Voices from Russia

Saturday, 5 March 2016

5 March 2016. A Blast From the Past… Black Russians… NOT an Oxymoron!

01d Black Russians Lyukman Rasakovich Adams

Lyukman Rasakovich Adams (1988- ), European Champion triple jumper, Russian Army officer, Master of Sport International Class

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One of the Cabinet asked me about “black Russians”… I’ve posted on them in the past. Read this on black Russians and this on the famous poet James Lloydovich Patterson. Remember this… Russia has a “one drop” rule… one drop of Russian blood makes you Russian… if you shed one drop of your blood for Russia, you’re Russian… if you join your life to ours, you’re Russian… full stop.

For instance, there were 16 American agronomists who revolutionised the cotton industry in Central Asia in the 1930s… why didn’t they work in America? It’s because they had black skin… the USSR welcomed them as competent experts and equal men, unlike the USA of its day. Negro intellectuals became Communists for the very same reason… the Soviets treated them like normal human beings. Paul Robeson found this out, too… which led to his persecution by the McCarthyite scum (do note that William F Buckley was a DEFENDER of that scumbag and his evil doings).

If you support Donald Trump, you support the kind of racism that led black people to embrace the Soviet Ideal. If you support Chilly Hilly, you support the same thing (with the difference that she showers favours on the black pols who pander to her and deliver black votes). If you want to embrace the vision of an America that’s fair to all people of all races, all creeds, and all national origins, you’ll “feel the Bern”… he’s the closest to the Soviet Ideal, in a good way.

Socialism is good… don’t listen to the naysayers… they’re either paid by the greedsters or are greedsters themselves… that is, they “have dogs in this fight”. Have a care… the times are evil…

BMD

Saturday, 7 June 2014

Pushkin’s Spiritual Dialogue with Metropolitan St Filaret Drozdov of Moscow: A Birthday Meditation

00 Poetic Dialouge of A S Pushkin and St Filaret Drozdov of Moscow. 07.06.14

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Editor:

Every so often, I do my best to translate poetry. It reminds me that it’s MUCH harder than doing straight prose. I’ve done my best to render the spirit of the poetry below. Excuse any infelicities, please…

BMD

******

Pushkin:

Дар напрасный, дар случайный,
Жизнь, зачем ты мне дана?
Иль зачем судьбою тайной
Ты на казнь осуждена?

Кто меня враждебной властью
Из ничтожества воззвал,
Душу мне наполнил страстью,
Ум сомненьем взволновал?

Цели нет передо мною:
Сердце пусто, празден ум,
И томит меня тоскою
Однозвучный жизни шум.

******

A chance gift, a vain gift,
Life… why art thou given me?
Why did mysterious fate
Condemn me to this penalty?

What pitiless power called me
From profound nothingness?
What filled my soul with longing,
Upsetting me with doubt?

For me, there’s no point:
With empty heart, with idle mind;
With weary melancholy
From life’s monotonous noise.

1828

******

Philaret:

Не напрасно, не случайно
Жизнь от Бога нам дана,
Не без воли Бога тайной
И на казнь осуждена.

Сам я своенравной властью
Зло из темных бездн воззвал,
Сам наполнил душу страстью,
Ум сомненьем взволновал.

Вспомнись мне, забвенный мною!
Просияй сквозь сумрак дум,
И созиждется Тобою
Сердце чисто, светел ум.

******

Not in vain, not by accident,
Did God give me life;
Nor will I be condemned to death
Without God’s mysterious Will.

I myself through wilful power
Called evil from its dark abyss,
Filling my soul with passion,
Troubling my mind with doubt.

I should remember what I’d forgot!
Pierce through my gloomy dark thoughts,
So that Thou canst give me
A mind that’s clear and a heart that’s pure.

******

Pushkin:

В часы забав иль праздной скуки,
Бывало, лире я моей
Вверял изнеженные звуки
Безумства, лени и страстей.

Но и тогда струны лукавой
Невольно звон я прерывал,
Когда твой голос величавый
Меня внезапно поражал.

Я лил потоки слез нежданных,
И ранам совести моей
Твоих речей благоуханных
Отраден чистый был елей.

И ныне с высоты духовной
Мне руку простираешь ты,
И силой кроткой и любовной
Смиряешь буйные мечты.

Твоим огнем душа согрета
Отвергла мрак земных сует,
И внемлет арфе Филарета
В священном ужасе поэт.

******

In hours of amusement or idle boredom,
Once upon a time, I used to strum
Upon my lyre the soft sounds
Of foolishness, indolence, and passion.

