Poet Boris Ryzhy was no stranger to tragedy. Before taking his own life at just 26, he had already created an acclaimed body of work that creeps into the cracks of provincial Russian life, creating a window onto its harsh realities and bittersweet joys. Marta Biino takes a look at his short life and lasting legacy, exploring why his work continues to speak to Russia’s younger generations.

Best take the tram if you’re going back to the past
with its bell, the drunk bloke next to you,
the grimy school kid, the mad old girl,
and, of course, the poplar leaves drawn in its trail.

Five or six tram stops later
we ride into the nineteen-eighties -
factories to the left, works to the right,
no one cares, get out your fags, what’s wrong with you.

What’s that you’re mumbling, sceptical, something
like this is all lifted from Nabokov.
He was the barin’s son, you and I are the leftovers,
come on, smile, there are tears on your face.

This is our stop -
posters, banners, here and there,
blue sky, red neckties,
somebody’s funeral, musicians playing.

You play along to them on your whistle
and then float off to the beautiful sound,
leather jacket, hands in your pockets,
along that path of unending separation,

along that road of unending sadness
to the house where you were born, melting into sunset
solitude, sleep, the moulting of leaves,
come back as a dead soldier.

2000

Если в прошлое, лучше трамваем
со звоночком, поддатым соседом,
грязным школьником, тетей с приветом,
чтоб листва тополиная следом.

Через пять или шесть остановок
въедем в восьмидесятые годы:
слева – фабрики, справа – заводы,
не тушуйся, закуривай, что ты.

Что ты мямлишь скептически, типа
это все из набоковской прозы, –
он барчук, мы с тобою отбросы.
Улыбнись, на лице твоем слезы.

Это наша с тобой остановка:
там – плакаты, а там – транспаранты,
небо синее, красные банты,
чьи-то похороны, музыканты.

Подыграй на зубах этим дядям
и отчаль под красивые звуки:
куртка кожаная, руки в брюки,
да по улочке вечной разлуки.

Да по улице вечной печали
в дом родимый, сливаясь с закатом,
одиночеством, сном, листопадом,
возвращайся убитым солдатом.

2000

The tragedy of Boris Ryzhy’s life is best explained through his words. A life spent in the remote Urals, among mines, power plants and weapon manufacturing. All things considered, Ryzhy’s life was not at all unsuccessful: born in 1974, he completed his studies as the USSR collapsed, with a top mark Engineering degree, a happy marriage, a promising career. Then, suddenly, and surprisingly, he took his own life in 2002, at the age of 26. A few months earlier he’d been awarded the prestigious Anti-Booker prize, then considered the highest literary praise in Russia, for his first collection of verse. He had a loving wife, whom he loved in return. A small, clever child who looked up to him. He himself admitted: "I'm sure I've been loved far more than I myself loved".

Where does Boris' tragedy stem from, then? His words perfectly explain it: "Every poets needs a tragedy. And the mere fact of being a poet, of being born a poet, is a tragedy in itself, there's nothing else to it". Your personal background is irrelevant: if you were born a poet, your fate is sealed.

Стучи, моя тоска,
стучи, моя печаль,
у сердца, у виска
за всё, чего мне жаль.
За всех, кто умирал
в удушливой глуши,
за всех, кто не отдал
за эту жизнь души.

1996

Knock, my anguish,
knock, my sorrow, 
on my heart, on my temples,
All I'm grieving for.
For all those who died
In this suffocating outbacks,
All those who were never
Bothered by this life.

1996

The ‘suffocating outback’ Ryzhy describes is the backdrop to his everyday life: the dull, poor industrial town of Sverdlovsk, nowadays known as Ekaterinburg. The reality Ryzhy faces daily is not easy to cope with. His neighbourhood, known as ‘Vtorchermet’, an acronym for vtorichnaia chernaia metallurgia, "secondary ferrous metallurgy", is haunted by criminality, violence, addiction. Either you work in a factory, or you're destined for organised crime. Luckily - or, arguably, unfortunately - Boris has a calling for literature, and he is determined to make his voice heard through poetry.

There in that flat lived ex-convicts -
They took them in our factory
While I was busy picking
Dusty fag butts with my friends.

So tender was our friendship
that with a final effort
they'd beat me into pulp - 
and I could do it too.

…

We were about twelve then
or thirteen years of age.
We swore to stick together 
and never fear our fate.

But fate spared few of us,
did not go by our doors -
Today our murdered neighbour
was carried down the stairs.

I looked at all the faces
faces full of fear.
...And that I am not the murderer -
Is pure coincidence, my friend.

1996

В том доме жили урки –
завод их принимал...
Я пыльные окурки
с друзьями собирал.

Так ласково дружили –
и из последних сил
меня изрядно били
и я умело бил.

…

Нам было по двенадцать
и по тринадцать лет.
Клялись не расставаться
и не бояться бед.

...Но стороною беды
не многих обошли.
Убитого соседа
по лестнице несли.

Я всматривался в лица,
на лицах был испуг.
...А что не я убийца –
случайность, милый друг.

1996

Ryzhy struggles to come to terms with this harsh reality. When, a few years later, he comes back to visit the places of his childhood, he notices: "Nothing's changed here. The houses, the backyards are still the same. The graffiti is all still there, only now they're in English, not in Russian. Here is where most of my cherished ones died, some because of drugs, some for other reasons." He suffers from an existential condition: he feels lonely, resented and rejected by everyone, a poet no one cares about or takes care of. His fear of not being understood, of being forgotten, is constantly reflected in his verse.

