Marin Sorescu spoke to Andrei Voznesensky in Morelia, Mexico, in August 1981.
|

There is a sour, unpalatable wine one drinks out of half-drunk bottles sometimes, that seems to sap the life right out of him and which the judges call "investigation wine". Meaning: "Drink it or come clean."
I am on the terrace of the Montana hotel in Morelia with two poet friends: Andrei Voznesensky, who is on a short break from a film shoot, and W. S. Merwin, presently busy taking pictures of his young wife. It's nine o'clock in the morning. I've only just had my tea—and I could do with some investigation wine—because I'd like to quickly interrogate both of them. We don’t have a lot of time at our disposal so I ask Merwin to sit tight and wait his turn.
Andrei Voznesensky was born in Moscow in 1933. A poet of remarkable originality, much adored by the public, his readings have been known to fill huge stadiums in his country. Some of his works include Mosaic (1960), Parabola (1961), The Triangular Pear (1962), Antiworlds (1964), and Violoncello Oakleaf (1975).
I am on the terrace of the Montana hotel in Morelia with two poet friends: Andrei Voznesensky, who is on a short break from a film shoot, and W. S. Merwin, presently busy taking pictures of his young wife. It's nine o'clock in the morning. I've only just had my tea—and I could do with some investigation wine—because I'd like to quickly interrogate both of them. We don’t have a lot of time at our disposal so I ask Merwin to sit tight and wait his turn.
Andrei Voznesensky was born in Moscow in 1933. A poet of remarkable originality, much adored by the public, his readings have been known to fill huge stadiums in his country. Some of his works include Mosaic (1960), Parabola (1961), The Triangular Pear (1962), Antiworlds (1964), and Violoncello Oakleaf (1975).
Marin Sorescu: Andrei, I know what you’ve written, I was, I believe, the first to translate you into Romanian, many years ago—I also had the opportunity to hear you read your poems. On the other hand, you also know very well what you’ve written. You know your poems by heart, a rare thing for poets nowadays. So we won't get lost in bibliographical details. I’d like you to give me a description of your poetry, a brief one, like a flash. What do you think about your work and, in general, about yourself as a poet?
Andrei Voznesensky: First and foremost I want to tell you I don't understand anything from my poetry. Because when I write, I tend to improvise. More precisely, I write on impulse. And sometimes I wonder how I was even able to come up with it. I think—hope—my poetry is more intelligent, more full of spirit, wiser than I am. The reason behind it may be that one writes at the moment of great internalization. This space is much more powerful than the whole logical sphere, magic, telepathy, and all that. Maybe in the future people will discover what kind of magnetic field I was in when I wrote. This energy is much stronger than me. Maybe I am connected to my own culture’s energy system.
MS: That's exactly what I thought listening to you recite your poems on stage last night. You’re like a potent loudspeaker, connected to high voltage, to the highest voltage.
AV: I tap into a certain tension when I read my poems in public.
MS: I saw it. You go into something like a trance on stage. You have a particular way of reciting. I think the intimate structure of your poetry can be studied in relation to this specific way you read it. This is where the music of your verse comes in. The poem The Bells of Moscow, for example, may provide a key to understanding you.
I’d like to say, as a parenthesis, that Andrei Voznesensky is one of the most formidable poetry reciters I have ever heard. Stepping onto the stage he enters as if into a magic circle, he is transfigured, his voice transforms, the expression on his face changes. He chooses a specific position, at the front of the stage, his legs wide apart so that he can support himself as firmly as possible, so as not to be carried away by his own voice, which sometimes seems to take on wings. He keeps his hands in his pockets. I studied all his movements closely because once, in Rotterdam, I had to read immediately after him, and I must say I was filled with envy. His style caters to large masses of listeners, whole stadiums of poetry fans. That's how Mayakovsky, too, recited his poems made of shocking asymmetries.
Andrei Voznesensky: First and foremost I want to tell you I don't understand anything from my poetry. Because when I write, I tend to improvise. More precisely, I write on impulse. And sometimes I wonder how I was even able to come up with it. I think—hope—my poetry is more intelligent, more full of spirit, wiser than I am. The reason behind it may be that one writes at the moment of great internalization. This space is much more powerful than the whole logical sphere, magic, telepathy, and all that. Maybe in the future people will discover what kind of magnetic field I was in when I wrote. This energy is much stronger than me. Maybe I am connected to my own culture’s energy system.
MS: That's exactly what I thought listening to you recite your poems on stage last night. You’re like a potent loudspeaker, connected to high voltage, to the highest voltage.
AV: I tap into a certain tension when I read my poems in public.
