Выбрать главу

A well-read copy of Polyakova’s important book is still in my library. Unlocking references in Tsvetaeva’s “Girlfriend” poems and in Parnok’s poems to Tsvetaeva, Polyakova includes commentary and details of the poets’ lives. In 1993, I had the good fortune to meet with Sophia Polyakova in her home in St. Petersburg, which she shared with her woman partner. Polyakova told me how she scoured small used bookstores over many years to collect and preserve Sophia Parnok’s poetry and other forgotten writings. When I met with her she was completing a volume of Parnok’s poetry to be published for the first time in Russia.

Polyakova explained that “lyric poets had become outcasts during the early Soviet period because of counter-revolutionary tendencies of the lyric mode which emphasized personal feelings.” Polyakova’s rescue of Parnok’s work, as well as her Sunset Days book, were done in secret because of continued Soviet repression. Stalin’s isolationist beliefs caused lines of communication with the West to be broken in disciplines such as psychology, history, and philosophy, as well as in literature and the arts. The loss of this knowledge was being repaired during perestroika. During the 1990s, Parnok’s poetry could finally be published for the first time, and her sexuality could be spoken of openly. Polyakova was happy to be alive to see this day, she told me.

In our meeting, Polyakova spoke in a relaxed way about her research, even flirting with me at times. Then, reaching into her files, she presented me with copies of photos of Tsvetaeva and Parnok. She used the word saficheski (Sapphic) often our conversation when referring to their relationship. She came from another era. Code words were common in Soviet Russia, but the current code words were goluboy for “gay” and rozovaya for “lesbian.” She said how glad she was to meet me and other saficheski women researchers. When I asked, she admitted she used the word out of habit. She thought it expressed Tsvetaeva and Parnok’s relationship better than the more modern words. “Like lesbian?” I asked. She smiled.

Her humor and lightness came out even more during our tea with her partner, who served some tasty snacks. They bantered in an intimate way, making little in-jokes. I behaved as if I understood. We talked about Russia and some of the people I was meeting and about our mutual interest in the two great poets. We toasted, and then Polyakova asked her partner if she had “noticed Sonechka’s [my] blue eyes.” As a lesbian couple surviving Soviet times into old age and still used to being circumspect, the queer nuances did not escape me. Sophia Polyakova was helping to build and revive Russian lesbian culture: “If there is one thing of worth I have done in my life, it is saving Parnok’s work from obscurity,” were her parting words to me.

Sophia Parnok’s relationship with Marina lasted only two years, but it was very intense. Inspiring one another, the two women wrote each other poetry and shared much in common, as Polyakova depicted in her book. They traveled to the beautiful Crimea, often to Koktebel and Sudak, where Maximilian Voloshin and other artists gathered. When the pair parted in 1916, Tsvetaeva called it “the first great catastrophe of my life.”

Following Tsvetaeva, Parnok had other great loves: actress Lyudmila Erarskaya, mathematics professor Olga Tsuberbiller, singer Marina Maksakova. She dedicated poems to these women, including very personal and erotic details in her verse. To Maksakova, whose first name was the same as Tsvetaeva’s, Parnok wrote a poem for Tsvetaeva: “How strange that you remind me so of her!”

But I’ve forgiven her, And I love you, and through you, Marina, The vision of the one who shares your name.

Parnok’s appreciation of women and literature is a gift to us all. In 1933 she died of heart problems in the village of Kirinsky, outside Moscow, with her lover and other friends at her side. Parnok’s friends did not forget and met afterwards on a regular basis to share their recollections and Sophia’s poetry at the home of Olga Tsuberbiller. Commenting on Parnok’s final years in her book, Polyakova writes: “The relationship with Vedeneyeva [her last love] was both the most tragic [because it was short] and the most brilliant time of her life: already on the threshold of death, she found the fullness of love and creativity, the greatest blessings on earth.”

Kaleidoscope

for Marina Tsvetaeva (1892–1941)

Marina, my stomach hurts, I cry like a baby for mama, The song on the radio reminds me of The love I can never have, the love
I seek from one lover to the next. You did that too—from lover to lover, even the ones you never met, till your heart ached apart.
You fell in love with strangers, dangers. You were always losing people. I am too. Always the most, and the best, and the worst.
First it was Sonya Parnok,              then Sonya Holliday— “Do you still love me?” you wrote              in a card to the dying Rilke—
You never even met him.              And I’ve never met you. I turn a page of your poetry              and my life comes into focus—
Words lullaby and vie in flying lines, lurking questions: Bylo telo, khotelo zhit’. (There was a body, it wanted to live),
                          BODY WANTING LIFE.                           Bylo telo, khotelo zhit’.
I know what that’s like. Maniacal.              Even the lovers—how many— they leave, thigh shuddering,
             pursue, pursue, running in a corral—
Thoughts     that     beat     away     sleep.
I feel sick     but I love that          lurching sea of surprises I get tossed around.     So familiar, like a bed,          I never, I never
Get sick to my stomach,     never, on those storm-swept          sheets, my lovely disheveled blankets. Don’t go                                        My kitten winks at me, high above my bed.
Marina! Are you listening to me? Have I lost you to your gloom and worry? My heart beats on your door. You’re not there. You ended it all with a rope from a beam.
Was it the years of grief shattering you— shunned by your beloved son and others over and over? Or Russia in the 1940s, the impossibility of exile? And the endless rain, The wants that make your body