Nikolai Klyuev 1884 -1937 Nikolai Klyuev is one

Nikolai Klyuev, 1884 -1937 Nikolai Klyuev is one of the most interesting, contradictory, and complex figures of the Modernist period Left – with his close friend Nikolai Arkhipov in Vytegra, early 1920 s; right, around 1930

Klyuev was born and grew up near the southern end of Lake Onega in northern Russia, in the area around the small town of Vytegra. The area, relatively remote from major urban centers, is culturally a border area between traditionally Slavic and Finno-Ugric territories. Klyuev lived in villages where both Orthodoxy and the Old Belief were practiced.

He was probably born in the village of Koshtugi, on the rivers Megra and Kimreka, and he was certainly baptized there in 1884.

Онежское озеро Koshtugi is only some 60 km from Vytegra, but poor roads can make that a long journey even today

The village is very picturesque, but its population is now small and declining, as is the case in many Russian villages. In the late nineteenth century, however, it was thriving, with a population of over 1, 000.

Details of the village from a local tourist brochure

The church where the future poet was baptized was closed in the Soviet era, and used as a barn. It has now been reconsecrated, but is in serious disrepair. On the left, the church in 1994, on the right, in 2003.

Koshtugi in July, 2003. The village has a school with about twenty pupils, but most year-round inhabitants are elderly. The population now is smaller than the number of kostuzhane who died at the front in the Second World War.

Klyuev’s father, a former soldier (pictured with the future poet, left), was a village constable at the time of Nikolai’s birth. Later, the family moved to the village of Zhelvachevo (below, photographed in 1994). In Zhelvachevo, Klyuev’s father was the landlord of a government wine store.

Zhelvachevo is a derevnya, forming part of the larger selo of Makachevo, north of Vytegra Покупатели – типичные жители этой, к сожалению умирающей, деревни.

On the site where the family house stood, a memorial plaque has been installed (left); the village is on a bend in the river Andoma (top right); it consists now of only a few houses (bottom right).

Here are two of the three last full-time residents of Zhelvachevo (the other houses are used as dachi in the summer).

In this house (left) Klyuev probably began to write. From here, he initiated a correspondence with Aleksandr Blok, the leading Symbolist poet. In the 1960 s the house was moved to Makachevo, to serve as a school. For a long time it stood empty; as of 2003 it was serving as the village library. A plaque commemorates its role in the author’s life.

Memorialization Even the language of the two plaques is telling. The plaque on the house, put up in the Soviet period, calls Klyuev a “Russian Soviet poet” – a contentious and ideological qualification, especially ironic, given that he died a victim of Soviet repression. The plaque on the site where the house once stood, installed in the 1990 s, merely states “Here in the village of Zhelvachevo stood the house where in the years 1895 -1915 lived N. A. Klyuev”.

Until the Soviet period, Makachevo had two churches (a summer and a winter church). Now almost nothing is left of either. A cross marks the approximate spot of burial of Klyuev’s parents in the remnants of the church yard. The two churches were destroyed in the 1960 s.

Memorialization Under the aegis of the Vytegra Museum, the presumed site of burial of Klyuev’s parents is maintained as a memorial. In 2003 the cross was replaced with a shrine resembling the original, discovered on a photograph of the 1910 s. Participants of the annual Klyuev symposium in Vytegra always visit the site.

Vytegra Klyuev moved between the Vytegra area and St Petersburg in the 1910 s as his reputation grew. He lived in Vytegra for the early Soviet years

Zhelvachevo Cross at Makachevo Klyuev country Rubtsovo – last village in the area where the poet lived. Koshtugi in October 2002 Vytegra Tudozero Vytegra in October 1994

After the early 1920 s Klyuev never returned to his native region, living first in Petrograd/Leningrad, then Moscow. He remained faithful to his early identification with the peasantry and Old Russian culture (see his urban room, top left). He was also deeply attached to the memory of the young Sergei Esenin (bottom left, with Klyuev). But the great love of his later life was the young artist Anatolii Yar. Kravchenko (above), with whom he lived in Leningrad at the end of the 1920 s.

Klyuev in Leningrad The apartment so carefully decorated in peasant style was at the back of this grand building at 45 Bol’shaya morskaya street (the house is the former Meshchersky palace, in the very center of the city).

