Sometimes One Drop is Enough to Change the Whole Ocean: Aigerim Tazhi
Interview by Philip Metres
Aigerim Tazhi’s debut book of poetry, “БОГ-О-СЛОВ” (“THEO-LOG-IAN”), was published in 2004. She received numerous literary prizes in Kazakhstan and Russia for the poems in the collection. In the years since, her work has been featured in several prominent literary magazines, including Druzhba Narodov, Novaya Yunost, Apollinaris, Znamya and others. Her work has been translated into English, French, and Armenian; her work has begun to appear in numerous American literary journals, translated by J. Kates. She was one of the creators of a project of literary installations, “Visible Poetry,” in 2009. In 2011 she was a finalist for the prestigious Debut Prize in poetry. She lives in Almaty, Kazakhstan.
If it’s not too boring, let’s begin at the beginning. When did you start writing poetry, and who were your influences?
Since my childhood I’ve read a lot, both poetry and prose. Of course, I am well acquainted with Russian poetry, the poetry of the Silver Age. When I was still in school I discovered Robert Frost and other American poets. As a teenager, the Spanish and Latin American poets—from Jimenez to Octavio Paz—made an impression on me. Now I have a very wide range of literary interests. I read foreign poetry, and I watch what is going on with the poetry in Russia and in Kazakhstan. About the impact.... I think that in general, every book you read can influence the writer. But I cannot say that I feel like I belong to any literary trend or that I’m a follower of any author. I’ve been writing poems for so long that I do not remember a specific moment when it all began. But I remember well my first publication in the literary journal Apollinaris in 2002.
I do not know much about Kazakhstan, so please forgive me if my questions are naive. Why do you write in Russian, the language of the Russian Empire? I am interested in what is appealing to you about the Russian language and poetic tradition.
I live in Kazakhstan, but I was born in the Soviet era. We had a common country then, a common capital (Moscow), and the main language was Russian. So in school we were taught Russian, everywhere we talked in Russian. I did not choose Russian language, and I did not evaluate it in terms of its attractiveness. It's just the language that I’ve spoken since childhood. Even now Russian is one of the official languages in Kazakhstan.
Do you also write poems in the Kazakh language? If you do, do you translate yourself?
I do not write poems in the Kazakh language and do not translate myself. Generally, Kazakh and Russian are very different languages—in sound, in word-formation, and in the means of constructing sentences—although both Kazakh language and Russian use the Cyrillic alphabet. I speak Kazakh, and though I’m well acquainted with the Kazakh poetry, I write poetry only in Russian. That’s the situation.
What purpose do you seek when you write?
Why am I doing this? Why do I write? I want to write. I do not know how to say it any other way. I like to work with the language, with the Word. This is, most likely, my goal. And what else can there be? Poetry is not an area in which to build a career or earn millions. I try to listen carefully to my feelings and trust myself. To write honestly.
In his introduction to your poems, Jim Kates quotes your words about a trip to Tibet:
It’s beautiful. Does this mean that the act of writing poetry is a kind of prayer for you, and it's a way of life that is more important than simple communication?
It seems to me that every poet is searching, in the Word, in the language, for God, allowing us a new way to see familiar surroundings or creating new worlds in passing. Creativity is an intimate process, and in this it is really similar to prayer. The author is always left alone with her texts. Despite the many literary associations, poetry groups, and writers unions, the labor of literature is almost a synonym for loneliness.
Of course, my poems are quite far from classic iambs and trochees, but rhyme and rhythm are always present, though not always audible at once. Sometimes the rhythm is broken and complex, and the rhyme is unclear or hidden—and yet they exist. So it’s still not free verse.
What do you think about the fact that your poems have been translated into English? What is lost in translation?
Unfortunately, translations often lose the rhythm and rhyme. A poem is a very succinct form. I do not write bulky poems; my poems are short, sometimes only four or five lines. And I understand that it is almost impossible to translate such a short work, to be able to reproduce in another language the meaning, puns, rhythm, rhyme, quotes, and cultural codes—all at once. I’ve had the opportunity to work with several translators, and regardless of the target language, something always had to give. Most of all I like the way Jim Kates translates my poems into English. He has excellent command of the language, but also has a great literary experience, and for translation of poetry that is very important. We've been corresponding, discussing some nuances, and it’s a lot of work, but the goal is to keep the essence—the accuracy of meaning and poetic language. Very rarely, at least partially, to keep the rhythm and rhyme. And the cultural codes almost never translate, because they are still tied to the archetypes that are understood only by people who grew up in the Russian-speaking world.
If it's no secret, how does a poet make a living in Kazakhstan?
For poet’s work in Kazakhstan, we generally do not receive money. We rarely receive royalties for publication. But due to the fact that I publish in Russian and foreign literary magazines, my poems bring in some money. The amount, of course, is small. In Kazakhstan, for some reason, encouraging authors isn’t customary. The only Kazakh literary magazine in which was I paid no longer exists—Apollinaris published by the Musaget Foundation. And for my first book of poems, which appeared in Alma-Ata in 2004, the same publishing house, I received a fee. I don’t earn a living on poetry.
