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Olga Sedakova stands out among contemporary Russian poets as a poet blessed with the talents of musicality, verbal agility, and insights into the workings of soul and mind. An erudite writer who wears her knowledge lightly, she deftly draws other poetic traditions into her work, balancing openness to European and American cultural traditions with a profound knowledge of Russian cultural and religious traditions. In presenting a new translation of her work into English, our book aims to show Sedakova as a Russian poet and as a creator of world poetry.

We offer here two poetic cycles: one based on Slavic folk traditions (“Old Songs,” her shimmering sequence that mixes folk and biblical wisdom), and one that emerges from European myths (“Tristan and Isolde,” perhaps her most mysterious long poem). Sedakova’s capacious account in prose of her own poetic development (“In Praise of Poetry”) follows. Alongside these three major texts, we have included our interview with the poet conducted in 2012 and, as a coda, the poetic credo she presented when she was presented with The Masters Translation Prize in Moscow in 2011, awarded by the Masters of Literary Translation Guild. All of these texts appear in English in full for the first time.

BECOMING A POET

Olga Sedakova was born in Moscow in 1949 into an educated family; her father was an engineer, and her sister Irina is a highly regarded linguist. She studied at the Philological Faculty of Moscow State University and the Institute of Slavic and Balkan Studies, where she completed a graduate degree in 1983 in ethnography and ancient studies with a dissertation on ancient Slavic funeral rituals (published in 2004). Sedakova learned multiple European languages, and she worked for nearly a decade as a reader of foreign scholarship for a major Moscow library, INION. At a relatively early moment in her training as a scholar, her teachers agreed that her destiny was to be a poet. But this poetry did not appear in mainstream publications save for a very few poems she wrote as a young girl. A Russian-language volume was published in Paris in 1986, and her work soon began to reach an audience within Russia beyond the underground circles of intellectuals and poets in Moscow, Leningrad, and Tartu. The first substantial publication of her poetry in Russia was in 1988, during Glasnost. These poems were a stunning departure from the mostly politicized, even sensational work of the late 1980s. They seemed an uncanny reminder of deeply dormant spiritual traditions and a joyous re-imagining of formal, rhythmic, and lexical possibilities in the Russian language.

It would have been impossible to know, in 1988, how the public stature of Sedakova would, by the start of the twenty-first century, match up to her formidable gifts. It is fair to say that her reputation has risen to make her first among equals. Sedakova’s achievements have now been recognized in Europe and in Russia by many awards: the 1983 Andrei Bely Prize; Paris Prize for a Russian Poet, 1991; the Alfred Toepfer Pushkin Prize, awarded in Hamburg, 1994; the European Poetry Prize, Rome, 1995; the Solovyov Literary Prize, awarded in the Vatican, 1998; the Solzhenitsyn Literary Prize, Moscow, 2003; the Chevalier d’honneur d’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres de la République Française, 2005 (and Officer status in 2012); the Dante Alighieri Prize, 2011, awarded in Italy; and many more besides. This kind of recognition has been made possible by her ability to reach readers in multiple languages. Excellent translations of her work now exist in Italian, French, Hebrew, Ukrainian, German, Albanian, and Danish. Most important, the work has now appeared in Russian in Russia, and extensively so. A handsome two-volume set of her poetry and prose appeared in 2001, and in 2010 a four-volume edition was published, including the full range of her essays on philology, philosophy, theology, cultural and literary studies, as well as her translations from nearly a dozen languages. Along the way, individual volumes offered collections of her poetry, her travel writings, her philosophical-political essays, and even two books of children’s poetry. A signal achievement was the publication in 2005 of her dictionary of “difficult words”—words whose meanings had changed across the centuries, words still in use in contemporary Russian but with meanings different from that of the Slavic Orthodox ritual and in the biblical tradition. Sedakova had long collected these words, and published the dictionary so that people could understand what it was they were saying in church (she has been told by grateful priests that for the first time they understood prayers they had chanted for decades; the dictionary is now in its third edition). Such is this poet’s knowledge of the Russian language, and of its many layers.

In her own poetry, Sedakova’s facility in using the many meanings of words became the foundation on which her creative work as preserver of ancient meanings and seer into the new would be placed. Is there another poet in any language who is as perfectly balanced between profound knowledge of the poetic, philosophical, and theological tradition and fearless invention of a new word? The repeated image in her poems of an entity balanced on a needle’s tip conveys this sense of precarious bodily awareness, and we often feel ourselves teetering between worlds when reading her work.

