I have here the journal Soviet Literature, no. 8(413), 1982, entitled The Literature and the Arts of Soviet Lithuania. There is a varied collection of poems here, so I will review them in more than one post. This post will look at a poem which has to do with humankind in general. Along with two poems about war, it is one of the most political of the poems in this edition of the journal; the other poems deal with everyday life, emotions, and love.
The poem is called The Wonder, by Eduardas Mieželaitis. He is described as a 'unique figure in modern Lithuanian poetry' who battled with censors in 1956 over form, but won the Lenin Prize in 1962. More of his poetry can be found translated into English here.
The poem is in the first person, and employs the device of the speaker not revealing his identity till the very end. As he reveals more and more information, the tempo of the poem increases. It starts in ancient times, the speaker saying repeatedly 'I was there, I was there' at the building of great temples and monuments--in particular ones to do with the glorification of great gods and kings. Slowly the pace builds until we reach a pivotal line:
We learn, of course, that the speaker is nothing but man himself--the 'Eighth Wonder / of the World'. In other words, this is a poem that exalts labour, and the labourer, as being the real triumph behind the apparent glories and triumphs of great individuals and gods.
But there is a very interesting tension in this poem between this exaltation, which in a certain time and place would have been pure and socialist realist, and the tone it takes, particularly toward the end, of quiet and humble confidence. So for example, we learn that
And yet it is not their works, but the works of man, the labourer, which are in the end the eighth wonder of the world. The confidence of man here is that he does not need to engage in great, mythological battles; he does not need to have crowns and so on, because his glory is in his work--simple, gradual, quiet, but in the end it underwrites everything else that is worth exalting. We see here then a very different kind of exaltation of labour to the kind found in socialist realism. This is not the great labourer splitting the sky with his powerful hand. It is instead the humble, ordinary man, smiling quietly and confidently in the knowledge that he is the real motor of history.
As such this poem also has a very non-individualist feeling. It is as much as anything about downplaying the importance of leaders by showing that the real heroic achievements are the ones that go unnoticed and happen over decades. One might say that this is a kind of heroism which fits better with 'mature socialism' than the labour heroism of, say, the 1930s, which was about fast, dramatic, sudden achievements.
The whole tone of quiet confidence derives a lot from the pacing and tempo of the poem. A rising crescendo of listed achievements, turning on that pivotal 'What was I doing?' and again on 'What am I then?' Followed by a modest, slow, satisfied description of the speaker, as a 'tiller of the soil'. And only at the very end is there a slow, evenly paced admission of the speaker's own greatness. So we get a kind of big contrast between the glory of the initial list and the sudden shift into self-effacement which gives us a sense of modesty--and then the final admission comes as a kind of afterthought, though a necessary seal on the whole. The result of this composition of rhythms is to convey ancient, tacit knowledge and confidence in the nature of ordinary man.
In itself this plays even more on the contrast between the strength and greatness of ordinary man, who does not need to exalt himself, but can afford to be modest, versus the false greatness of gods and rulers, who must exalt themselves to cover up the fact that their greatness is all underwritten by ordinary people living ordinary lives.
The translation is by Diana Russell, 1982.
The poem is called The Wonder, by Eduardas Mieželaitis. He is described as a 'unique figure in modern Lithuanian poetry' who battled with censors in 1956 over form, but won the Lenin Prize in 1962. More of his poetry can be found translated into English here.
The poem is in the first person, and employs the device of the speaker not revealing his identity till the very end. As he reveals more and more information, the tempo of the poem increases. It starts in ancient times, the speaker saying repeatedly 'I was there, I was there' at the building of great temples and monuments--in particular ones to do with the glorification of great gods and kings. Slowly the pace builds until we reach a pivotal line:
What was I doing?
Oh, nothing much. While the earthly gods and rulers
fought each other in battles cruel and fierce
and mercilessly razed all that my hands
have lovingly put up,
I went on building, carving, moulding, forging...
We learn, of course, that the speaker is nothing but man himself--the 'Eighth Wonder / of the World'. In other words, this is a poem that exalts labour, and the labourer, as being the real triumph behind the apparent glories and triumphs of great individuals and gods.
But there is a very interesting tension in this poem between this exaltation, which in a certain time and place would have been pure and socialist realist, and the tone it takes, particularly toward the end, of quiet and humble confidence. So for example, we learn that
Compared to the great exploits of knights and kings
my work is small and humble...
And yet it is not their works, but the works of man, the labourer, which are in the end the eighth wonder of the world. The confidence of man here is that he does not need to engage in great, mythological battles; he does not need to have crowns and so on, because his glory is in his work--simple, gradual, quiet, but in the end it underwrites everything else that is worth exalting. We see here then a very different kind of exaltation of labour to the kind found in socialist realism. This is not the great labourer splitting the sky with his powerful hand. It is instead the humble, ordinary man, smiling quietly and confidently in the knowledge that he is the real motor of history.
As such this poem also has a very non-individualist feeling. It is as much as anything about downplaying the importance of leaders by showing that the real heroic achievements are the ones that go unnoticed and happen over decades. One might say that this is a kind of heroism which fits better with 'mature socialism' than the labour heroism of, say, the 1930s, which was about fast, dramatic, sudden achievements.
The whole tone of quiet confidence derives a lot from the pacing and tempo of the poem. A rising crescendo of listed achievements, turning on that pivotal 'What was I doing?' and again on 'What am I then?' Followed by a modest, slow, satisfied description of the speaker, as a 'tiller of the soil'. And only at the very end is there a slow, evenly paced admission of the speaker's own greatness. So we get a kind of big contrast between the glory of the initial list and the sudden shift into self-effacement which gives us a sense of modesty--and then the final admission comes as a kind of afterthought, though a necessary seal on the whole. The result of this composition of rhythms is to convey ancient, tacit knowledge and confidence in the nature of ordinary man.
In itself this plays even more on the contrast between the strength and greatness of ordinary man, who does not need to exalt himself, but can afford to be modest, versus the false greatness of gods and rulers, who must exalt themselves to cover up the fact that their greatness is all underwritten by ordinary people living ordinary lives.
The translation is by Diana Russell, 1982.