Although Klyuev had greeted От иконы Бориса и Глеба, От стригольничьего Шестокрыла the Bolshevik coup with Моя песенная потреба, enthusiasm, he soon began to Стихов валунная сила. depict it as part of the process Кости мои от Маргарита, Кровь от костра Аввакума. which was destroying his Узорнее аксамита mythologized Russian Моя золотая дума: peasant culture, and to define his own role and situation in Чтобы Русь как серьга повисла В моем цареградском ухе. . . clear opposition to it (often Притекают отары-числа К пастуху — дырявой разрухе. by the use of a series of historical И разруха пасет отары and cultural allusions, as in Татарским лихим кнутом, Оттого на Руси пожары this poem of 1921/1922). И заплакан родимый дом. From the icon of Boris and Gleb From the Strigol´nik Six Wings Comes my song sacrifice, The boulder power of my verse. My bones are from Chrysostom’s Pearl, My blood from Avvakum’s fire. More elaborate than ancient velvet Is my golden thought: May old Russia hang like an ear-ring In my Constantinopolitan ear… Flocks of days gather round their Shepherd — tattered destruction. . . And destruction tends the herds With a wild Tatar whip, Hence old Russia burns And the family home is mourned. …. И желанна великая треба, Чтоб во прахе бериллы и шелк Пред иконой Бориса и Глеба Окаянный поверг Святополк! A great rite is needed, That before the icon of Boris and Gleb In ashes, beryls and silk Be laid down by cursed Svyatopolk!

The last poem from his collection L’vinyi khleb (Lion’s Bread), composed in Vytegra in the immediate post-revolutionary years is typical in its ambiguities Поле усеянное костями. Черепами с беззубой зевотой, И над ним, гремящий маховиками, Безыменный и безликий кто-то. Кружусь вороном над страшным полем, Узнаю чужих и милых скелеты, И в железных тучах демонов с дрекольем, Провожающих в тартар серные кареты. Вот шестерня битюгов крылатых, Запряженных в кузов, где Есенина поэмы. Господи, ужели и в рязанских хатах Променяли на манишку ржаные эдемы! И нет Ярославны поплакать зигзицей, Прекрасной Евпраксии низринуться с чадом. . . Я – ворон, кружусь над великой гробницей, Где челюсть осла с Менделеевым рядом. Мои граи почитают за песни народа, -- Он был в миллионах годин и столетий. . . На камне могильном старуха свобода Из саванов вяжет кромешные сети. Над мертвою степью безликое что-то Родило безумие, тьму, пустоту. . . Глядь, в черепе утлом осиные соты, И кости ветвятся, как верба в цвету. Светила слезятся запястьем перловым, Ручей норовит облозаться с лозой, И Бог зеленеет побегом ветловым Под новою твердью, над красной землей. A field sown with bones, With skulls in toothless grins, And over it, rattling flywheels, A nameless, faceless someone. I circle like a crow above the fearful field, I recognize the skeletons of strangers and friends, And, in iron clouds, the demons with stakes, Accompanying to Tartarus the sulphur chariots. Here's a team of six winged cart-horses, Harnessed to a cart containing Esenin's epics. Lord, have they, even in the peasant huts of Ryazan', Swapped their rye paradises for city shirt fronts! There's no Yaroslavna to sing like a cuckoo, Nor fair Evpraksiya to fall with her child. . . A crow, I am circling above the great coffin, Where donkey jaws lie beside Mendeleev. My caws will be taken for songs of the people, Existing for millions of years and of centuries. . . The old woman freedom, sat on her grave stone, Is knitting from shrouds her dark nets. Above the dead steppe a faceless something Gave birth to insanity, darkness, a void. . . Look, wasp honeycombs are in the frail skull, The bones are now sprouting like willows in flower. The stars weep tears of pearl bracelets, The stream is attempting to kiss the vine, And God becomes verdant in rushing of willows Beneath a new firmament, above a red land.

By the end of the 1920 s, Klyuev was very much persona non grata in Soviet literature. Labeled a “kulak poet”, he was repeatedly attacked, and very rarely published. He continued to write very actively however, composing a series of striking long poems, and a considerable body of lyric works. Some of these texts were published in the west in the 1950 s and 1960 s, others were published for the first time only in the 1980 s and 1990 s.