How does one become such a poet? The essay “In Praise of Poetry” is Sedakova’s own answer to that question. It is a tale of education and self-education, an account of a child’s wonder and horror at the world, all blended with a meditation on the nature of the poetic word and of the psyche in which that word comes into being. Olga Sedakova had many educations, as she tells the tale. Alongside her training in literature and philology, there was an ever-growing knowledge of church ritual and religious history, learned from her grandmother, her priests (her dukhovnye ottsy), and her friends, some of whom have been remarkable thinkers and philosophers (like V. V. Bibikhin, Sergei Averintsev, and Yuri Lotman, all now deceased). Along the way, she learned many languages, both ancient (Latin, Greek, Old Church Slavonic) and modern (French, German, English, and her beloved Italian). She became a gifted, experienced translator, rendering works by Dante, Petrarch, Dickinson, Pound, Eliot, Claudel, Mallarmé, Rilke, Celan, and others into remarkable Russian poems. Sedakova’s prose, of which she has written more in the last decades, includes studies of such modern poets as Pushkin, Pasternak, Zabolotsky, and Khlebnikov, as well as memoirs and memorials to contemporaries she honors—Venedikt Erofeev, Viktor Krivulin, and Sergei Averintsev among them.

A number of her essays have treated matters of religion, doctrine, theology, and ethics, and those essays boldly name the real dangers of “moralia” and firmly strike a balance among several risks. As one sees in many passages in “Praise,” Sedakova is not one to embrace dogma or to strike a moralistic tone, but she is also not ready to relinquish the belief that words have ethical force in the world, nor to give up on the hope that the poetic word may yet have particular, special insight to offer. Moralistic thinking, she argues, pushes people to diminish the value of imagination and aesthetics. Sedakova might well agree with the strong statement of American poet and thinker Allen Grossman, that poetry is a means by which “human beings engage, as they can, in the maintenance of a human world in which they can meet one another, affirm one another, remember, see, and foresee one another.”¹ Affirming our humanity is one of the gifts of poetry, and in Sedakova’s terms that means a refusal of the world’s many pressures toward mediocrity. Poetry, she tells us, is a radical expression of knowledge about another way of life. What is most radical is the form, which can be a containment of explosive force. Sedakova’s own work abounds in this kind of formal transformation, with astonishing beauty in her “Old Songs” and in “Tristan and Isolde,” which is in some ways about the very idea of transformation.

“OLD SONGS”

Among Sedakova’s cycles of short poems, “Old Songs” stands out for its astonishing and completely deceptive simplicity. It is her finest demonstration of a view that she articulates in “Praise”: that “poetry is a gift, a gift blessed by heaven and earth.” The poems are a form of praise for life on the blessed earth. Although there are actual moments of prayer, for the most part “Old Songs” feels closer to the dailiness of the monastic chroniclers than to the intensity of words addressed toward God or of pious sermons. Events of domestic life are interwoven with intimations of the larger cosmic orders. When there is wisdom, it is that of the people, the narod. When there is advice, it is enigmatic, even gnomic. The lexicon is biblical at times, even occasionally elevated, but there are no specialized words, no obscure theological turns of phrase. It is all astonishingly concrete, built from the simplest of words—stone, child, servant, word, horse, dog, fish, cradle, spruce, garden, star. The elements that fill out the life of the world are gently rearranged, poem after poem, with steadying, organizing pressure exerted from words that designate larger forces. They might be saints’ names, or biblical names, or references to angels or even to God. The result is a sure sense of the order of the universe, its harmonious and capacious embrace of all that is righteous and errant, all that is life and life after death. The voice who gently asks for a walking stick to go out into the garden makes nothing of the fact that it speaks from the grave; the lullaby reassures the baby that dreams of becoming an ocean wave or an angel of the Lord are equally within reach.

