Jevtoesjenko skenk sy huismuseum aan staat

Volgens ‘n berig op De Papieren Man het die bekende Russiese digter Jevgeni Jevtoesjenko (77) besluit om sy volledige boek- en kunsversameling aan die Russiese staat te skenk. Die idee is dat die dubbelverdiepinghuis, wat in die skrywerskolonie Peredelkino buite Moskou geleë is, as ‘n museum bedryf sal word. Afgesien van Jevtoesjenko se boekversameling, besit hy ook ‘n kunsversameling waaronder ‘n aantal oorspronklike werke deur Pablo Picasso gereken word. “Men moet deze dingen die ook een geestelijke waarde vertegenwoordigen niet voor de mensen verbergen”, het Jevtoesjenko glo aan die Russiese  media gesê.

Jevtoesjenko is natuurlik een van die mees gewilde (en geliefde) digters in Rusland. Hy het reeds in die sestigerjare roem verwerf met sy gedig Babii Jar (1962). Tydens sy optredes het hy maklik ‘n gehoor van etlike duisende betrek. Weens sy sterk teenkanting teen die Kommunisme was hy gereeld in konflik met die vorige bestel; telkens oor kwessies soos antisemitisme en die Kommunistiese owerheid se onvermoë om die uitdelging van die Jode by Kiev te erken en te gedenk.

Tans doseer Jevtoesjenko nog poësie aan die Universiteite van Moskou en Tulsa in die VSA.

Vir jou leesplesier plaas ek die beroemde gedig, wat ook as teks gedien het vir ‘n toonsetting deur  Sjostakovitsj, hieronder.

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Mmm, sedert gister het daar twee nuwe plasing op die webblad bygekom en dit is Jo Prins se ietwat tong-in-die-kies-besinning oor Panjo die Tier en slagspreke wat as moontlike inspirasie vir Nando-advertensies mag geld, en Ingrid Brunkhorst Hurrell wat haar eerste bydrae in die Buiteblik geplaas het …

Dan is dit hierdie naweek natuurlik die Kaapse Boekbeurs. Indien jy in die omstreke is, moet jy beslis ‘n draai maak. Veral Saterdag- en Sondagmiddag vanaf 15:00 se kant by die Poetry Café, aangesien daar wel ‘n paar Afrikaanse digters geskeduleer is om dan op te tree.

Inderdaad ‘n plesierige naweek wat op hande is.

Mooi bly.

LE

 

Babii Yar

No monument stands over Babii Yar.

A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.

I am afraid.

             Today I am as old in years

as all the Jewish people.

Now I seem to be

                 a Jew.

Here I plod through ancient Egypt.

Here I perish crucified, on the cross,

and to this day I bear the scars of nails.

I seem to be

             Dreyfus.

The Philistine

               is both informer and judge.

I am behind bars.

                  Beset on every side.

Hounded,

         spat on,

                  slandered.

Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace

stick their parasols into my face.

I seem to be then

                  a young boy in Byelostok.

Blood runs, spilling over the floors.

The bar-room rabble-rousers

give off a stench of vodka and onion.

A boot kicks me aside, helpless.

In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies.

While they jeer and shout,

                           “Beat the Yids. Save Russia!”

some grain-marketeer beats up my mother.

O my Russian people!

                     I know

                            you

are international to the core.

But those with unclean hands

have often made a jingle of your purest name.

I know the goodness of my land.

How vile these antisemites–

                             without a qualm

they pompously called themselves

“The Union of the Russian People”!

I seem to be

             Anne Frank

transparent

            as a branch in April.

And I love.

            And have no need of phrases.

My need

        is that we gaze into each other.

How little we can see

                      or smell!

We are denied the leaves,

                          we are denied the sky.

Yet we can do so much–

                        tenderly

embrace each other in a dark room.

They’re coming here?

                     Be not afraid. those are the booming

sounds of spring:

                  spring is coming here.

Come then to me.

                 Quick, give me your lips.

Are they smashing down the door?

                                 No, it’s the ice breaking…

The wild grasses rustle over Babii Yar.

The trees look ominous,

                        like judges.

Here all things scream silently,

                                 and, baring my head,

slowly I feel myself

                     turning gray.

And I myself

             am one massive, soundless scream

above the thousand thousand buried here.

I am

     each old man

                  here shot dead.

I am

     every child

                 here shot dead.

Nothing in me

              shall ever forget!

The “Internationale”, let it

                             thunder

when the last antisemite on earth

is buried forever.

In my blood there is no Jewish blood.

In their callous rage, all antisemites

must hate me now as a Jew.

For that reason

                I am a true Russian!

 

© Jevgeni Jevtoesjenko (Vertaal deur George Reavey)