In 1934 he was arrested in Moscow, and exiled to Siberia. He lived in Tomsk until 1937, when he was arrested, convicted of participating in a monarchist plot, and shot. Top left – the part of Tomsk where he lived. Top right, a house where he rented accommodation. Far left, cells in the NKVD building where he was interrogated. Left, presumed site of his execution.

Klyuev’s last known poem, written in Tomsk in 1937 Есть две страны; одна -- Больница, Другая -- Кладбище, меж них Печальных сосен вереница, Угрюмых пихт и верб седых! Вот почему в кувшине розы, И сам ты – мальчик в синем льне!. . Скрипят житейские обозы В далекой бренной стороне. There are two countries – one the Hospital, The other – Cemetery, between them Runs a row of sad fir trees, Gloomy pines, and gray willows! That’s why there are roses in the pitcher, And you are a boy in blue flax!… Life’s carts rattle by In a distant, mortal land. Блуждая пасмурной опушкой, Я обронил свою клюку И заунывною кукушкой Стучусь в окно к гробовщику: К ним нет возвратного проселка, Там мрак, изгнание, Нарым. Не бойся савана и волка, -За ними с лютней серафим!» Wandering in the shadowy glade, I dropped my walking stick And like a dreary cuckoo Knock at the gravedigger’s window: No way leads back to them, There all is darkness, exile, Siberia. Don’t’ fear the shroud and the wolf, After them comes a seraph with a lute. ” "Ку-ку! Откройте двери, люди!" "Будь проклят, полуночный пес! Кому ты в глиняном сосуде Несешь зарю апрельских роз? ! «Приди, дитя мое, приди!» -Запела лютня неземная, И сердце птичкой из груди Перепорхнуло в кущи рая. “Cuckoo! People, open up the door!” “Be damned, midnight cur! To whom are you carrying a clay bowl With the dawn of April roses? ! “Come, my child, come!” Sang the unearthly lute, And my heart sprang like a bird From my chest into the groves of heaven. Весна погибла, в космы сосен Вплетает вьюга седину. . . " Но, слыша скрежет ткацких кросен, Тянусь к зловещему окну. И первой песенкой моей, Где брачной чашею лилея, Была «Люблю тебя, Расея, Страна грачиных озимей!» Spring has perished, and into the pines’ mane The snow storm weaves gray hair…” But, hearing the rattle of a weaver’s loom, I lean towards the sinister window. And my first song, When the lily was a wedding chalice, Was “I love you, simple Russia, Country of rook-covered winter crops!” И вижу: тетушка Могила Ткет желтый саван, и челнок, Мелькая птицей чернокрылой, Рождает ткань, как мерность строк. И ангел вторил: «Буди, буди! Благословен родной овсень! Его, как розаны в сосуде, Блюдет Христос на Оный День!» And see: old aunt Tomb Weaving a yellow shroud, and the shuttle, Flashing like a black-winged bird, Gives birth to fabric, like the rhythm of verse. And the angel answered, “Be it so, be it so! Blessed is the native rite of spring! It, like roses in the vessel, Is watched by Christ for Judgment Day!” В вершинах пляска ветродуев, Под хрип волчицыной трубы. Читаю нити: "Н. А. Клюев, Певец олонецкой избы!" In the heights above the winds dance To the wheezing of the she-wolf chimney. I read the words sewn in the shroud: “N. A. Klyuev, The singer of the Olonian peasant house!” Я умер! Господи, ужели? ! Но где же койка, добрый врач? И слышу: «В розовом апреле Оборван твой пердсмертный плач! I’ve died? Lord, surely not? ! But where’s the sick bed, good doctor? And I hear, “In rosy April Your last lamentation was cut off!

The question of memorialization, like the question of memory, is a pressing and complex one for contemporary Russia Various forms of memorialization in Klyuev’s petit pays, where an annual symposium is devoted to him.

The Vytegra Klyuev museum

Among the poet’s belongings on display is his traveling samovar

Autograph in the Klyuev Museum, Vytegra Михаилу Ручьеву с пожеланием весны и малиновой юности Н. Клюев 1923 To Mikhail Ruch’ev with best wishes for spring and a raspberry youth N. Klyuev 1923 Note the highly stylised hand, and equally ornamental form of the inscription itself

The local museum organizes the annual Klyuev symposium, attended by scholars from round the country and beyond. At first, these events were politically difficult. Now they present financial challenges because of lack of funds.

