Three Poets and Others 1

At last I have gotten to Ezra Pound. I had heard so much about him — such a contradictory figure. And his entire fate confirms it: first he is honored, then imprisoned, then placed in a psychiatric hospital, then rehabilitated again. At times he is revered, at times rejected. In the end, his grave lies next to the grave of in the Venetian cemetery.
And now, finally, I am reading his poetry and prose, though in Russian translation. I think I will also read him in English. He caught my attention with both his poetry and prose, with his depth of thought, broad erudition, and individuality. I do not yet know who borrowed this individuality from whom — whether from him or he from her. But that he is deeper and more erudite is immediately striking.
I especially liked his statement: “The advantage people gain from working together, as opposed to each working separately; for example, a crew steers a ship, whereas separately people could not each sail on their own ship.” It seems to me that this statement is especially fitting for spaceships and for the exploration of space in general. If humanity cooperated more and spent on space exploration as much as it spends on war — an absolutely useless occupation, an atavism of the animal world inherited from the era of the dinosaurs, where survival depended not on intellect but on aggression.
Recently, quite by accident, on YouTube, which I have been watching regularly lately, I came across a video interview with the poet, who spent his last years in New York. This made me unexpectedly happy. Before that he had lived in Canada for twenty-five years. What made him exchange Canada for New York? But immediately afterward came the sad news that he had recently died — on June 26, 2024, to be exact. Interestingly, he was born on August 2, 1950, while I was born later, but on August 1 — very close dates.
He studied at and graduated from the chemistry department almost with honors, so they even kept him on the faculty for five years, although he was already the most famous Moscow poet. I read several of his poems. He is a master of words, culturally sophisticated on a very high level, but somehow he did not touch my soul — everything felt too polished.
In the interview he said that young writers write too smoothly, whereas one should write about suffering. He was pleasantly drunk and said that everything he writes, he writes while intoxicated. The interview apparently as well. I watched other interviews — everywhere he appeared with liqueurs. He was the recipient of many prizes, grants, and so on. He said that when he and his Canadian wife arrived in Canada, there was no work at all and there was a severe economic crisis. But he quickly adjusted and went to work for a radio station glorifying the Canadian way of life; in short, not a word about the economic crisis there. Later there were long business trips to Russia. It all smells strongly of conformism.
He also spoke mournfully about the recent death of the poet, who had been his friend in their Moscow youth, at Moscow State University and in the “Luch” literary studio, where they had studied under the poet, who still hosts an interesting literary program.
Alexei Tsvetkov (1947 — May 2022) emigrated to the United States even earlier, in 1975. I had the good fortune to see and hear Tsvetkov in person when he came from Czechoslovakia and read his poetry in a Russian bookstore. He was poorly dressed, wearing some ancient worn-out jeans. For some reason I thought that he had become disappointed with the United States and moved to Europe, where he lived on a modest American pension and therefore had to economize on everything. But he also worked for Radio Liberty there — it is unclear what exactly he was propagandizing. Upon arriving in the United States in 1975, helped him publish his first book of poetry.
Then suddenly my screen, apparently sensing my interest, suggested an interview with Alexei Tsvetkov. He was in Budva, Montenegro, at yet another congress. Interestingly, when the journalist introduced him, he said that Tsvetkov was a Doctor of Philosophy. The poet immediately corrected him, saying that he was not a Doctor of Philosophy but a Doctor of Philology.
Then came the biographical questions. It turned out that in childhood the poet had tuberculosis of the bones, and by the age of three he still could not walk and was completely disabled. His father showed extraordinary persistence and managed to have his son admitted to a tuberculosis sanatorium specializing in that disease, and Tsvetkov spent seven years there. They restored his health, cured him, taught him to walk, and at the age of ten he returned to his parents and began attending a normal school and living the life of an ordinary Soviet child.
He graduated successfully from school and entered Moscow State University, first in chemistry, but after a year realized it was not for him. Then he entered the history department, but that was not right either; afterward he went into journalism, where he studied for two years before transferring to correspondence studies and leaving for Siberia to work as a correspondent for local newspapers.
It sounded strange to me to hear him, a poet, say that he did not like people — any people. Then he said that he had not loved his parents. It is understandable that long separation and illness had broken the emotional bond, but still, as an adult, he could have appreciated his parents’ efforts in placing him in such a unique sanatorium; otherwise he would simply have died or remained disabled for life.
He also said that after there had been no philosophers, and that humanity had failed to justify its purpose, and that when a human being dies people express sympathy, whereas animals may also deserve sympathy and pity no less than humans.
I agree with this statement. Animals truly are pitiable, but human beings are pitiable too, because 99 percent of man belongs to the animal world. And then a person falls into given circumstances and an environment, and especially when young, one has very little choice.
I also liked that he quoted, who said that the world revolves not around noise, but around new values.
New values, if one looks at history, are usually determined by new technology. Manufactories and the invention of the steam engine organized people better than legions. The discovery of America led to new forms of political organization and to democracy.
Recently I was reading, a deeply pessimistic thinker. He criticizes everything and everyone, yet still arrives at the conclusion that humanity cannot exist without idealism.
Perhaps that is why religion still exists. Throughout history humanity has aspired toward the sky and the stars.
It is very foolish that ten times less is now spent on space than on wars. It is absolutely clear that humanity will become a planetary species and that aggression is completely useless in space; one cannot conquer the Moon, Mars, or Venus through aggression.
And the exploration of space requires cooperation and even love. Because there the human being becomes the highest value, and you would not want to fly to Mars or the Moon and live there in artificial conditions with a person you do not love.
And there you truly understand that love is not passion and not a rainbow that suddenly flares up and fades away. It is a seal forever. It is not a luxury but a necessity. Therefore, if you have loved, then you have not lived in vain.
It should be as with:
What did I always do?;— Loved.
And I shall bring you proof;That until now;I have loved too little,
That now I shall love all my days,;I offer you this:;That love is life;And life half immortal.
Does this cause you doubt, my dear?;Then I have nothing to show you;But the guillotine.