still cherishes its old illusions. Perish the Revolution that the old prejudices might survive. This is how the rene- gades are regarded by those members of the Intelligentzia who stuck to the guns. But a further distinction must be drawn between the old “and the young. Bryussov, Bely, Blok, Ivanov, Solo- gub, men already in the fifties and the sixties, came to the Revolution with a baggage difficult to discard. ~Ex- treme modernists of some twenty years ago, they grew to maturity at a time when environment was 80 op- pressive and life so banal that they might have exclaimed with the poet: Un couchant des Cosmognies! Ah! Que la Vie est quotidienne! (J. Laforgue, “Complaint sur cer- tains ennuis,”) Disgusted with the stifling circum- ambient atmosphere, they retired within their ego whence they exuded, as it were, a protective covering, a subjective poetry that sought respite in ancient Greece, in the far Orient, in the infinity of the Cosmos. Too skeptic to accept official re- ligion, they built up an ideologic logo- machy of “God-seekers” (Bogoiska- tely) and “God-creators” (Bogostroi tely). Masters of ancient and modern languages and, literatures, thoroly versed in old and contemporary phil- osophy, esthetic theoreticians of a high order, prose writers of great power—it was in poetry that they reached their full stature. Never be- fore had Russian poetry ascended such heights or sounde ch depths; never before had the Russian lan- guage exhibited such subtlety, rich- ness, expressiveness. They brought Russian poetry to a state of excel- lence that will compare favorably with the poetry of any nation. The Revolution shook them from their torpor, but was powerless to transform them completely. True, they turned from dream to reality, they forgot their individual selves to blend with the mass, but they were not sufficiently assertive. It is with their pre-revolutionary achievement that their fame rests. But if these men, entrenched be- hind their deep rooted habits and convictions, behave with reticence and speak with reserve, the younger poets fling caution to the wind and bring their intemperate excesses into the market place. Shershenevitch, Mariyengoff, Kamensky, Polyetayev, Yesenin, Guerasimov, Mayakovsky throw a challenge to the whole world, exult in terror, blood, dynamite, blas- pheme Christ and God, denounce Pushkin and Raphael, threaten de- struction to the old order, call to uni- versal revolution, celebrate the reign of labor. In a great outburst of revo- lutionary patriotism they ‘glorify the Communist fatherland. The German Expressionist peet has well expressed their attitude: Tag der Freiheit heiliges Russland! » +++. Oh, Tag der Wonne Nie hat Europa schoneren Tag, nie unsere Jugend herrlicheres Ziel! (Carl Ooten, “Fur Martinet.”) They sing paens to the new art and the new life. Art and life are for them indissolubly one. Prikaz for the Army of Art. The brigades of old men always trudge on slowly The same straggling step. To the barricades, comrades! To the barricades of souls and hearts! * + * * . ” * Enough of jog-trotting; A = into the agen + * . * sic singing, and “whist! s - * * Enough of RONG gus Sweep clean every old notion from your heart. The streets are our brushes, The public squares our palettes, * om * * * . Into the streets, Futurists, Drum players and poets! (Vladimir Mayakovsky.) Dekret About Fence Literature, Deco- ration of Streets, Balconies With Music, Carnivals of Art. Come on, fellows— ° Poets, artists, musicians— Roll up your sleeves. Yesterday the Tolstoys and Kants had taught you; Today it is your own head that works. Let us take all vacant fences, Roofs, facades, sidewalks; Let us decorate them to the glory of Freedom Like universal cathedrals. Then follows an injunction for po- ets to paste their verse on posters all over the city, for painters to deco- rate it, for musicians to play and sing with and for the nation. There are six working days in the week, And I boldly propose |To stage carnivals and processions Every day of rest, In praise of the spirit of Revolution In the world. (Vassily Kamensky.) Technically little change has taken place in Russian poetry during the Revolution. All schools of Europe are represented. The Soviet govern- ment, master—nominally, at any rate —of the printing industry, has shown itself extremely indulgent (often too indulgent, one is tempted to say) with the poetic effusions of all schools and tendencies. Studios have been opened for recitation, theoretic analysis and esthetic discussion of poetry, antholo- gies have been issued, magazines have been published. When the shortage of paper is too great “oral almanachs” do duty for printed ones. Poetic production has increased to proportions never before attained in Russia, At one end—on the right—are the Proletarian poets, who seek, simplic- ity, and the Symbolists, who seek subtlety; in the middle are the Imag- inists (Imaginistry), who seek rich imagery, and the Futurists, who seek the hidden contact of dissociated 4deas; at the other end—on the left— are those who, like the Suprematists, seek the “zero point of art,” and the Nothingists (Nitchevoki, “Art must be destroyed!”), who seem to have found it. Before the Revolution Krutchenych thought this admirable: Dir boor shtchill oobyestchoor skoom vy so boo rlez. . And now Malyevitch thinks this su- perb: Oole Ele Lel Lee One Kon See An Onon Koree Ree Koazambe Moena Lezh Sabno Oratr Tulozh Koaleebee Bleg- tore Teebo Orene Alazh. These quotations are as cryptic in the Russian original as in the literal English transcription. The theory of We Are The Moh A Note On The New Russian Poetry the extreme poetic Left absolves the poet from the use of comprehensible language. The great Russian poet Tyuetchev said: A thought once expressed Becomes a lie. The poets of the extreme Left are evidently determined to utter no lie, for they express no thought. Poetry. is to be sung in a language newly created by each poet, a language empty of logical content but full of emotion to all those whose souls are carry inteligibility, but communicate emotion to al those whose souls are attuned to receive it, and whose mood and temper are congenial with the poet’s own mood and_ temper. Whether these chosen spirits be ten or a million is of no consequence. In the background of the rich po- etic activity there is an abundance of speculation in the social theory of the new art (Lunatcharsky, Bogdanov, Fritche, Tchukovsky, Shklowsy). Russian society—and all other—is passing from the Hell of Capitalism thru the Purgatory of Proletarian Dictatorship to the Paradise of Com- munism. To each different stage cor- responds a different form of ary (po- etry, we know, is a prostitute—poesia e una pttana—which is not the least of her merits). Present Russian art is still wavering between capitalist re- ality and Communist visions. It would be therefore premature to draw a valedictory of Communist poetry before it found full expression, Dar- ing experiments are tried and incom- patible poetic elements often collide and burst into explosion. A school whose phylogenetic evolution, so to speak, took some five decades else- where is now ontogenetically recapit- ulated in five months. It is before all else a period of preparation, fermen- tation, incubation. It may be that some attempts are halting and some experiments crude; it may be that po- etic circles are cluttered. But if the great energy liberated by the tremen- dous upheaval has not yet crystal- lized into definite shape, high enthu- siasm sustains every effort, and, ac- cording to the Communists, when rev- olution is in full swing he who whines is an imbecile. And perhaps they are right! By OSCAR KANEHL We are the mob. Thank God. To suit? We have no more to loose Than our chains. . We are the mob. Thank God. To be moderate? Tell it those, Whose measure doesn’t overrun. We are the mob. Thank God. Considerateness? Recommend it those Who are lounging on cushions, - We are the mob. Thank God. Patience? Desire it from those Who are eating from filled dishes. We are the mob. Thank God. Ever to toil only? We have nothing in our body Nothing upon the body. We are the mob. Thank God. Desire nothing more from us. Recommend us nothing. Tell us nothing. We are the mob. Thank God. — : Why keep it secret? . We are the mob. Thank God. We will show Ne fae it to you. Translation by Paul Acel, — cet an eee Me die