Then, without volition, the crafty strings
Stopped me in my tracks
When your majestic voice
Suddenly struck me.

I poured forth streams of unwilled tears,
It struck my conscience to the quick.
The balsam of your fragrant words
Was as welcome as the resin’s savour.

Now from a spiritual height
You hold out your hand to me
With meek and loving strength
To still my restless dreams.

Your soul’s fire warms my soul,
Rejecting gloomy earthly vanities,
The poet listens to Filaret’s harp
In a state of holy awe.

1830

Friday, 6 June 2014

6 June 2014. Hey, Hey, Hey, It’s Pushkin’s Birthday! 215 Years Ago Today!

vasili-tropinin-portrait-of-aleksandr-pushkin-1827

A Portrait of Aleksandr Pushkin

Vasili Tropinin

1827

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Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin… what can one say? He’s the father of the Modern Russian Literary language… he was the pioneer, the trailblazer. What more can one say? He’s THE towering figure in Russian poetry, and few match him in Russian literature. His matrilineal great-grandfather, Abram Gannibal, came to Russia as a slave from Africa, but rose to be an aristocrat. That means that he had African blood in his veins… what’s wrong with that? According to the American “one drop” rule, that made him a “nigger”… according to our Russian “one drop” rule, it made him one of us, and honoured at that. I seem to notice a difference (and Anglo Americans look down their noses at us and call us “inferiors”, fancy that). However, A S Pushkin was a poet… let’s have some poetry…

BMD

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Awakening

O dreams, O dreams,
Where are your delights?
Oh, where are you,
The joys of night?
The joyous dream
Is vanished,
And in a deep darkness
I woke up
Alone.
The deathly-still night
Surrounds my bed.
The dreams of love
Grew cold in a moment,
And flew away
As a flock of birds.
But my soul
Is still full of desires,
And catches
The memories of a dream.
O love, O love,
Listen to my prayers,
Send me again
Yours sweet visions,
And in the morning
Let me die
In ecstasy
With no awakening.

1816

******

The Prophet

I dragged my flesh through desert gloom,
Tormented by the spirit’s yearning,
And saw a six-winged Seraph loom
Upon the footpath’s barren turning.
And as a dream in slumber lies
So light his finger on my eyes,—
My wizard eyes grew wide and wary:
An eagle’s, startled from her eyrie.
He touched my ears, and lo! a sea
Of storming voices burst on me.
I heard the whirling heavens’ tremor,
The angels’ flight and soaring sweep,
The sea-snakes coiling in the deep,
The sap the vine’s green tendrils carry.
And to my lips the Seraph clung
And tore from me my sinful tongue,
My cunning tongue and idle-worded;
The subtle serpent’s sting he set
Between my lips—his hand was wet,
His bloody hand my mouth begirded.
And with a sword he cleft my breast
And took the heart with terror turning,
And in my gaping bosom pressed
A coal that throbbed there, black and burning.
Upon the wastes, a lifeless clod,
I lay, and heard the voice of God:

“Arise, oh prophet, watch and hearken,
And with my Will thy soul engird,
Through lands that dim and seas that darken,
Burn thou men’s hearts with this, my Word”.

1826

******

Remembrance

When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The insubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day’s labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.

1828

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Thursday, 13 June 2013

Jim Patterson: Black Soviet Icon’s Lonely American Sojourn

00a James Patterson. Vera Aralova. 13.06

James Lloydovich Patterson speaking with his mother, artist Vera Aralova, in 1975.

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For decades, Jim Patterson was arguably the most famous black man in the USSR, a debonair home-grown poet whose childhood role in an iconic film cemented his celebrity and who later roamed the vast country reading his work to adoring audiences. These days, Patterson, whose African-American father migrated to the USSR in 1932, is convalescing in a threadbare subsidised apartment in downtown Washington, where he has led a reclusive life plagued by illness and depression since his Russian mother died more than a decade ago.

Patterson, who arrived in America with his mother in the mid-1990s amidst the economic turmoil in Russia following the Soviet collapse, told RIA-Novosti in recent interviews, “I never wanted to leave forever. I came here because it’s my father’s homeland. It wasn’t meant to be one of those cases where a person leaves for good”. Patterson, frail from the effects of a blood infection that left him hospitalised for more than a year, remains largely bed-ridden though his legs are strong enough to withstand a few cautious steps. He’s under the care of a Cameroonian nurse who administers his medicine and prepares his meals, including his beloved blini, or traditional Russian pancakes, which he eats with an occasional dollop of sour cream despite doctors’ orders. Patterson said, “I always say that I can’t get better without sour cream”, who speaks halting English and who spoke his native Russian in the interviews.

