Poems of Boris Kornilov is a selection of poems by the poet Boris Petrovich Kornilov (1907–1938) connected with the Nizhny Novgorod area, together with "Song of the Counterplan," which made his name known throughout the country and which, after his arrest, was performed without any mention of its author.[1][2] The texts are given as they appear in editions available in the public domain.[5][6]
"In Nizhny Novgorod, from the Otkos"
The Volga Otkos and the Dyatlov Hills are the only city landscape that Kornilov put in a frame: a line about it both opens and closes the poem.[6]
In Nizhny Novgorod, from the bluff
gulls swoop down onto the sands,
all the girls stroll out without asking leave
and quite waste away with longing.
It smells of linden, lilac, and mint,
an unheard-of color dazzles the eye,
the lads walk by — crumpled caps,
a cigarette glowing in the mouth.
Then a song from far away drifts in,
and for a moment it seemed to everyone
that they would see those misty-eyed glances
that everyone had utterly forgotten.
These wholly boundless expanses,
where every front garden is aflame,
Nizhny Novgorod, the Dyatlov Hills,
at night the dusk is faintly blue.
A damp wind blew in a little,
with light smoke and wet grass,
once more the Volga goes like a road,
swaying all along beneath the hill.
Once more, touched by a lasting joy,
I sing that peace is dust,
that the high stars over the Volga
also go out in their first hours.
That in vain, forgotten early,
lovely, young, and cheerful,
like Tatyana in an unattainable song,
she lived in Nizhny Novgorod.
Here again on the sands, on the ferries
an enormous night has settled in,
blowing with the smell of stunted bird cherry,
swooping in from around the corner,
drawing in drizzle, a ragged cloud
wrapping itself around the dawn —
I'm with you, just in case,
speaking in an even voice.
Our various conversations,
our little songs, one over another.
Nizhny Novgorod, the Dyatlov Hills,
At night the dusk is faintly blue.
"On the Kerzhenets" (1927)
With lines from this poem about the Kerzhenets forests and the kerzhak hermitages, the Nizhny Novgorod Regional Library opens its reference entry on the poet.[3]
We walk.
And hand in hand,
And the young currant bush rustles.
We're on the Kerzhenets, on the river,
Where my incomprehensible homeland is,
Where the age-old forests grow,
Where both elk and fox roam
And at every forest verst,
At every kerzhak hermitage
Rus, crucified on a cross,
On an ancient one,
On a copper one, is nailed.
Dark-clad girls pray here,
Old men die at their work
And dislike that there are tractors —
Stallions with metal bodies.
This Russian antiquity,
All mossy, like a wall,
Where the currant is steeped in water,
Where the river has been granted unforgettability —
There it twists the bear,
That yellow-bearded homeland,
There bear twists bear.
Be quiet!
We mustn't sing about this.
"From an Autobiography"
Here Kornilov himself names his homeland — the village of Dyakovo near Semyonov, where his childhood was spent — and ends the poem with who his father and mother were.[5]
I couldn't invent anything like this,
and my words are plain —
I was born in the village of Dyakovo,
half a verst from Semenov.
In the Nizhny Novgorod Governorate
I landed in my young life,
covered in a crust of earth,
digging golden potatoes.
With these very hands
I dug the soil
and carried manure,
and along the Kerzhenets
and along the Kama
I mowed sedge and grass.
For your health, earth,
take it,
breathe, earth, with warm fat,
receive your cow patties,
your horse droppings.
So that the labor would not go to waste,
so that joy would stay alive —
you must grow thick rye,
weed the field a couple of times.
The black-earth field for winter crops —
sow it all,
harrow it,
sow, and not one extra grain
drop needlessly to the ground.
So in this vast world
my fate took root and sprouted,
all green,
like those
growing grain fields.
I left.
They sent me letters
about potatoes,
about oats,
about golden pork fat —
all those letters were like one.
Living under one sky,
I read that the oats were done for...
How is it with bread in your Leningrad,
and how many rubles a pood?
