Tag Archives: Alexander Timofeevsky

Alexander Timofeevsky home, Moscow

Click on photos to enlarge.


I am pleased to be able to say this right off the bat: Alexander Timofeevsky is one of my small household’s best friends. That happened thanks to another great friend of ours, the poet and playwright Viktor Korkia. My wife Oksana Mysina staged a couple of Vitya’s plays (Quixote and Sancho, and Ariston), and Vitya invited his friend Alexander to one of them. Sasha, as we have known him ever since, hung around for an after-party – it was Oksana’s birthday – and he almost immediately began doing one of the things he is famous for: spouting off impromptu poems.
Sasha is something like the Improviser in Pushkin’s “The Egyptian Nights,” he unloads pithy, funny, and/or meaningful short poems on the spot. He may declare he is ready to improvise something, or someone may egg him on – “Come on, Sasha! Give us a poem!” – and he will respond. People know this about him, so there is always at least one person hanging around with pencil and paper at the ready. There are hundreds of Timofeevsky poems out there that continue to exist beyond the moment of their generation thanks entirely to prepared fans. Sasha himself, though he’s happy to date and autograph scraps of paper in order to authenticate them, makes no effort to preserve these impromptu pearls. We have six such scraps of paper lodged in between the pages of Timofeevsky’s books. One of them Oksana jotted down immediately after Timofeevsky unloaded a quatrain on her over the telephone:

On a Whitsunday week
We once shared a popover
Since then you’ve gone batty:
You now love another!

These things are fine around here. Here’s another Sasha wrote on Dec. 4, 2011:

Oksana, dear Oksana,
I’m Cyrano, you’re Roxanna!
Cupid’s arrow took me down,
I don’t even see that you’re with John!

Timofeevsky’s reputation as a wit runs long and deep. For many years when he was unable to publish his serious poetry he made a living writing humorous poems and songs for popular Soviet cartoons. His biggest “claim to fame” (and please note that that is in quotation marks) is a song that virtually every single Russian knows. Literally, every single Russian. Because this is a ditty that has turned into Russia’s birthday song. We in the U.S. sing “Happy Birthday” (Russians do too on occasion), but the song everybody knows in Russian starts with the words,

So what if pedestrians run plopping through puddles?
And water swarms over the road like a sea?
And nobody knows why, in this wacky weather,
I am as happy as I can possibly be?

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But, okay, we’ve had our fun. And, as you might imagine, the whole fame thing associated with the birthday song is rather like a fish bone gone sideways in Timofeevsky’s throat. The fact of the matter is that this man, born in Moscow in 1933, is one of the finest poets of his age. It just took a very long time for others to make that distinction. What happened is that some of Timofeevsky’s poetry appeared in the infamous samizdat miscellany Sintaksis in 1959/60. From there on, Timofeevsky was one of those awful Soviet beasts – the unpublished and unpublishable poet. For the next 30+ years, he wrote “for the desk drawer,” as the Soviet-era saying goes. He would write a poem and file it in his desk, perhaps showing it to a few friends, but rarely more than that. It was not until 1992 that Timofeevsky, then 59 years old, published his first slim collection called To Wintering Birds. His first relatively large collection, Song for the Mournful of Soul, was published in 1998, while his second, bearing the honest and wry title of The Too-Late Shooter, came out in 2003, timed to coincide with his 70th birthday.
These and many other collections that have appeared since are modest in volume, and rich in quality. Arguably, Timofeevsky’s most prodigious achievement to date is his long narrative poem, Tramcar No. 37. It is a sweeping, subtle, fragmentary, yet fully coherent, look at the Russia we live in today as it emerged from the Russia of yesterday. The tramcar number is a clear reference to the fateful year in Soviet history of 1937, one of the bloodiest in all of Russia’s many such years. I quoted a tiny excerpt from the poem in another blog last year, but I see no reason not to repeat that here. These two poetic phrases are, for me, the perfect picture of the Russia I now live in:

Russia was pilfered by aliens.
In five minutes they beamed her up,
Squashed her down, and stuck her in a trunk.
Meanwhile, as you and I were busy dreaming,
Somebody replaced her with a counterfeit.

Just for fun, I pulled out, almost at random, a poem published in the collection Answer of a Roman Friend (2011). It is called “Es War einmal ein Konig” and it is dated as having been written between the years of 1990 and 2010.

Once upon a time there lived a king.
A royal jester,
A minister and a guard
All once lived here too.
They did so pointlessly and senselessly
Just one time only.
I, too, lived here, though not for long,
Faster than an eye can blink.
Es war einmal ein Konig
Es war einmal and I…
German captures well
The instantaneousness of being –
Not much, not half of it,
Just one brief flash in time.
You’d like it to last longer?
You must be crazy, then!

Today while thinking about Sasha we have offered up a few photos of the home in which he lives near the Arbat. The address is 3/5 Bolshoi Lyovshinsky Lane. If you’re interested in reading a little more about him, you can go to a blog I wrote for The Moscow Times about one of his poetry recitals in 2014.