The sound of jackhammers from a construction site across the street blaring through the open windows on his fourth-floor apartment occasionally overwhelmed the faint timbre of Patterson’s voice, and his conversation is occasionally interrupted by a deep hoarse cough. However, delving into his days in the world of the Soviet intelligentsia has an obvious invigorating effect on him. He peppers his conversation with laughter, mischievous smiles, and bursts of gesticulation with his bony hands, revealing a man clearly accustomed to performing before an audience. The unruly mane of his younger years has yielded to a tighter silver coiffure, and although he occasionally struggles with dates, his mind remains sharp.

Patterson, who published several books of poetry during Soviet times and was a member of the Soviet Writers Union, dropped off the radar after his mother died in 2001, friends and loved ones say. Until recently, he only maintained contact only with his brother in Moscow, relatives from his father’s side of the family in the USA, and a handful of friends. Patterson’s ex-wife, Irina, said that until recently she believed that he was dead after Russian journalists told her several years ago that he’d drunk himself to death in Washington. In reality, Patterson told RIA-Novosti that he’d severed ties to his previous life as he dealt with the death of his mother, Soviet artist and designer Vera Aralova, although he continued to write poetry in both Russian and English whilst contemplating what to do with her paintings, saying, “I just had no interest in talking to anyone. That was my state of mind. I turned completely inward, and that’s probably why I got sick. I wasn’t eating anything. I didn’t go anywhere”.

Several paintings by Patterson’s mother adorn the walls of his apartment. Dozens of others are stacked against the wall. Sheets of paper covered with scribblings are strewn about his desk, obscuring English dictionaries and books by Russian poets like Andrei Voznesensky and Yevgeni Yevtushenko… as well as his own books. Hanging on the door handle is a small flag stencilled with the visage of another Russian poet with African ancestry, albeit one with more name recognition… Aleksandr Pushkin. Patterson said, “I wouldn’t be who I am without him”.

******

00b James Patterson. Nakhimov School. 13.06

Patterson (centre), with fellow cadets at the Nakhimov Naval School in Riga in 1949.

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Circus Star

James Lloydovich Patterson’s story began in 1932, when his father, Lloyd Patterson, travelled to the USSR along with several other black Americans, including poet Langston Hughes, in order to shoot a propaganda film called Black and White that was intended to highlight the evils of racism in the USA. The film was never produced, but Lloyd Patterson decided not to return to America, and went on to marry Aralova, a gregarious theatre designer and painter who also went on to design women’s footwear that made waves from Warsaw to Paris. The couple’s first son, Jim, was born in 1933, and three years later, the boy was known across the USSR for his role in one of the most famous scenes in the history of Soviet cinema.

Circus, a musical comedy and melodrama about a white American circus performer and her illegitimate black son who find racial harmony and acceptance in the USSR, became an immediate smash hit when it was released in 1936. Jim Patterson was cast as the illegitimate son, who was passed around by audience members representing the USSR’s numerous nationalities as they serenaded him in the final scene of the movie, in their respective native languages, with one of the country’s most famous ballads, Song of the Motherland. Anna Katsnelson, an expert on Soviet cinema at Princeton University, said that Soviet leader Iosif Stalin adored the film and it became “a touchstone moment in the Soviet cultural psyche. The film was a monster hit known by all”.

Katsnelson pointed up that Patterson’s mother was played by the star of the film, Stalin favourite Lyubov Orlova, whose celebrity in the USSR was comparable to that of Marlene Dietrich and Mary Pickford in Hollywood. Orlova was married to the film’s director, Grigori Aleksandrov, and the couple remained close to the Pattersons for the rest of their lives. Jim Patterson and his mother were regular guests at the couple’s dacha in the Vnukovo Raion in western Moscow, where Patterson said his family rented a nearby dacha. Orlova, who had no children of her own, would often call Jim Patterson her son, and several times during his RIA-Novosti interviews, Patterson referred to the actress as his “movie mom”. Patterson’s star turn as a toddler would follow him his entire life, and his fond memories of his life in Russia remain inextricably linked to Circus. He said, “I love Russia very much. People were always very kind to me there. Maybe, it was because of this film, but nonetheless it was nice”.