Year after year
they sent me letters
about potatoes,
about oats,
about golden pork fat —
all those letters were like one.
Living under one sky,
I read that in such a land
until the new bread
we have bread,
and pork,
and milk,
that the pantry is packed full...
How do they live in your Leningrad?
Of course, we fellow villagers
are all called well-off.
Our business now is simple —
a harvest is expected,
come visit and drink
thick milk, be sure to come...
And I rejoiced with them,
surveyed the golden expanse,
and one enormous name
I have repeated ever since.
Reproach me for my flaw,
year by year
we grow bolder,
we are all proud,
we peasants,
children of village teachers.
"In Our Volost"
A return from Leningrad to a Zavolzhye volost: the winter road, Mother's pelmeni, evening gatherings.[5]
At night it is quiet in our volost,
The fields know no voices here,
And across the blue crust of snow a she-wolf
Runs off into the gray-haired forests.
Over fields, over forests, over swamps
We will ride to my native village.
It smells of cold, hay, and sweat,
My sheepskin traveling coat.
Soon horses, lathered and foaming,
Old house, will bring me to you.
Our mother will prepare pelmeni
And weep a little, out of love.
My head has turned gray from the winter,
My young head.
But from the rowdy evening gatherings, hurrying,
The lads come carousing into the entryway.
Here is joy on the threshold again —
The accordion has trills and ringing;
Pleasantly it burns after the road,
The bitterish first-run moonshine.
Only Mother will look on, distressed,
And make the sign of the cross over me at the door.
I will go to look at the girls
And leave with one of them as soon as I can.
Blue...
And from edge to edge
The moon wanders along the roads...
Oh, my dear volost,
And a cup of wine for the road!..
"Song of the Counterplan" (1932)
Written together with Dmitry Shostakovich for the film "Counterplan."[1] After the poet's arrest the song continued to be performed, but the name of one of its authors was removed,[2] and at an evening event in Semyonov in the autumn of 1960, an audience that knew the song by heart could not say who had written the words.[4]
The morning greets us with coolness,
The river greets us with wind.
Curly-haired girl, why aren't you glad
At the merry song of the whistle?
Don't sleep, get up, curly-haired girl!
Ringing through the workshops,
The country rises in glory
To meet the day.
And joy sings on, unending,
And a song comes out to meet us,
And people laugh as they greet us,
And the oncoming sun is rising —
Fiery and bold,
It lifts my spirits.
The country rises in glory
To meet the day.
Our brigade will greet us with work,
And you will smile at your friends,
With whom labor and care,
And the counterplan, and life are shared in half.
Beyond the Narva Gate,
In thunder, in lights,
The country rises in glory
To meet the day.
And with her, to the victorious edge,
You, our youth, will march,
Until a second generation of young people
Comes out to meet you.
And into life they'll run in a throng,
Replacing their fathers.
The country rises in glory
To meet the day.
… And joy simply cannot be hidden
When the drummers beat:
The Octobrists march behind us,
Singing their songs with burring Rs.
Brave and burr-voiced,
They march on, ringing.
The country rises in glory
To meet the day!
Links
- Official website (culture.ru)
Sources
- lavkapisateley.spb.ru — Writers of Saint Petersburg. The 20th Century — A. Pavlovsky. Kornilov, Boris Petrovich
- cbs-semenov.ru — B. P. Kornilov Central Library, Semyonov — In Memory of B. P. Kornilov (archive)
- ngounb.ru — Literary Map of Nizhny Novgorod Region (Lenin Nizhny Novgorod State Regional Universal Scientific Library) — Kornilov, Boris Petrovich (1907—1938)
- opentextnn.ru — Open Text — A. M. Tsirulnikov. The Return of Boris Kornilov. Memorial Notes of the Society of Old Nizhny Novgorod Residents, Volume 39
- az.lib.ru — Kornilov, Boris Petrovich. Poems
- rustih.ru — RuStikh — Boris Kornilov: Poems