Воззвание председателей земного шара (Manifesto of the Presidents of the Terrestrial Globe) by Velimir Khlebnikov

Only we, blasting your three years of war
Through one swirl of the terrible trumpet,
Sing and shout, sing and shout,
Drunk with the charm of the truth
That the Government of the Terrestrial Globe
Has come into existence:
It is We.
Only we have fixed to our foreheads
The wild laurels of the Rulers of the Terrestrial Globe.
Implacable in our sunburned cruelty,
Mounting the slab of the right of seizure,
Raising high the standard of time,
We fire the moist clays of mankind
Into jugs and pitchers of time,
We initiate the hunt for people’s souls,
We howl through the gray sea horns,
We call home the human flocks –
Ego-e! Who’s with us?
Who’s our comrade and friend?
Ego-e! Who’s behind us?
Thus we dance, the shepards of people
And mankind, playing on the bagpipes.
Evo-e! Who else?
Evo-e! Who next?
Only we, mounting the slab
Of ourselves and our names,
Amid the sea of your malicious pupils
Intersected by the hunger of the gallows
And distorted by the horror of imminent death,
Intend by the surf of the human howl
To name and acclaim ourselves henceforth
The Presidents of the Terrestrial Globe.
What snots, some will say.
No, they’re saints, others will object.
But we shall smile like gods
And point a finger at the Sun.
Drag it about on a string for dogs,
Hang it up on the words:
Equality, fraternity, freedom.
Judge it by your jury of jugglers
On the charge that once,
On the threshold of a very smileful spring,
It instilled in us these beautiful thoughts,
These words, and gave us
These angry stares.
It is the guilty one.
For we enact the solar whisper
When we crash through to you as
The plenipotentiaries-in-chief of its ordinances,
Its strict mandates.
Corpulent crowds of humanity
Will trail along the tracks
Which we have left behind,
London, Paris and Chicago
In their appreciation
Will change their names to ours.
But we shall forgive them their folly.
This is the distant future,
But meanwhile, mothers,
Bear away you children
Should a state appear anywhere.
Youngsters, hustle away and hide in caves
And in the depth of the sea,
Should you see a state anywhere.
Girls and those who can’t stand the smell of the dead
Fall in a swoon at the very word “borders”:
They smell of corpses.
For every chopping block
Was once a good pine tree,
A curly pine.
The block is only bad because
It’s used to chop off people’s heads.
Such is the state and its government.
You are a very nice word from a dream –
There are ten sounds in it:
Much comfort and freshness.
You grew up in a forest of words:
Ashtray, match, cigarette butt.
An equal among equals:
But why do you, state, feed on people?
Why has the fatherland become a cannibal
And the motherland his wife?
Hey! Listen! In the name of all mankind
We offer to negotiate
With the states of the past:
If you, O states, are splendid,
As you love to say of yourselves
And you force your servants
To say of you,
Then why this food of the gods?
Why do we people crunch in your maws
Between your incisors and molars?
Listen, states of space,
For three years already
You have pretended
That mankind is only a pastry,
A cookie melting in your mouth;
But what if the cookie jumps up like a razor and says:
Mommy!
What if we are sprinkled on it
Like poison?
Henceforth we order that the words “By the grace of God”
Be changed to “By the grace of Fiji.”
Is it decent for the Lord Terrestrial Globe
(Long may his will be done)
To encourage communal cannibalism
Within the confines of himself?
And is it not the height of servility
On the part of the people, those who are eaten,
To defend their supreme Eater?
Listen! Even pismires
Squirt formic acid on the tongues of bears.
If there should be an objection
That the state of space is not subject to judgement,
As a communal person in law,
May we not object that man himself
Is also a bimanous state
Of blood corpuscles and also communal.
If the states be truly bad,
Then who among us will lift a finger
To cut short their dreaming
Under the blanket: forever.
You are dissatisfied,
O states and their governments,
You chatter your teeth in advance warning
And cut capers. But so what!
We are the higher power
And can always answer
The revolt of states,
With the revolt of slaves,
With a pointed letter.
Standing on the deck of the word “suprastate of the star”
And needing no cane in this hour of rolling,
We ask which is higher:
We, by virtue of the right to revolt,
And incontestable in our primacy,
Protected by the law of patents
In declaring ourselves the Presidents of the Terrestrial Globe,
Or you governments
Of the separate countries of the past,
These workday remnants by the slaughterhouses
Of the two-legged oxen, with whose
Cadaverous moisture you are smeared?
As regards us, the leaders of mankind,
Which we constructed according to the rules of rays
With the aid of the equations of fate,
We reject the lords
Who name themselves rulers,
States and other book publishers
And commercial houses of War & Co.,
who have placed the mills of dear prosperity
Under the now three-year-old waterfall
Of your beer and our blood
With a defenselessly red wave.
We see the states falling on their sword
In despair that we have come.
With the motherland on your lips,
Fanning yourself with military regulations,
You have brazenly introduced war
Into the circle of the Brides of man.
But calm yourselves, you states of space,
And stop crying like girls.
As a private agreement between private persons,
Along with the societies for admirers of Dante,
The breeding of rabbits and the struggle against marmots,
You come under the umbrella of our publishing laws.
We shall not touch you.
Once a year you will assemble at an annual meeting
To make an inspection of the thinning forces
And observe the right of unions.
Remain a voluntary contract
Of private persons, needed by no one,
And important to no one.
As boring as the toothache
Of a seventeenth-century granny.
You compare to us
As a monkey’s hairy hand and foot
Signed by an unknown fire god,
Compares to the hand of the thinker
Who calmly directs the universe,
This rider of saddled fate.
Besides, we are founding
A society for the defense of states
Against rude and cruel forms of address
On the part of the communes of time.
Like switchmen
At the cross ties of Past and Future,
We regard with as much composure
The replacement of your states
By a scientifically constructed mankind
As the replacement of a bast boot
By the gleaming glow of a train.
Comrade workers! Don’t complain about us:
We, as architect workers,
Take a special path to the same goal.
We are a special weapon.
And so the battle gauntlet
Of three great words has been thrown down:
The Government of the Terrestrial Globe.
Intersected by a red flash of lightning,
The sky-blue banner of the firmament,
A banner of windy dawns, morning suns,
Is raised and flaps above the earth.
There you have it, my friends!
The Government of the Terrestrial Globe.