MS: I saw it. You go into something like a trance on stage. You have a particular way of reciting. I think the intimate structure of your poetry can be studied in relation to this specific way you read it. This is where the music of your verse comes in. The poem The Bells of Moscow, for example, may provide a key to understanding you.
I’d like to say, as a parenthesis, that Andrei Voznesensky is one of the most formidable poetry reciters I have ever heard. Stepping onto the stage he enters as if into a magic circle, he is transfigured, his voice transforms, the expression on his face changes. He chooses a specific position, at the front of the stage, his legs wide apart so that he can support himself as firmly as possible, so as not to be carried away by his own voice, which sometimes seems to take on wings. He keeps his hands in his pockets. I studied all his movements closely because once, in Rotterdam, I had to read immediately after him, and I must say I was filled with envy. His style caters to large masses of listeners, whole stadiums of poetry fans. That's how Mayakovsky, too, recited his poems made of shocking asymmetries.
AV: Perhaps my inspiration is related to a genetic energy, transmitted through genes by my parents. A legacy. Or perhaps it belongs to a generation of the future. Yes, I'm sure poetic talent is genetic, and it comes not only from the family but from the entire community one belongs to. Here is a circle. (He draws a circle for me, from which rays emanate.) The poet is the middle point.
MS: So you believe in the representative power of poetry. Let’s say the poet is—not the chosen one, as the term is dated—but a man... what should I call him? Archetypal, a sensibility predestined to be emblematic of a people?
AV: The strength of poetry lies in the fact that it contains, condensed, the very spirituality of a people. We are talking about great poets, of course. That’s why all nations protect their lyrical voices.
MS: What are you writing now?
AV: Here?
MS: No, in general.
AV: I am working on a volume of poems, called... no, I won't tell you the title, but in which I’ll include, along with the poems, prose about my childhood and about my meetings with Pasternak. The prose is called My 40 Years. A lot of poems will also feature in the book.
MS: We’ve known each other a long time...
AV: Since we were young.
MS: We’re growing old. Let's take a picture together to immortalize the moment. Your poetry is difficult to translate. Did you know that?
AV: Yes. It is difficult, but not impossible. There are great, classic poets, who in translation amount to a kind of prose. But modern poetry can be translated by equivalences. I hope that’s the case with mine.
MS: Indeed.
AV: Paradoxes and metaphors equivalent to my own, specific to the respective language, can be found.
MS: Agreed, on the condition that translators are gifted and truly dedicate themselves to this delicate type of work. I too believe poetry should be translated. Today we can no longer confine ourselves to the boundaries of a language, because that would mean abdicating one of the fundamental purposes of poetry: to carry forward something from a people’s most intimate spirituality, which, as you said, poetry represents so emblematically. Hoping we’ll get another opportunity to discuss your work at some point—I don't consider our interview over just yet. Thank you.
MS: So you believe in the representative power of poetry. Let’s say the poet is—not the chosen one, as the term is dated—but a man... what should I call him? Archetypal, a sensibility predestined to be emblematic of a people?
AV: The strength of poetry lies in the fact that it contains, condensed, the very spirituality of a people. We are talking about great poets, of course. That’s why all nations protect their lyrical voices.
MS: What are you writing now?
AV: Here?
MS: No, in general.
AV: I am working on a volume of poems, called... no, I won't tell you the title, but in which I’ll include, along with the poems, prose about my childhood and about my meetings with Pasternak. The prose is called My 40 Years. A lot of poems will also feature in the book.
MS: We’ve known each other a long time...
AV: Since we were young.
MS: We’re growing old. Let's take a picture together to immortalize the moment. Your poetry is difficult to translate. Did you know that?
AV: Yes. It is difficult, but not impossible. There are great, classic poets, who in translation amount to a kind of prose. But modern poetry can be translated by equivalences. I hope that’s the case with mine.
MS: Indeed.
AV: Paradoxes and metaphors equivalent to my own, specific to the respective language, can be found.
MS: Agreed, on the condition that translators are gifted and truly dedicate themselves to this delicate type of work. I too believe poetry should be translated. Today we can no longer confine ourselves to the boundaries of a language, because that would mean abdicating one of the fundamental purposes of poetry: to carry forward something from a people’s most intimate spirituality, which, as you said, poetry represents so emblematically. Hoping we’ll get another opportunity to discuss your work at some point—I don't consider our interview over just yet. Thank you.
Interview available for the first time in English (translation © Daniel Carden Nemo) by kind permission of the Marin Sorescu Foundation. Original text first published in Tratat de Inspirație by Marin Sorescu (Scrisul Românesc, 1985).
|
Daniel Carden Nemo is a poet, translator, and photographer. His work has appeared in Magma Poetry, RHINO, Full Stop, Off the Coast, and elsewhere.
|