When I started this project, it was the Yeltsin era. There was excitement and great fear—fear of the unknown, fear of freedom, fear of wild capitalism. I remember how many people were affected by historical and economic change—the loss of economic security as well as the loss of ideological convictions. How was life for you in the 1990s? How is it different today in Kazakhstan?
When the nineties came, I was eight years old. I remember how the country in which I live vanished—the USSR. I had to join the Pioneers, but managed to wear the red tie for all of one week. A little later, we got different money; instead of Soviet rubles, the Kazakhstani tenge. It happened right on my birthday, November 15. History changed before my very eyes. If someone thinks that a child cannot feel the depth of changes, in my opinion, they would be wrong. I remember feeling that the world had become tenuous and when the landmarks of the past were replaced. I even remember a time when we learned with Soviet textbooks and they were amended on the instructions of the teachers. This was especially true of history. Borders arose between the countries of the former Union, Russia and Kazakhstan. Everyone suddenly became foreigners to each other. Nevertheless, the Russian language has retained its position, becoming the lingua franca. Now Kazakhstan is already a country with a history. Already, a generation has grown up that was born after the collapse of the USSR. This generation since birth focused on different values, on the values of capitalist society. I sometimes feel old because I was born in a bygone era, and live in the present.
On the state of Russian poetry. When I started collecting interviews Russian poets in 1992, the academic discipline "creative writing" did not exist, but poetry still had cultural value. Now, it seems that poetry has little mass appeal, but it has its own institutions like in the United States. On the one hand, it seems that Russian poetry plays as a small role in society as in the United States. On the other hand, if we take the Pussy Riot trial (and the hype around them), it appears that poetry is as strong as ever. What do you think?
It seems to me that real poetry in general, in any country, has never focused on the broad masses. Neither in the United States, nor in Russia, nor in Kazakhstan. Lovers of poetry are quite a narrow circle of people. It always has been that way. But cultural value and the level of hype are still different things. Now the attention of the public is more attracted by those who shout louder, the crowd gathering around him, kicking up dust. But often, when the dust settles, it suddenly becomes clear that the tracks on the road don’t remain. Cultural value is defined by the tracks that remain, the significance of the contribution of a poet in a culture, in the development of language. Sometimes it becomes clear only through time, because the action of real poetry is subtle, hidden, not obvious. But sometimes one drop is enough to change the whole ocean.
Interview by Philip Metres (2014)
If it’s not too boring, let’s begin at the beginning. When did you start writing poetry, and who were your influences?
Since my childhood I’ve read a lot, both poetry and prose. Of course, I am well acquainted with Russian poetry, the poetry of the Silver Age. When I was still in school I discovered Robert Frost and other American poets. As a teenager, the Spanish and Latin American poets—from Jimenez to Octavio Paz—made an impression on me. Now I have a very wide range of literary interests. I read foreign poetry, and I watch what is going on with the poetry in Russia and in Kazakhstan. About the impact.... I think that in general, every book you read can influence the writer. But I cannot say that I feel like I belong to any literary trend or that I’m a follower of any author. I’ve been writing poems for so long that I do not remember a specific moment when it all began. But I remember well my first publication in the literary journal Apollinaris in 2002.
I do not know much about Kazakhstan, so please forgive me if my questions are naive. Why do you write in Russian, the language of the Russian Empire? I am interested in what is appealing to you about the Russian language and poetic tradition.
I live in Kazakhstan, but I was born in the Soviet era. We had a common country then, a common capital (Moscow), and the main language was Russian. So in school we were taught Russian, everywhere we talked in Russian. I did not choose Russian language, and I did not evaluate it in terms of its attractiveness. It's just the language that I’ve spoken since childhood. Even now Russian is one of the official languages in Kazakhstan.
Do you also write poems in the Kazakh language? If you do, do you translate yourself?
I do not write poems in the Kazakh language and do not translate myself. Generally, Kazakh and Russian are very different languages—in sound, in word-formation, and in the means of constructing sentences—although both Kazakh language and Russian use the Cyrillic alphabet. I speak Kazakh, and though I’m well acquainted with the Kazakh poetry, I write poetry only in Russian. That’s the situation.
What purpose do you seek when you write?
Why am I doing this? Why do I write? I want to write. I do not know how to say it any other way. I like to work with the language, with the Word. This is, most likely, my goal. And what else can there be? Poetry is not an area in which to build a career or earn millions. I try to listen carefully to my feelings and trust myself. To write honestly.
In his introduction to your poems, Jim Kates quotes your words about a trip to Tibet:
"A few years ago on a trip to Tibet, I found myself in a strange place. Under awningspeople sat on the ground, using a hammer and chisel to cut words into stone slabs. The work was difficult, tedious, long. Sharp sounds made me flinch. Stone dust wrapped people in a dense cloud. What were they doing? They were inscribing layers together to build a high temple. The craftsmen admitted that most likely they would not live to finish the construction. There were a great many of these tablets. The texts remained inside the walls. Nobody would ever read them, but they were the foundation of the building. A temple of words. Isn’t this poetry?"