I am thankful for everything. For silence.
For that shining star, fighting with darkness.
I am thankful for my son, my wife.
For that gangster music behind the wall.

For that I am thankful, despite being an unwelcome guest,
I am still somewhat tolerable -
And for that coat in the hallway they nailed me down
and they placed the weight of the world on my back.

I am thankful for nursery rhymes, 
Not for concern, but for patience.
For autumn. Bad weather. For sin. 
For this unworldly regret.

For god and for his angels.
For what the heart believes, and the mind knows.
I am thankful, because nothing
Like this exists in the world.

For everything, everything. Because I cannot,
Bearing someone's grief, live beautifully.
I stand before life in plight, 
Death alone is selfless, and silent.

For everything, everything. For this hazy dawn.
For bread. For salt. The warm native blood.
For this I thank you all,
for you can't hear a single word. 

1996

Благодарю за всё. За тишину.
За свет звезды, что спорит с темнотою.
Благодарю за сына, за жену.
За музыку блатную за стеною.

За то благодарю, что скверный гость,
я всё-таки довольно сносно встречен.
И для плаща в прихожей вбили гвоздь.
И целый мир взвалили мне на плечи.

Благодарю за детские стихи.
Не за вниманье вовсе, за терпенье.
За осень. За ненастье. За грехи.
За неземное это сожаленье.

За бога и за ангелов его.
За то, что сердце верит, разум знает.
Благодарю за то, что ничего
подобного на свете не бывает.

За всё, за всё. За то, что не могу,
чужое горе помня, жить красиво.
Я перед жизнью в тягостном долгу.
И только смерть щедра и молчалива.

За всё, за всё. За мутную зарю.
За хлеб, за соль. Тепло родного крова.
За то, что я вас всех благодарю
за то, что вы не слышите ни слова.

1996

Facts prove the exact opposite, twenty years after his death. Ryzhy is a poet beloved by young people all over Russia, with a devoted following on VKontakte, Russia's main social medium. A number of his poetry collections have already been published, as well as academic research, essay collections and two biographies. Ryzhy's voice continues to speak to contemporary Russian youth, his words revealing the hardships and discomfort of post-Soviet life. 

It shines through in the acclaimed documentary dedicated to the poet by the Dutch director Natalia van der Horst. A moving investigation of Ryzhy's motives for suicide, as well as an account of the difficulty of surviving in Russian provinces, of their slow and tormented development. In 2009, when the film was shot, the poet's son was thirteen. While proud of his reputation for being a bully, he also admits candidly, matter-of-factly: "Sometimes pain becomes unbearable. You not only feel your own pain, but also other people's. Especially in a country like Russia." Why in Russia especially, asks the interviewer. "Because we live in a country of criminals. There's always someone dying, or something bad happening."

Vtorchemet is still a rough neighbourhood, full of run-down buildings and dark apartments, inhabited by culprits, and elderly women who live in constant fear.

Ryzhy's tragedy, then, is not only being born a poet, but also having been raised in an adverse environment. An inescapable situation, despite every best effort. Sverdlovsk will inevitably remain with him throughout his life and his works. Not without reason, in fact, he's been described a new ‘poet of the people’ and has even been defined as the successor of the father of Russian poetry, the unrivalled Alexander Pushkin. Ryzhy has the ability to connect with future generations, to communicate his feeling of acute horror at the hostile and unfair world he inhabits. His internal dimension, so deeply split between irreconcilable opposites, is a mere reflection of the outside environment.

In Russia people separate forever.
In Russia cities
Are so far away,
That I shiver, when I whisper "farewell".
I brush my hand by chance
Against hers.

Long live the ordinary road.
Tell me, is there such a thing as a Russian god?
"Of course,
I'll come". I'll never come.
In Russia people separate forever.
"My love,

I'll come". I'll come back in a hundred years.
How tiny, cute, this sorrow - 
We say goodbye
Forever. "Let me wipe your tears away".
No, I won't come. For sure, I'll die
Before.

In Russia people separate forever.
One more small scrap of ice
In a cold verse line.
... And trains derail, 
... And planes, soaring to the stars,
Explode into them.

1996

В России расстаются навсегда.
В России друг от друга города
столь далеки,
что вздрагиваю я, шепнув «прощай».
Рукой своей касаюсь невзначай
её руки.

Длинною в жизнь любая из дорог.
Скажите, что такое русский бог?
«Конечно, я
приеду». Не приеду никогда.
В России расстаются навсегда.
«Душа моя,

приеду». Через сотни лет вернусь.
Какая малость, милость, что за грусть –
мы насовсем
прощаемся. «Дай капельку сотру».
Да, не приеду. Видимо, умру
скорее, чем.

В России расстаются навсегда.
Ещё один подкинь кусочек льда
в холодный стих.
...И поезда уходят под откос,
...И самолёты, долетев до звёзд,
сгорают в них.

1996

Translations by Marta Biino. Poems in Russian from poetry portal Поэзия. All photos from the official site of Boris Ryzhy, where you can also find audio and video recordings of the poet reading his work.

MARTA BIINO

Marta Biino is a UCL student, currently on her final year of a BA Language and Culture degree in Russian and Arabic. After a year in St. Petersburg, she is now back in London to complete her studies.