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00c James Patterson. Guinea-Bissau poet. 13.06

Patterson (right) speaking with a poet from Guinea-Bissau in Moscow in 1984.

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“Stalin Pointed at Me”

In the years between the release of Circus and the beginning of World War II, Patterson lived with his family in an apartment building populated by foreigners in central Moscow, some of whom disappeared during the years of repression. After Nazi Germany attacked the USSR in 1941, Patterson was relocated to Siberia along with his mother and two younger brothers, whilst his father continued to work as an English-language radio announcer in Moscow as German bombs fell on the Soviet capital. Lloyd Patterson suffered a contusion that same year after a bomb was dropped in Central Moscow. Jim Patterson noticed a change in his father when he visited his family in the city of Sverdlovsk, where the family was living after their evacuation from Moscow, saying, “When he came and visited, he was experiencing some light-headedness. I understand now what he felt like. It’s kind of the way I feel right now”. Lloyd Patterson relocated to Komsomolsk-on-Amur in the Russian Far East where he continued to work as a translator and radio announcer. He lost consciousness while at work in 1942 and subsequently died in a military hospital at the age of 32, according to the official account of his death.

After the war, Jim Patterson enrolled at the Nakhimov Naval School in Riga and went on to become a Soviet naval officer serving on a submarine in the Black Sea. As a sailor with a highly unusual biography and skin tone for the Soviet Navy, his naval service didn’t go unnoticed at the highest levels of the Soviet government. During a Victory Day parade just a few years before Stalin’s death, Patterson marched passed the Lenin Mausoleum on Red Square with his fellow Nakhimov cadets and caught the eye of the Soviet leader. Patterson recalled, “Stalin saw me, recognised me, and pointed at me with his finger… He knew me from the film”.

About a decade later, Patterson was the subject of a secret letter sent by a Soviet Navy admiral directly to Stalin’s successor, Nikita Khrushchyov. Citing the novelty of a black Soviet naval officer like Patterson… “A submariner, no less!” …the admiral proposed recruiting hundreds of other black men with relatives in the American South to train them to serve on Soviet ships as a propaganda weapon contrasting Soviet inclusiveness with the endemic racism in the USA. Admiral Ivan Isakov wrote in a 1959 letter to Khrushchyov, “Their letters to relatives and the global media will do all of the rest”. By the time the letter was sent to the Kremlin, Patterson had already demobilised and was pursuing a career as a poet, a dream he began cultivating whilst studying in Riga. Patterson told RIA-Novosti that there were discussions among Soviet military and cultural officials about how best to utilise his talents and interests. Patterson recollected, “One group said, ‘We want to make him an admiral’, but the writers said, ‘No, he’s closer to us. You can make an admiral out of anyone’”.

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00d James Patterson. Washington DC. 13.06

Patterson sitting in his Washington apartment with his mother’s paintings on the wall.

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A Poet’s Life

After his demobilisation from the Soviet Navy, Patterson embarked on a literary career under the tutelage of the highly respected Soviet poet Mikhail Svetlov, who helped him enrol in the Maksim Gorky Literature Institute and, ultimately, backed his membership in the Soviet Writers Union in 1967. The themes of Patterson’s early work included his literary hero, Pushkin, as well as Africa, where he says he travelled as a tourist when he was a “nobody” in the literary world. He told RIA-Novosti that he still winces when he contemplates the quality of his early work, which he said mimicked Pushkin’s rhythmic patterns, saying, “I look back with horror at my early poems”.

After joining the Soviet Writers Union, Patterson crisscrossed the country to read his poems before audiences, who greeted him warmly, and constantly asked him to talk about his role in Circus. Patterson remembered, “All around the country they knew me as the boy who played in that film. That really helped me at that stage in my career”. However, after a while, the questions about the film grew wearisome. He noted, “Of course, people meant well, but at that time, as a man of letters, I really wanted to read my poems”.

Patterson’s poetry garnered positive reviews from Svetlov and other prominent Soviet poets, although his stature at home and abroad paled in comparison to many of the country’s poets at the time, both those who were embraced by the Soviet government and those who eventually landed in exile, such as Joseph Brodsky. Mark Lipovetsky, a literary critic and a professor of Russian studies at the University of Colorado at Boulder, told RIA-Novosti that while he isn’t familiar with the bulk of Patterson’s work, his oeuvre includes poems that “gravitate to the liberal wing of the post-Stalin poetry” and are clearly influenced by Soviet poet Yaroslav Smelyakov and renowned bard Bulat Okudzhava. Lipovetsky said that examples of Patterson’s poetry that he’s read don’t question the “Soviet mythology of the great past” in the way that “the best poets of his generation did”. Patterson travelled throughout the USSR performing his work until the late 1980s, and published his last collection of poems, Night Dragonflies, in 1993, a little more than a year after the only country he had ever lived in collapsed.