“Old Songs” comprises three notebooks, the very name of which gives them the feel of found manuscripts; one wonders whether Sedakova, who has translated and much admires Emily Dickinson, might not have had in mind her habit of sewing pages of poems together in fascicles. Something of Dickinson’s world in fact is felt in these poems, all short and poised between the worlds of nature and spirit. But whereas Dickinson’s poems most often rely on the common meter of hymns, Sedakova writes her “Old Songs” without the shaping structures of regular meters (save in one poem, the exceptional “Marching Song”), although she does use occasional rhyme and a great deal of lexical repetition and other syntactic patterning, so much so that the usage of free verse becomes not so much an occasion for liberation from traditional meters as the shaping envelope in which intricate patterning can roam freely. As the poet Mikhail Gronas has noted, “Old Songs” is one of the most successful long cycles of contemporary Russian poetry to rely on free verse, in part because of the contrast created by the form with the emphatically traditional content.² And it is indeed a long cycle, the poet’s longest, totaling thirty-nine poems. A sense of careful placement of poems creates moments of counterpoint and lovely echoes of words, images, and stanzaic patterns. Each publication of the cycle, and there have been several since its first complete appearance in 1990, has printed one poem per page, allowing a generous frame of blank white page to offer itself to the reader for beholding and contemplation. Our translation preserves that sense of silent pause between poems.

“TRISTAN AND ISOLDE”

If “Old Songs” presents complex ideas beneath a surface of seeming simplicity, then “Tristan and Isolde,” a cycle of twelve poems and three preludes from 1978-82, may at first appear to be something of the opposite. We are in the presence of a complex, high-culture text, one with multiple allusions and perhaps many sources. Some readers may think immediately of Wagner’s opera, although Sedakova’s indirect account of Tristan and Isolde’s romance will feel quite unlike the opera; medieval romance versions, as retold by Gottfried von Strassbourg and Sir Thomas Malory, are more pertinent. When we are bid to listen in the poem’s first prelude, we are addressed very much in the mode of Gottfried’s romance, but Sedakova’s poem cycle does not recount the story of Tristan and Isolde’s love. It promises a tale of “love and death,” but the plot elements most associated with the tale of Tristan and Isolde—drinking a love potion meant for someone else, voyage by ship, escape to the forest, punishment among the lepers, and the love triangle itself—are barely mentioned. “Tristan and Isolde” is mysterious at its core, inviting readers to discover slowly what it has to say about the tale of the two famous lovers. One begins to suspect, on reading the cycle’s preludes and its many small diversions, that Sedakova means to keep the myth at some distance, to use its motifs sparsely, chiefly as an impetus to meditate on the enduring fates of illness and betrayal, of journeys and divination, of death and immortality. Yet she also presents as well a searching exploration of the myth—its music, its symbols, its profoundly tragic understanding of love’s travails. An ethos of Christian sacrifice and journey toward salvation seems as significant in the poem as any quest for love’s redemption, and in her account of Tristan and Isolde, we see how the renunciations of love are as powerfully felt as its pleasures. Unlike the myth of Lancelot and Guinevere, with its central quest for the Holy Grail, the tale of Tristan and Isolde has only to do with love, with impossible, all-consuming love.

The re-telling of a myth is a potentially conservative, even staid art form, but Sedakova’s “Tristan and Isolde” attains a kind of wildness that belies any such notion. Some of that wildness is a matter of tone, as when the speaker asks rhetorically how she could possibly know where exactly the waves will travel, or how far the eye can see. The poem calls into question the narrative truths of the myth, and they suggest an allegory that motivates the poem’s refusal to tell stories forthrightly: as the people to whom poets speak are now diminished and poor, so must be the story they are told, even if it comes from a tradition that is ennobled and honored. The word “poor” (bednyi) is heard often in Sedakova’s poetry, and it means something different from the modernists’ frequent complaint of exhausted narratives. Sedakova’s notion of poverty is linguistic, a kind of stripped-down lexicon where decorative or diverting words have been banished, where a narrowed verbal range creates new reverberations and greater ambiguities. The restricted vocabulary paradoxically enriches the poem’s music.

Formally, “Tristan and Isolde” offers another sort of intrigue. The poems are metrically varied. One of the poems is trochaic, but most are iambic, with varying line lengths and with a number of lines that have extra beats. Several poems feature many short lines mixed in, and most of the poems use rhyme. The effect of these formal choices is just slightly unsettling, inducing a kind of rough texture or rippling, changing unevenness. To hear the poet read the poem, which one can do on several currently available recordings, is also to hear the gentle presence of regular rhythms.³

Listening is in fact one of the poem’s supreme pleasures. At the poem’s first lines, when listeners are gathered around to listen, the invitation comes with a beckoning to join in sewing a “dress of darkness.” Coming into the world of Tristan and Isolde, we in a sense close our eyes. This is one of Sedakova’s supreme metaphors for the advent of the imagination—it has led her to write movingly of the images of blindness in Rembrandt, for example, and of a childhood memory that associated impending blindness with the fantasy of a completely different universe.⁴ If the pictures are often suffused with darkness that is partly an aesthetic choice—Sedakova herself would later ask that we think about why Rembrandt’s paintings grow so dark—and it is also a kind of cognitive pre-condition, a way of urging us to close our eyes to the daily sights of life in order to focus the mind more completely on the vision of a dwarf telling fortunes from the stars, or on two unnamed lovers who lie entwined in the darkness, guarded by their faithful dog. Sedakova’s poem is, among its many other virtues, an act of instruction, an imperative that we see and hear the elements of a living myth.