by Велимир Хлебников (Velimir Khlebnikov)
a.k.a. Виктор Владимирович Хлебников
(Viktor Vladimirovich Khlebnikov)
(1917)
translated by Gary Kern

Воззвание председателей земного шара

Только мы, свернув ваши три года войны
В один завиток грозной трубы,
Поем и кричим, поем и кричим,
Пьяные прелестью той истины,
Что Правительство земного шара
Уже существует.
Оно – Мы.
Только мы нацепили на свои лбы
Дикие венки Правителей земного шара,
Неумолимые в своей загорелой жестокости,
Встав на глыбу захватного права,
Подымая прапор времени,
Мы – обжигатели сырых глин человечества
В кувшины времени и балакири,
Мы – зачинатели охоты за душами людей,
Воем в седые морские рога,
Скликаем людские стада –
Эго-э! Кто с нами?
Кто нам товарищ и друг?
Эго-э! Кто за нами?
Так пляшем мы, пастухи людей и
Человечества, играя на волынке.
Эво-э! Кто больше?
Эво-э! Кто дальше?
Только мы, встав на глыбу
Себя и своих имен,
Хотим среди моря ваших злобных зрачков,
Пересеченных голодом виселиц
И искаженных предсмертным ужасом,
Около прибоя людского воя,
Назвать и впредь величать себя
Председателями земного шара.
Какие наглецы – скажут некоторые,
Нет, они святые, возразят другие.
Но мы улыбнемся, как боги,
И покажем рукою на Солнце.
Поволоките его на веревке для собак,
Повесьте его на словах:
Равенство, братство, свобода.
Судите его вашим судом судомоек
За то, что в преддверьях
Очень улыбчивой весны
Оно вложило в нас эти красивые мысли,
Эти слова и дало
Эти гневные взоры.
Виновник – Оно.
Ведь мы исполняем солнечный шепот,
Когда врываемся к вам, как
Главноуполномоченные его приказов,
Его строгих велений.
Жирные толпы человечества
Потянутся по нашим следам,
Где мы прошли.
Лондон, Париж и Чикаго
Из благодарности заменят свои
Имена нашими.
Но мы простим им их глупость.
Это дальнее будущее,
А пока, матери,
Уносите своих детей,
Если покажется где-нибудь государство.
Юноши, скачите и прячьтесь в пещеры
И в глубь моря,
Если увидите где-нибудь государство.
Девушки и те, кто не выносит запаха мертвых,
Падайте в обморок при слове «границы»:
Они пахнут трупами.
Ведь каждая плаха была когда-то
Хорошим сосновым деревом,
Кудрявой сосной.
Плаха плоха только тем,
Что на ней рубят головы людям.
Так, государство, и ты –
Очень хорошее слово со сна –
В нем есть 11 звуков,
Много удобства и свежести,
Ты росло в лесу слов:
Пепельница, спичка, окурок,
Равный меж равными.
Но зачем оно кормится людьми?
Зачем отечество стало людоедом,
А родина его женой?
Эй! Слушайте!
Вот мы от имени всего человечества
Обращаемся с переговорами
К государствам прошлого:
Если вы, о государства, прекрасны,
Как вы любите сами о себе рассказывать
И заставляете рассказывать о себе
Своих слуг,
То зачем эта пища богов?
Зачем мы, люди, трещим у вас на челюстях
Между клыками и коренными зубами?
Слушайте, государства пространств,
Ведь вот уже три года
Вы делали вид,
Что человечество –
только пирожное,
Сладкий сухарь, тающий у вас во рту;
А если сухарь запрыгает бритвой и скажет:
Мамочка!
Если его посыпать нами,
Как ядом?
Отныне мы приказываем заменить слова
«Милостью Божьей» –
«Милостью Фиджи».
Прилично ли Господину земному шару