Local publications have also been devoted to the poet. Some are for the visitor, some for the scholarly reader. The brochure prepared in the early 1980 s for the very first Klyuev symposium (top right) was never distributed. The Museum Director, Tamara Makarova, was told to pulp it because the biographical note concluded with the line “his life broke off tragically in 1937”.

In Tomsk memorialization is more complex, because this was the site of Klyuev’s exile and execution (and the place of exile and death for many more thousands). Nonetheless, plaques record two of his places of residence.

The geographical and ideological diversity of Klyuev publications are well indicated by the books on this page, all published since 1990

Among the most exciting discoveries of recent years were two fragmentary recordings of the poet reading his verse n Many memoirists speak of the powerful impression created by the poet when he read his poetry.

The last lines of Derevnya (The village, 1926), read by Klyuev in the recording […Душа – степной жеребенок] Копытом бьет о грудину, -Дескать, выпусти на долину, К резедовым лугам, водопою… Мы не знаем ныне покою, -Маета-змея одолела Без сохи, без милого дела, Без сусальной в углу Пирогощей… Ты, Рассея, -- лихая теща!. . . Только будут, будут стократы На Дону вишневые хаты, По Сибири лодки из кедра, Олончане песнями щедры, Только б месяц, рядясь в дымы, На реке бродил по налимы, Да черемуху в белой шали Вечера, как девку, ласкали! [The soul – a foal from the steppes] Beats its hoof against the chest, -As if to say, let me out to the valley, To the mignonette meadows, to the water… Nowadays we know no peace, -The anxiety-snake has conquered Without plough, without favorite task, Without gold-leaf icon in the corner… You, Russia, are a fierce mother-in-law!. . . Only there will be, will be a hundredfold Cherry-wood huts on the Don, Boats of cedar in Siberia, Olonian men generous in song, So long as the moon, dressed in smoke, Wanders the river for burbot, And the evenings caress like a girl The bird cherry in its white shawl!

Klyuev’s “Kto za chto…” (1928), which he reads in the recently discovered recording Кто за что, а я за двоперстье, За байку над липовой зыбкой… Измерено ли русское безвестье Пушкинской золотою рыбкой? Изловлены ль все павлины, Финисты, струфокамилы В кедровых потемках овина, В цветике у маминой могилы? Погляди на золотые сосны, На холмы – праматерние груди! Хорошо под гомон сенокосный Побродить по Припяти, по Чуди, -Окунать усы в квасные жбаны С голубой татарскою поливой, Слушать ласточек и ранним-рано Пересуды пчел над старой сливой: «Мол, кряжисты парни на Волыни, Как березки девушки на Вятке…» На певущем огненном павлине К нам приедут сказки и загадки. Сядет Суздаль за лазорь и вапу, Разузорит Вологда коклюшки… Кто за что, а я за цап-царапу, За котягу в дедовской избушке. Choose what you will, but I am for the Old Believer cross, For a tale told over a lime-wood cradle… Was the Russian mystery measured By Pushkin’s Golden Fish? Have all the peacocks been caught, The falcons and ostriches of tales In the cedar darkness of the barn, In the flower at mother’s grave? Look at the golden pines, At the hills – foremothers’ breasts! It’s fine wandering to the sound Of haymaking by Pripyat’ and Lake Chud’, -Dipping whiskers into kvass jugs With a blue Tatar glaze, Listening to swallows and first thing The quarreling of bees above the old plum tree. “So the lads of Volynia are strong, Like birches are the girls on the Vyatka…” On a singing fiery peacock Tales and riddles will ride to us. Suzdal’ will sit at its blue and its icon paint, Vologda will decorate its lace bobbins… Choose what you like, but I am for a scratching pouncer, For a big fat cat in the old man’s hut.

But the future is far from clear – how will the 21 st century read this intriguing and contradictory poet? School children in the village school at Devyatiny, near Vytegra, read Klyuev’s works during a school jubilee, October, 2002 (left), and at an evening devoted to the poet’s verse during the 2003 Klyuev symposium (right).