“IN PRAISE OF POETRY”

Sedakova’s essay about her growth as a poet, rather than speaking in a gesture of command, itself seems to respond to a command. The essay opens as if spoken to a knowing friend, Vladimir Saitanov, who asked that she write down the origins for her early work. Sedakova creates a conversational and easy tone, even when complex matters are broached. She refers to poems, historical events, or cultural landmarks without pausing for explanation (our translation includes many notes to aid readers necessarily further from the cultural context). “In Praise of Poetry” looks back to the years of childhood and adolescence. Sedakova later explained that this essay allowed her to combine two genres: the tale of childhood, for her epitomized by Tolstoy’s Childhood, and that of ars poetica. She wanted to communicate the happiness of her own childhood, and to offer “musings on the nature of poetry.”⁵

In the early recollections of poetry, Sedakova presents both her gently skeptical, adult view of her youthful enthusiasms and also a certain steady regard for the purity of those early feelings. The essay includes some of her earliest efforts as a poet. She neither sentimentalizes childhood nor shows a child’s moments of incomprehension as silly; in fact she singles out three poets—Khlebnikov, Pasternak, and Rilke—for showing us both the world and language as if with a child’s inability to render any impressions as automatic, but also without any sense of amazement. Sedakova perceives a splendid paradox in such poetry, which can be difficult for readers to grasp precisely because of its simplicity. Simplicity itself is no simple concept in Sedakova’s work, as she shows in describing the speech of her grandmother: it is a language made up of names, not words; it has an unconscious originality, the “originality of the pre-verbal world itself.” This language may seem unsophisticated, exuding no erudition, but its ability to match objects or ideas to words is nearly fathomless. These traits mark “Old Songs” as well, a text linked to “In Praise of Poetry” by the figure of the grandmother, as muse and as addressee.

A powerful presence in the essay is the world of music. Sedakova was lucky enough to have a music teacher who also introduced her to poetry, including the work of Rilke. Her music teacher, Mikhail Erokhin, had a wonderful way of inviting her to imagine entire spaces in which pieces of music resounded. A Bach prelude, for example, was presented to her as an evolving, brief narrative: “An old man enters his empty quarters and lights a candle, a corridor lit up behind him unfolds its dimensions; before him is a darkness which can only be sensed, invisible and unfathomable to the eye.” Music may be the supremely important art form for this poet, both for its example of melody, harmony, precision, rhythmic balancing, and for its status among forms of aesthetic expression—its potential purity and distance from burdensome semantic elaboration, its association with divinity and the sublime. Music flourishes as a metaphor in Sedakova’s work. “Old Songs” invokes music in the cycle’s title and in the use of lyrical form. “Tristan and Isolde” can be understood as a kind of musically structured work in its own right. “In Praise of Poetry” abounds in references to musical works in addition to its fine account of the poet’s own musical training. It often uses musical terms to describe poetic phenomena, as when the poet says that she knows only one way of composing a poem, toward a crescendo. The essay itself concludes on a high note: poetry, Sedakova tells us, may “give a voice to that which is silent.” She means here something as much spiritual as ethical. Her praise in this essay is for the “sacred and utterly audacious act of humility performed by poetry.”

Our book concludes with an interview with the poet, conducted in December, 2012, and including specific questions about the texts translated here. Readers may thus hear the poet reflecting on these texts from a later vantage point. As we were preparing the interview and polishing our translations, Olga Sedakova was awarded a translation prize in Moscow. Her acceptance speech seemed the perfect way for us to end this book, allowing the poet to articulate for us the standard we hoped to achieve in translating her work.

We take the occasion of this publication to thank the poet for permission to translate her work, and for her participation in our translation process. We are grateful to her for answering questions, looking at drafts, and providing much information that has informed the notes to “In Praise of Poetry.” Readers will sense that some notes are in fact written by her. Francesca Chessa, Italian translator of “In Praise of Poetry” has been especially helpful to us as well. Warm thanks to all.