(Да творится воля его)
Поощрять соборное людоедство
В пределах себя?
И не высоким ли холопством
Со стороны людей, как едомых,
Защищать своего верховного Едока?
Послушайте! Даже муравьи
Брызгают муравьиной кислотой на язык медведя.
Если же возразят,
Что государство пространств не подсудно,
Как правовое соборное лицо,
Не возразим ли мы, что и человек
Тоже двурукое государство
Шариков кровяных и тоже соборен.
Если же государства плохи,
То кто из нас ударит палец о палец,
Чтобы отсрочить их сон
Под одеялом: навеки?
Вы недовольны, о государства
И их правительства,
Вы предостерегающе щелкаете зубами
И делаете прыжки. Что ж!
Мы – высшая сила
И всегда сможем ответить
На мятеж государств,
Мятеж рабов,-
Метким письмом.
Стоя на палубе слова «надгосударство звезды»
И не нуждаясь в палке в час этой качки,
Мы спрашиваем, что выше:
Мы, в силу мятежного права,
И неоспоримые в своем первенстве,
Пользуясь охраной законов о изобретении
И объявившие себя Председателями земного шара,
Или вы, правительства
Отдельных стран прошлого,
Эти будничные остатки около боен
Двуногих быков,
Трупной влагой коих вы помазаны?
Что касается нас, вождей человечества,
Построенного нами по законам лучей
При помощи уравнений рока,
То мы отрицаем господ,
Именующих себя правителями,
Государствами и другими книгоиздательствами,
И торговыми домами «Война и К»,
Приставившими мельницы милого благополучия
К уже трехлетнему водопаду
Вашего пива и нашей крови
С беззащитно красной волной.
Мы видим государства, павшие на меч
С отчаяния, что мы пришли.
С родиной на устах,
Обмахиваясь веером военно-полевого устава,
Вами нагло выведена война
В круг Невест человека.
А вы, государства пространств, успокойтесь
И не плачьте, как девочки.
Как частное соглашение частных лиц,
Вместе с обществами поклонников Данте,
Разведения кроликов, борьбы с сусликами,
Вы войдете под сень изданных нами законов.
Мы вас не тронем.
Раз в году вы будете собираться на годичные собрания,
Делая смотр редеющим силам
И опираясь на право союзов.
Оставайтесь добровольным соглашением
Частных лиц, никому не нужным
И никому не важным,
Скучным, как зубная боль
У Бабушки 17 столетия.
Вы относитесь к нам,
Как волосатая ного-рука обезьянки,
Обожженная неведомым богом-пламенем,
В руке мыслителя, спокойно
Управляющей вселенной,
Этого всадника оседланного рока.
Больше того: мы основываем
Общество для защиты государств
От грубого и жестокого обращения
Со стороны общин времени.
Как стрелочники
У встречных путей Прошлого и Будущего,
Мы так же хладнокровно относимся
К замене ваших государств
Научно построенным человечеством,
Как к замене липового лаптя
Зеркальным заревом поезда.
Товарищи-рабочие! Не сетуйте на нас:
Мы, как рабочие-зодчие,
Идем особой дорогой, к общей цели.
Мы – особый род оружия.
Итак, боевая перчатка
Трех слов: Правительство земного шара –
Брошена.
Перерезанное красной молнией
Голубое знамя безволода,
Знамя ветреных зорь, утренних солнц
Поднято и развевается над землей,
Вот оно, друзья мои!
Правительство земного шара!
Пропуск в правительство звезды:
Сун-ят-сену, Рабиндранат Тагору,
Вильсону, Керенскому.