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00e James Patterson. Moscow. 13.06

Patterson signing autographs at a Moscow literary party in 1975.

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Trials Abroad

Like many of their fellow compatriots, the dissolution of the USSR and the ensuing economic free-for-all hit Patterson and his family hard. The family still had their apartment in western Moscow and a dacha north of the city, although there was not much market demand for the poet’s work. Patterson’s mother, Vera Aralova, was already in her 80s, and he says that he made the decision to move her to the USA after visiting the country for the first time in 1989 as part of a Soviet delegation of artists and journalists with African-American heritage. In late 1994, the poet and his mother moved to Washington, bringing with them several of Aralova’s paintings. Patterson married only once, in the late 1980s, but was divorced from his wife, Irina Tolokonnikova, when he made the move.

Tolokonnikova told RIA-Novosti by telephone that she and her ex-husband exchanged a few e-mails after he left Russia, but that she never heard from him after 1996. Tolokonnikova and friends of the Pattersons in America said that Aralova never approved of the couple’s relationship, a familial dispute that was aired on Russian television last month. Tolokonnikova told RIA-Novosti that until they spoke via video linkup on the talk show, she didn’t know that Patterson was alive. After arriving in the USA, Patterson and his mother sold her paintings at exhibits in the Washington area and elsewhere on the US east coast over the next several years, earning just enough… together with Social Security checks… to keep their heads above water. They were in touch with his father’s relatives and moved in the Soviet émigré community in the area as well.

Despite the lean years and his isolation after his mother’s death, Patterson told RIA-Novosti that he doesn’t regret the move. It was the least he could do for his mother, he added, saying, “I was very happy that I found the opportunity to do something for my mother in the final years of her life”, adding that he worked relentlessly writing poetry in English and Russian during his years of seclusion. Patterson’s friends say they only learned years later that Aralova had died in 2001. They say that Patterson simply disappeared. Anna Toporovsky, a Baltimore-based radio journalist who befriended the family after they arrived in Washington, told RIA-Novosti, “Jim didn’t call anyone”. Patterson’s brother, Tom, took his mother’s remains back to Moscow, where she was interned in the Armenian Cemetery next to her third son, Lloyd Jr, who perished in a car accident in 1960.

Talk of this period has a visible deflating effect on Patterson, although he doesn’t shy from the subject. He said, “I didn’t think that I needed to contact anyone else. That’s what was difficult. I depended on myself and only on the help of my brother”. Patterson said that he essentially stopped eating and ignored his health completely. In early 2011, he collapsed whilst working at his desk, saying, “I felt the life going out of me”. Fortunately, Patterson said, at that very moment a local social worker knocked on his door and called an ambulance. He spent around 18 months in hospital before recuperating enough in 2012 to move back to the low-income apartment building where he now resides under in-home care.

Patterson, who turns 80 next month, said that he still writes every day, including poems in “American slang” which he hopes to publish sometime soon. He declined to show the poems to a reporter, saying that, as a professional poet, he couldn’t stomach giving them to someone in such rough form. Tom Patterson, a retired television operator, told RIA-Novosti by telephone from his dacha outside Moscow that he plans to travel to Washington later this year to visit his brother and return their mother’s paintings to Russia. It’s a task that both brothers feel passionate about. Jim Patterson said that he and his mother never sold the originals they brought over from Russia… only copies that Aralova made stateside. He observed, “I saved the originals, and, now, I see I was absolutely right.”

11 June 2013

Carl Schreck

RIA-Novosti

http://en.ria.ru/analysis/20130611/181603045/Jim-Patterson-Black-Soviet-Icons-Lonely-American-Sojourn.html

Editor’s Note:

I think that Russia’s getting ready to bring James Lloydovich home. He’ll be treated much better in the Rodina than in the USA, that’s for certain. The Amerikantsy suburbanites are money-worshipping greedy slobs… that’s all that there’s to say on the matter. In Russia, James Lloydovich will not only live on a higher material level, he’ll be given more respect and honour, as a valued intelligents. It speaks much of the current American non-culture (especially, the putrid amoral self-centred ethos present in the American Right), doesn’t it? Excuse me, whilst I hurl in disgust…

BMD 

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