It’s beautiful. Does this mean that the act of writing poetry is a kind of prayer for you, and it's a way of life that is more important than simple communication?
It seems to me that every poet is searching, in the Word, in the language, for God, allowing us a new way to see familiar surroundings or creating new worlds in passing. Creativity is an intimate process, and in this it is really similar to prayer. The author is always left alone with her texts. Despite the many literary associations, poetry groups, and writers unions, the labor of literature is almost a synonym for loneliness.
*What do you think about rhythm and rhyme? In contrast to the classical Russian traditions, your poems have their own music; they seem to be mostly free verse.
From Resurrection to Sunday by Aigerim Tazhi (translated by J. Kates)
from resurrection to sunday
we cross off dates on the calendar
waiting for salvation
it comes in an appearance of mountain air
in the gas chamber of a city
silvery ants
drag stones up to the summit
rub against steel sides
itching
tracks left on the neck from a tight collar
under quilted clouds
*
Of course, my poems are quite far from classic iambs and trochees, but rhyme and rhythm are always present, though not always audible at once. Sometimes the rhythm is broken and complex, and the rhyme is unclear or hidden—and yet they exist. So it’s still not free verse.
What do you think about the fact that your poems have been translated into English? What is lost in translation?
Unfortunately, translations often lose the rhythm and rhyme. A poem is a very succinct form. I do not write bulky poems; my poems are short, sometimes only four or five lines. And I understand that it is almost impossible to translate such a short work, to be able to reproduce in another language the meaning, puns, rhythm, rhyme, quotes, and cultural codes—all at once. I’ve had the opportunity to work with several translators, and regardless of the target language, something always had to give. Most of all I like the way Jim Kates translates my poems into English. He has excellent command of the language, but also has a great literary experience, and for translation of poetry that is very important. We've been corresponding, discussing some nuances, and it’s a lot of work, but the goal is to keep the essence—the accuracy of meaning and poetic language. Very rarely, at least partially, to keep the rhythm and rhyme. And the cultural codes almost never translate, because they are still tied to the archetypes that are understood only by people who grew up in the Russian-speaking world.
If it's no secret, how does a poet make a living in Kazakhstan?
For poet’s work in Kazakhstan, we generally do not receive money. We rarely receive royalties for publication. But due to the fact that I publish in Russian and foreign literary magazines, my poems bring in some money. The amount, of course, is small. In Kazakhstan, for some reason, encouraging authors isn’t customary. The only Kazakh literary magazine in which was I paid no longer exists—Apollinaris published by the Musaget Foundation. And for my first book of poems, which appeared in Alma-Ata in 2004, the same publishing house, I received a fee. I don’t earn a living on poetry.
When I started this project, it was the Yeltsin era. There was excitement and great fear—fear of the unknown, fear of freedom, fear of wild capitalism. I remember how many people were affected by historical and economic change—the loss of economic security as well as the loss of ideological convictions. How was life for you in the 1990s? How is it different today in Kazakhstan?
When the nineties came, I was eight years old. I remember how the country in which I live vanished—the USSR. I had to join the Pioneers, but managed to wear the red tie for all of one week. A little later, we got different money; instead of Soviet rubles, the Kazakhstani tenge. It happened right on my birthday, November 15. History changed before my very eyes. If someone thinks that a child cannot feel the depth of changes, in my opinion, they would be wrong. I remember feeling that the world had become tenuous and when the landmarks of the past were replaced. I even remember a time when we learned with Soviet textbooks and they were amended on the instructions of the teachers. This was especially true of history. Borders arose between the countries of the former Union, Russia and Kazakhstan. Everyone suddenly became foreigners to each other. Nevertheless, the Russian language has retained its position, becoming the lingua franca. Now Kazakhstan is already a country with a history. Already, a generation has grown up that was born after the collapse of the USSR. This generation since birth focused on different values, on the values of capitalist society. I sometimes feel old because I was born in a bygone era, and live in the present.
On the state of Russian poetry. When I started collecting interviews Russian poets in 1992, the academic discipline "creative writing" did not exist, but poetry still had cultural value. Now, it seems that poetry has little mass appeal, but it has its own institutions like in the United States. On the one hand, it seems that Russian poetry plays as a small role in society as in the United States. On the other hand, if we take the Pussy Riot trial (and the hype around them), it appears that poetry is as strong as ever. What do you think?
It seems to me that real poetry in general, in any country, has never focused on the broad masses. Neither in the United States, nor in Russia, nor in Kazakhstan. Lovers of poetry are quite a narrow circle of people. It always has been that way. But cultural value and the level of hype are still different things. Now the attention of the public is more attracted by those who shout louder, the crowd gathering around him, kicking up dust. But often, when the dust settles, it suddenly becomes clear that the tracks on the road don’t remain. Cultural value is defined by the tracks that remain, the significance of the contribution of a poet in a culture, in the development of language. Sometimes it becomes clear only through time, because the action of real poetry is subtle, hidden, not obvious. But sometimes one drop is enough to change the whole ocean.
Interview by Philip Metres (2014)