Additional information: The book I referenced transliterated the poet’s name as ‘Velemir Khlebnikov’ but I confirmed it is ‘Velimir Khlebnikov’.

The translation omits the last 3 lines:
Пропуск в правительство звезды: / Сун-ят-сену, Рабиндранат Тагору, / Вильсону, Керенскому. A rough translation of which is: ‘Star Government Pass: / Sun-yat-senu, Rabindranath Tagore, / Wilson, Kerensky.’ These lines reference political figures of the day: the first provisional president of the Republic of China, Sun Yat Sen; the Bengali polymath, Rabindranath Tagore; the 28th president of the United States, Woodrow Wilson; and Alexander Kerensy who was a Russian lawyer and revolutionary who led the Russian Provisional Government and the short-lived Russian Republic for three months.

Following are a few footnotes from the book I referenced:

1)This is final version of a 1917 test prepared by Khlebnikov’s disciple Grigory Petnikov. The title is taken from the poet’s list of his works.
2) Evoe is the cry of the Bacchae. Ego-e is a neologism.
3) The ten letters in the word Government (or the eleven letters in the Russian word gosudarstvo). Khlebnikov believed that every sound holds a hidden meaning and found “much comfort and freshness” in these particular letters.
4) [You grew up in a forest of words]: A sardonic allusion to the Symbolists and their doctrine that “man passes through a forest of symbols.” The phrase comes from Baudelaire’s Correspondences.
5) [States of space]: Khlebnikov opposed all the states of the world existing on the spatial plane with his own “communes of time,” a world government existing on the temporal plane.

Khlebnikov, born Viktor Vladimirovich Khlebnikov, was the son of an ornithologist. He studied mathematics and natural science at the University of Kazan and began to write poetry in his student years. In 1908 he studied at the University of St. Petersburg without graduating and began to publish his poetry in various collections. He quickly joined avant-garde circles and became one of the founders of Russian Futurism. David Burlyuk and Aleksey Kruchyonykh began to publish small collections of his poetry in 1913 and 1914.

Viktor Shkovsky, in his book Hamburg Account, compared Khlebnikov’s standing in Russian literature with the relative strengths of the professional boxers that competed behind locked doors in Hamburg: “In a Hamburg accounting Khlebnikov is the true champion.” As Vladimir Mayakovsky said: “Khlebnikov is not a poet for the consumer, Khlebniov is a poet for the manufacturer.” Today we might say, “Powerful but not necessarily user friendly.”

Obsessed but the very element of language, by the magic of creativity with words, by ideas about the confluence of mathematics and art, Khlebnikov wandered about the land like a dervish, without a roof over his head, stuffing pillowcases with rough drafts of his poetry. In his experimental work he prepared the ground for many of Mayakovsky’s breakthroughs in new form and in part for Boris Pasternak as well. His influence can be felt in the work of Daniil Kharms, Aleksandr Vvedensky, and Nikolai Zabolotsky. Revolting against the mysticism of Symbolism, Khlebnikov was interested in coining new words and in developing a new “trans-sense language” (zaumnyi iazyk, or zaum), a language beyond sense that would facilitate the Futurists’ avowed intentions of scrapping the culture of the past, as expressed in their 1912 manifesto “A Slap in the Face of Public Taste.”

