You don t choose times. Alexander Kushner

«Life has exceeded our expectations...” (A. Kushner)


     One day, wandering through the library shelves, I came across a small book of poems, bound in yellow cloth. It was called modestly and intriguingly - “Canvas”. The author is the Leningrad poet Alexander Kushner. After quickly leafing through it and making sure that the author spoke to me in a familiar language and quite clearly, I took it home. And not in vain. Many years have passed, but lines from this collection still come to mind.

     The first thing I noticed when “getting used to” the quatrains was a clearly visible individuality. The poet and the worlds he created - as opposed to the unpredictable and chaotic world around him. I think this is the right way. Creative rethinking of the universe - only this will develop humanity and give it a chance to be one of the decisive forces in the future. An intellect that distances itself from society—we emphasize: conditionally distances itself—does this solely for freedom of creativity, and not for selfish reasons. Therefore, there is no need to reproach him for this and interfere with his perception with inappropriate criticism..

     Reading the collection, I wondered: how long can Kushner resist in this position? After all, the history of literature is the history of long or short battles with probable victory after life has already been lived. Giving up positions is also likely, despite the fact that the positions were correct. It’s just that chaos overpowered, the creator got tired and stopped being him. And every time it is tragic for both the poet and the writer.

     Alexander Semyonovich Kushner, a teacher of Russian language and literature, began writing in adolescence, that is, when feelings and reason come into some balance, and a meaningful search for truth begins. There was no particular luck in getting into print. He was lucky in one thing - Kushner started in a city known for its cultural traditions, and later he headed a literary association, which included several people who did not become supernovae in modern poetry, but were quite cultured people. Close circle of friends: Akhmatova, Brodsky, Rein, Bobyshev. Brodsky later said about him: “Alexander Kushner is one of the best lyric poets of the 20th century, and his name is destined to stand among the names dear to the heart of everyone whose native language is Russian.».

     Until the nineties, the poet was in semi-underground - he was published, his books were published, but all his work was located and lived in some kind of parallel reality, reaching ours in rather vague echoes. The perestroika wave helped Kushner define himself in the surrounding space. He seemed to come out of the shadows, having the opportunity to speak as openly as he would like. Many authors were carried away by such freedom in the direction of pure journalism. I wanted to “shout out” as many words as possible before everything was banned again. This distortion turned out to be harmful - many were never able to return to “pure poetry”, losing their voice and outplaying their hand. And where are these numerous articles and interviews now? Everything was forgotten and remained in the yellowed files of newspapers and magazines. Eternal - books of poems remained unwritten even on the table.

     For Kushner, the time of transition cannot be called lost. He published several dozen books, adding them to the six collections published during Soviet times. He summed up the theoretical platform, creating in fact a textbook of poetry in the book “Apollo in the Snow.” He became what a mature poet should become: a philosopher, a master of language and rhyme. However, he did not escape the demolition to the dogmas created by himself, drawing an artificial dividing line between genres.

     The life of a poet who reached old age can be divided into two parts: the first - his creative path until he was thirty - the determination of the “right path”, the choice of values ;;and ideals, a certain amount of maximalism and selfless service to society; the second - summing up, breaking through what was written, fighting with surviving rivals on the poetic Olympus, senile grumbling.

     Doesn’t this mean that society, in the end, gets to the literary hermit, pulls him out of the ivory tower and forces him to live, or rather, survive, according to its wolfish laws, and all sorts of idealism mixed with humanism flies head over heels in his declining years? Quarrel, loneliness and hospital... And also mocking celebrations of time, which has forgotten how to delve into deep texts. And yet, how comforting Kushner’s half-forgotten lines sound:

* * *

The envelope is kind of strange, strange,
It's like it's even homemade,
And the stamp is blurry and foggy,
Marked as a week old,
And the stamp is strange, empty,
Blurred image of the outback:
Neither the President of Uruguay,
Neither the Thames - just some kind of bush.
 
And letter to letter is so crowded,
That the handwriting is clearly classified.
Below, as you might guess,
Return address not marked.
I quietly tear the envelope along the edge
And on a sheet of thick paper
I have a hard time understanding Russian
Words in unaccountable confusion.
 
«We are gathered here in a close circle
Assure you as a sign of attention
In our blurry, ubiquitous,
Weakened existence.
When at night (some kind of nonsense!)
The wind is at war with the dark garden,
We won’t say about everyone, but with you
Be quiet, don't flinch, we're close.
 
Don't sleep, look more closely,
Distinguish us one by one».
And then the handwriting is illegible,
I skip two or three lines.
«Goodbye! Our ink has faded,
And our mail is unreliable,
And the leaves in the garden got wet,
What step is impossible to take».