"God Is a Rusyn": Anthology of Contemporary Carpatho-Rusyn Literature

Diura Papharhai

Diura Papharhaï DIURA PAPHARHAÏ (1936–2008) was a teacher, playwright, poet, editor, and critic. He graduated from the University of Novi Sad in 1963, where he studied the languages and literatures of Yugoslavia. For over three decades (1966–98) he was editor-in-chief of the literary and cultural journal Shvetlosts, where he promoted new works of Vojvodinian Rusyn literature by young authors. Papharhajï’s first collection of poetry Here, Close to the Hearth (Tu takoi pri shertsu, 1969) was distinguished by its lyrical beauty and its moving subject matter, and since that time, he has set the standard for Vojvodinian Rusyn poetry. Subsequent books include Lead, the Cherry Blossom (Olovo, chereshn´ov kvet, 1974), The Poisoner of Dreams (Trovach snokh, 1978), and Journey to the South (Putovanie na iuh, 1991). Papharhajï went on to produce short stories, drama, and literature for children, as well as critical works, textbooks, and journalism. In 1997 he received the prestigious Vuk Karadžić award for literary achievement in Yugoslavia and was named the first laureate of the Aleksander Dukhnovych Prize for Rusyn literature. His work has been translated into numerous European languages, and Journey to the South, from which the poems below are taken, has been translated into English.112 Papharhajï’s poems are refined, erudite, and intellectual. With his expansive lexicon, highly wrought images, and inventive poetic imagination, his poetry is challenging even to the most sophisticated reader. However, Papharhajï’s poetry does not lose touch with the life of the simple people from whom he emerged. His work is dominated by agricultural images, and poems devoted to nature contain his most beautiful and poetic imagery. The subtlety of the poet’s imagery often disguises the topical thrust of his poetic imagination , as in poems that refer to the period of Communism and the disorder that accompanied its fall. Having claimed poetry as his fatherland, Papharhajï finds a point of stability in a world of shifting political systems and national boundaries, not only for himself, but for his people. 112 Djura Papharhaji, Journey to the South, trans. Slavomir Olejar, Julijan Ramach, Elaine Rusinko and Bradley R. Strahan (Austin, Texas: Black Buzzard Press, 2006). In a few cases, translations here have been modified. 202 SERBIA Returner I return to the poem as to a cure, as to a witch, as to repentance that grows like weed under my ribs. I return to the verse as to a stake, as to the taste of blackthorn, as to a bitter graft implanted under my teeth. I return a measure to the millstone, the wisdom of my brow, lest they be poisoned by the unholy power of age. I return the guest’s tablecloth for the hell of the apostle who gnaws the bones of wretched verses. I return to the poem, to a sprite and sister of sin, a palsied straw-knight lying naked on his shield. I return to my verse the blunted spear of a dream. A false marksman again betrays his hidden target. In the sultry morning that swells under the quilt, I return to the poem as to my mistress, my lover. The cursed and hated sinner comes back with a verse as a dying knight returns to the sheltering wing of his fatherland.
 And in the End Was the Word The word is my home. My medicine. My chapel; Warmth with which the sun waters its old age. It is my bond, my cross, my hidden way; a vaccine against poison of the world’s word-pox. The word is my grave, the testament by which I live. It is a crypt for the furrow on my forehead, my day and my night. With the word I cross myself, with the word I get drunk, with the word I wash myself. Stubbornly I clothe myself in its venomous power. DIURA PAPHARHAÏ 203 The word is my pain, the dream in which I dwell. It is my fraud, my hospital, my contagious disease. My betrayer, a harlequin, with whom I run wild. My plaintiff, my judge, and my most honest jury. The word is my sin, my prayer and my repentance. The triumph of wisdom, the brow’s beauty, the body’s pride. So if you recognize me in the rooster’s morning crow, It is only my leaden word that so stubbornly breathes with me.
 I Am Not a Nightingale I am not a nightingale, my song is...