Khlebnikov’s genius is unquestioned, though much in his poetry is ineffably complex, chaotic and unassembled. Phenomenal lines are sometimes interspersed with bewildering semantic enigmas. Fortunately, Khlebnikov today ceases to be a poet only “for manufacturers” and lives on in the souls of many readers who are not at all literary professionals. This Don Quixote, who calls himself “President of the Terrestrial Globe,” never betrayed his one and only Dulcinea, poetry and he has been rewarded with posthumous acclaim.

Biographical information about Khlebnikov, p.120, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).
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Exhausted from depression… by Ilya Krichevsky

Exhausted from depression,
to the gravestone I went,
and beyond the gravestone
I saw not peace,
but an eternal battle
which we only dreamed of in life.

Without hesitation I leaped
into the gulf of greedy fire,
but here I begged the Lord:
“Give back to me, Lord, peace,
why eternal battle for me,
take me, I am yours, I am yours.”

All my life I’ve rushed,
between hell and heaven,
today the devil, and tomorrow God,
today exhausted, and tomorrow empowered,
today proud, and tomorrow I burn…
Stop.

By Илья Маратович Кричевский
(Ilya Maratovich Krichevsky)
(3 February 1963 – 21 August 1991)
translated by Albert C. Todd

Additional information: I believe this is a fragment or shortened version but I was unable to find a copy of the original Russian version online to check against. If anyone knows where to find it please leave a link in the comments or, if you feel like it, copy/paste it. Many thanks.

Во все века (In All Ages…) by Yuliya Drunina

In all ages, always, everywhere, and everywhere
It repeats itself, the cruel dream –
The inexplicable kiss of Judas
And the ring of the accursed silver.

To understand such things is a task in vain.
Humanity conjectures once again:
Let him betray (when he cannot do else),
But why a kiss on the lips? …

By Юлия Владимировна Друнина
(Yulia Vladimirovna Drunina)
translated by Albert C. Todd

Во все века

Во все века,
Всегда, везде и всюду
Он повторяется,
Жестокий сон, —
Необъяснимый поцелуй Иуды
И тех проклятых сребреников звон.

Сие понять —
Напрасная задача.
Гадает человечество опять:
Пусть предал бы
(Когда не мог иначе!),
Но для чего же
В губы целовать?…

Кончусь, останусь жив ли… (I’ll Be Finished…) by Boris Chichibabin

I’ll be finished, if I’ll survive –
what kind of grass will grow over the gap?
On Prince Igor’s battlefield the grass faded.
The school corridors
are quiet, not ringing…
Eat your red tomatoes,
eat ’em without me.

How did I survive to such prose
with my bitter beaten head?
Each evening a convoy
leads me to interrogation.
Stairways, corridors,
cunning prison graffiti…
Eat your red tomatoes,
eat ’em without me.

By Борис Алексеевич Чичибабин (Boris Alekseyevich Chichibabin)
Born: Полушин (Polushin)
(1946)
translated by Albert C. Todd and Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Кончусь, останусь жив ли…

Кончусь, останусь жив ли, –
чем зарастёт провал?
В Игоревом Путивле
выгорела трава.

Школьные коридоры –
тихие, не звенят…
Красные помидоры
кушайте без меня.

Как я дожил до прозы
с горькою головой?
Вечером на допросы
водит меня конвой.

Лестницы, коридоры,
хитрые письмена…
Красные помидоры
кушайте без меня.

Additional information: Boris Alekseyevich Chichibabin (Russian: Бори́с Алексе́евич Чичиба́бин, Ukrainian: Бори́с Олексі́йович Чичиба́бін; 9 January 1923, Kremenchuk – 15 December 1994, Kharkiv; born Polushin, Russian: Полу́шин) was a Soviet poet and a laureat of the USSR State Prize (1990), who is typically regarded as one of the Sixtiers.

He lived in Kharkiv, and in the course of three decades became one of the most famous and best-loved members of the artistic intelligentsia of the city, i.e., from the 1950s to 1980s. From the end of the 1950s, his poetry was widely distributed throughout the Soviet Union as samizdat. Official recognition came only at the end of his life in the time of perestroika.