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Alexander Pushkin bust, Pushkin Theater, Moscow


Bear with me or abandon me now. It’s a long one today. But I will get to Pushkin. Trust me. But this comes first:
I can’t help but take Masha Gessen’s recent piece in the NY Times Sunday Book Review as a personal missive. After all, she calls it a “Dear John” letter (random readers may not know that is my name) before launching into one of many key points as she addresses the city of Moscow directly:
“What we should talk about, Moscow, are the monuments. When is enough, enough? Walk down the Boulevard Ring, the misnamed three-quarters-of-a-circle road that fails to circumscribe central Moscow, and you will see, block by city block: the composer Sergei Rachmaninoff; Vladimir Vysotsky, a 1970s singer-songwriter; Nadezhda Krupskaya, the wife of Lenin…”
In part, anyway, these are “my” monuments she’s talking about, my Russian Culture in Landmarks. Shortly thereafter, Gessen adds: “There is something obstinate and deeply uncharming about this commitment to the immobilized human form. Other cities can find room in their hearts for abstract statues, symbolic monuments — but not you, Moscow: You want every single one of them looking like a giant human (stork excepted)…”
Well, now, this is really hitting close to home. Moreover, as the great Yogi Berra said, this for me personally is almost like deja vu all over again. But I’ll get to that in a minute because I’m not through plumbing Gessen’s essay yet. Closing out her arguments, Gessen picks up on the theme of love and, more importantly, the loss of love, as she again addresses Moscow itself:
“And yet I thought I would always love you. I loved you desperately as a teenager whose parents had decided to emigrate. While we waited for an exit visa, I spent every day with you as though it were our last — I walked the center of town every afternoon, making sketches…”
Well, now, damn it, this is just too close for comfort!
I’ve never said this anywhere, it’s been my little secret – the motor that you keep out of sight. But Masha Gessen’s pained, heartfelt declaration of her loss of love for Moscow and its culture leaves me no choice but to say it: I began making this blog precisely because I fell out of love with Russia.
Russia has been my intellectual, emotional and aesthetic raison d’etre for many, many decades. I have lived in Moscow for many decades. I’ve published a lot of books about Russian culture. I have been followed by the KGB and the FSB. I have been, essentially, kidnapped and interrogated. My phones and my apartments have been tapped. My car has been stolen (probably by the authorities), I have been recruited openly and otherwise to be a snitch. I have lost most of what little money I had in various defaults, financial crashes and monetary reforms. I have been the victim of vandalism and slur campaigns. And through it all I didn’t give a damn. Because my love for Russia and its culture was that strong. It was that strong. All that other crap was just that, crap. All I cared about, figuratively speaking, was Pushkin. Erdman. Dostoevsky. Tolstoy. Gogol. Kurochkin. Korkia. Klavdiev. Mukhina. Ginkas. Bakshi. Krymov. Yukhananov. It’s unfair to begin a list because the list must stop somewhere and the riches of Russian culture, the riches that have fed me for most of my adult life are such that the list could damn near be endless.
So when Masha Gessen writes about love, I know what she means. I have lived that love. And that love has held me strong through trying times. And then “the present” came. I’m going to say “the present” came in late 2010. It’s an arbitrary choice, but it’s more or less when Vladimir Putin truly began pushing his people over the edge and some of them began pushing back. What we have witnessed since then is something akin to the mayhem of a slaughterhouse gone mad. The arrests, the harassment of peaceful citizens, the murders of journalists and lawyers attempting to do their job, the bizarre machine of lawmaking that seeks to ban the human being from thinking at all (outlawing curse words, outlawing the questioning of official history, outlawing “propaganda of a gay lifestyle”), the use of hatred to inspire love of country, the vilification of anyone daring to have his or her own opinion, the use of lies, lies, lies, bold, brazen lies as an excuse for anything the state wishes to do, the character assassination of a neighboring people (the Ukrainians) that has been considered a “brotherly nation” for centuries, the use of subterfuge, chicanery, mendacity and lies, lies, lies and more lies to “justify” a slow-bleeding invasion of Ukraine that the state swears is not happening until it blithely chooses to admit it has happened before going onto the next lie… Enough. You get my immediate point.
But the bigger point is this – as this tsunami of insanity has inundated those of us living in Russia, the worst, the most horrible, the most untenable, the most inexcusable aspect of it all has been the way the vast majority of Russians have either turned a blind eye – “Oh, I don’t know anything about it!” – or embraced it: “Crimea is OURS AGAIN, so f*%k you!”
Oh, there are a lot of people pushing back. I can’t tell you how I admire them. There are people asking hard questions, making impossible, but necessary, demands. But for every one of those in my circle – in my personal and professional circle of artists, writers and performers – there are two shouting at me “CRIMEA IS OURS!” I have been accused – by former friends and by utter strangers – of being a spy, of being here to undermine Russia, of being one of those from the West who has destroyed Russian values…
As this cacophony of nonsense and words built up, I found myself drifting farther and farther from my love until we lost touch with one another. This was followed by despair and utter confusion fueled by outrage and deep, gnawing sorrow. One cannot live like that. One either loves or one dies.
And that is when the idea for this blog, something that had been percolating in my mind for years, came into focus. It would be a way for me to reconnect with everything I have loved and championed for decades. It would force me to articulate the reasons for this love, sometimes in obvious fashion, sometimes under the obscure veil of metaphor. But that has been the purpose of every 100+ posts I have made here over seven months – to rediscover love. Sometimes it’s tough love – read the entries on Vsevolod Meyerhold, for example. I do my best to avoid drooling. But sometimes it’s such a joy to unleash love unreservedly – as I have done with Bulat Okudzhava, for instance.
Now, I’d really like to move on from Masha Gessen, but I can’t until I tie up another loose end or two. I want to make this very clear: I am not setting myself up in opposition to her at all. My comments are not a rebuttal to her or her experience in any way. On the contrary, I share with her that love and loss of it. It’s traumatic, believe me. Moreover, Gessen is talking about losing her own native culture and a feeling for it. She grew up with Pushkin and Rachmaninoff – they for me are acquired loves. These are different things. One is not better than the other, but they are divergent beasts. And I also want to say that I, as an American, can fully share Gessen’s disillusionment with her own native culture. I mean, let’s be honest, I am writing this as streets in many U.S. cities are burning once again, because still again, because, yes, again, a young black man or boy has been shot by a white policeman who gets off scot-free. This is to say nothing of my disgust over the complete collapse of the American political system, which now has been simplified to this: He with the most dollars wins (notice I don’t bother to add “she” because it’s always a “he”). I, too, like Masha Gessen gazing upon a home culture that nurtured her and then scorned her, know that horrible feeling of realizing that my home is no longer my home. The shock of realizing that your home has been lost while you were making tea, flirting with the neighbor, or scrubbing the toilet, has never been described better than by the great poet Alexander Timofeevsky, who wrote in his long, narrative poem Tram Car No. 37:

Russia was pilfered by aliens.
In five minutes they beamed her up,
Squashed her down, and stuck her in a trunk.
Meanwhile, as you and I were busy dreaming,
Somebody replaced her with a counterfeit.

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Alexander Pushkin is the real deal. If you doubt it ask Timofeevsky or any other Russian poet, or any other Russian. Masha Gessen makes it a point in her long essay to come back to Pushkin repeatedly. Because, for all that she has lost, Pushkin is still there.  So in the spirit of love and loss, I, too, present to you a bust of Alexander Pushkin. I don’t find this bust, which stands in the second-floor foyer of the Pushkin Theater, obstinate or uncharming in any way. Actually, even though it’s pretty much another cookie-cutter image of Pushkin in 3D, I find it a warm and welcoming chunk of bronze. Today I choose this Pushkin as a hook on which to hang a few thoughts for the very specific reason that there is no reason whatsoever for this sculpture to be here.
Pushkin was never in this building, or in any building that may have preceded it. He has nothing to do with it. Zilch. Zero. Zip. Nada. The theater was named after Pushkin in 1950 after the authorities drove out the theater’s founder Alexander Tairov. Throughout Tairov’s long tenure this was known as the Kamerny, or Chamber, Theater. Tairov, whose spirit was broken when he was fired and attacked as unfit to run a Soviet theater, died within a very short time. I wrote a month or so ago about this and the curse Tairov’s wife may have put on the theater. You can read about that here. Perhaps the authorities, hoping to assuage some dull, dim sense of guilt for this crime against one of Russia’s greatest theater directors, chose Pushkin’s name as a way to cleanse themselves. Pushkin, as I have said elsewhere, has always remained pure and unsullied, no matter how the authorities have tried to enlist his name in their dirty deeds over the centuries. Was the name Pushkin here employed to atone sins? It’s just a thought, and can never be anything more. The desire, however, among those who worked in this theater to attach themselves to the imaculacy of Pushkin’s name reared its head again in the 1980s, when the second-floor halls were “restored” and refurnished in the so-called Empire style and – renamed the “suite of Pushkin rooms.” The whole thing is a sham. Pushkin, Pushkin, where is Pushkin? He isn’t here and yet he is everywhere. The Pushkin bust stands proudly amidst the suite of Pushkin rooms, in which nothing but the mere thought of Pushkin has ever visited.
My point is this: We can choose to call this fraud if we wish. Because it is. Or we can accept Pushkin here as a legitimate forbear to anything involving Russian culture today. Because that is true too. Moreover, it’s not a matter of accepting one while rejecting the other. It is more a matter of degrees. It is an opportunity to express one’s free will – to choose what myths you will cling to because they, for you, have meaning. You don’t ignore that Pushkin’s name here may be a ruse by evil people who destroyed Tairov and his theater to portray themselves in the best light possible. You accept that and you acknowledge it. And then you look for what truly deserves your love. Russia may have been pilfered and stuffed in a trunk by evil aliens, but Timofeevsky, by writing about that with soul and humor, helps us to rise above that tragedy for at least as long as it takes to read his poem. Is that not much? Maybe. But it’s no little thing, either.

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