Chichibabin was imprisoned during Stalin’s time. Though released and rehabilitated he was “daring” enough in the Brexhnev era of stagnation to write a poem in 1971 in memory of Aleksandr Tvardovsky, who had been attacked by literary rivals until his death; the poem resulted in his expulsion from the Writers Union. He was not published for fifteen years and worked as a bookkeeper in a tram park. As time passed, the growing significance of his work became apparent.

Chichibabin’s character is very Russian, but at the same time he is blessed with the quality of compassion for the world. His poetry is filled with astonishing penetration into the pain of other nations and peoples, whether Tartar or Jews.

In 1990 the unheard-of happened: the State Prize for literature was awarded to a book of his poetry which he had published privately. He was reinstated into the Writers Union in 1986, a very shy, humble man who never dealt with politics, but with a humane conscience in the midst of moral degradation – a de facto political dissident.

Biographical information about Chichibabin, p.719, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).

Последнею усталостью устав (Filled with the final weariness…) by Boris Slutsky

Filled with the final weariness
Seized with the exhaustion before dying
His big hands limply spread
A soldier lies.
He could lie differently –
Could lie beside his wife, in his own bed,
Not tearing at the mosses drenched with blood.
But could he? Could he?
No, he could not.
The Ministry sent him his call-up notice,
Officers were with him, marched beside him.
The court-martial’s typewriters clattered in the rear.
But even without them, could he?
Hardly.
Without a call-up, he’d have gone himself.
And not from fear: from conscience, and for honor.
Weltering in his blood, the soldier lying
Has no complaint, and no thought of complaining.

by Борис Абрамович Слуцкий
(Boris Abramovich Slutsky)
translated by J. R. Rowland

Последнею усталостью устав

Последнею усталостью устав,
Предсмертным умиранием охвачен,
Большие руки вяло распластав,
Лежит солдат.
Он мог лежать иначе,
Он мог лежать с женой в своей постели,
Он мог не рвать намокший кровью мох,
Он мог…
Да мог ли? Будто? Неужели?
Нет, он не мог.
Ему военкомат повестки слал.
С ним рядом офицеры шли, шагали.
В тылу стучал машинкой трибунал.
А если б не стучал, он мог?
Едва ли.
Он без повесток, он бы сам пошел.
И не за страх — за совесть и за почесть.
Лежит солдат — в крови лежит, в большой,
А жаловаться ни на что не хочет.

Additional information: Бори́с Абра́мович Слу́цкий (Boris Slutsky) (7 May 1919 in Slovyansk, Ukraine – 23 February 1986 in Tula) was a Soviet poet of the Russian language.

Slutsky’s father was a white-collar worker and his mother a teacher. He went to school in Kharkov and from 1937 he studied in Moscow, first in law school and then at the Gorky Literary Institute. During World War II he made friends with many of the poets who were to die in the war and was himself severely wounded. Though he published some poetry in 1941, he did not publish again until after Stalin’s death in 1953. Ilya Ehrenburg wrote an article in 1956 adovicating that a collection of Slutsky’s work be published. He created a sensation by quoting many unknown poems. Discussings Slutsky’s poetry, Mikhail Svetlov said, “Of one thing I am sure – here is a poet who writes better than we all do.”

Slutsky’s first collection, Pamiat’ (Memory) (1957), immediately established his reputation as a poet. His most celebrated poems are “Kelnskaia iama” (The Pit of Cologne) and “Loshadi v okeane” (Horses in the Sea). His poems “Bog” (God) and “Khozain” (The Boss) sharply criticized Stalin even before the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956.

Slutsky’s poetry is deliberately coarse, prosaic, and always distinctive. He evoked many imitators and much ridicule, but he also taught many of the postwar generation of poets. During the scandalous attacks on Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago in 1959, Slutsky unexpectedly came out against Pasternak. It was a crucial error. Many of his admirers turned their backs on him, but, more important, he never forgave himself. When he died, he left so much poetry unpublished that almost every month for several years new poems appeared in magazines and newspapers.

Biographical information about Slutsky, p.689, ‘Twentieth Century Russian Poetry’ (1993), compiled by Yevgeny Yevtushenko (ed. Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward) , published by Fourth Estate Limited by arrangement with Doubleday of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc. (transcribed as found in the original text).