By Maria Bregman, writer and literary critic
Material prepared from a conversation between poet, essayist, and literary critic Dmitry Bobyshev and writer Maria Bregman.
Dmitry Bobyshev – a name inseparable from the mythos of Leningrad’s 1960s poetry, from the legendary “quartet” of poet-friends he once dubbed “Akhmatova’s orphans”. While the paths of Joseph Brodsky, Yevgeny Rein, and Anatoly Naiman diverged over time, Bobyshev – highly esteemed by Akhmatova herself (“In the verses of Dmitry Vasilyevich, there is something greater: this is poetry”) – remained faithful to his singular trajectory. Choosing not classical clarity but Baroque intricacy and opulence, inheriting the tradition of Derzhavin and refining it into his own inimitable style, he became one of his generation’s most original voices. Since 1979, the poet has lived in the United States, where he taught Russian literature for decades at the University of Illinois, yet his bond with Russian culture and language remains foundational. Recently, Dmitry Vasilyevich spoke with writer Maria Bregman about his work, life-altering encounters, and how art transforms reality.
Maria Bregman: Dmitry, to many, you are a legend. Speaking with you, one senses a distinct aura – that of great literature. What is it like to feel yourself part of history?
Dmitry Bobyshev: Thank you for your kind words. History is felt retrospectively. In the moment, you simply live and write. Incidentally, I read some of your stories online – their transparent prose, unpretentious style, honest rural truths left a mark. They resonated with familiar tones, reminiscent of my nanny’s tales. Living in rural America, in Champaign, I don’t feel disconnected – the internet lets me engage with literature, communicate, share my work. My website hosts a trove of writings across genres, and the visitor counter, dotted with national flags, reveals just how vast the Russian-speaking diaspora is!
M.B.: You mentioned your website. Behind you, I see a book poster…
D.B.: Yes, a poster for the New York edition of my collected poems, including Petersburg Celestials. Would you like me to read a chapter? “Quiet Prayer” from the poem Angels and Powers:
Angel of God, my Guardian,
heavenly brother in this earthly realm uncherished!
Of our tender, unheard conversations,
no human tongue may speak.
No ear catches these whispers. Only
the spirit hears this warm silence.
What is this: a call? A message? A sign?
Something… And the heart echoes: – So!
Brother! By our very inseparability,
act, dispel the darkness.
Here I stand, with all the entrails
of God’s sinner and labourer.
What can I do? Only soul-seam…
As I was made, so I live:
strong, I worked; weak, I sinned,
never traded my gift for pennies.
Straighten my frame, if you can.
And in circumstance, do not abandon me.
translated by Maria Bregman
M.B.: Extraordinary… This depth, this power – were they always present, or are they the fruit of a long journey?
D.B.: Naturally, I’ve evolved – mine has been a long writing life. Here’s another from Petersburg Celestials, the chapter “Thrones”, dedicated to Anatoly Naiman. We were lifelong friends, starting out together in the 1950s. The poem is about Petersburg’s heights, angels on spires and domes:
This city, now aged,
over the no-longer-new Neva,
has become redundant vessel,
too ornate for its essence.
Once beauty, storm, and strength,
its spire – a former throne –
now toppled, symbol lost,
the expanse stripped of angels.
Wingless, grown stale…
Treading Peter’s peat,
let the living not believe:
people remain, the city’s dead.
translated by Maria Bregman
This speaks of the angel atop the Peter and Paul Cathedral spire. When I returned to Petersburg in the 90s after long absence, the city was in decay. Suddenly, the angel was gone! Had it flown? Been stolen? It was under restoration – its halves displayed in a chapel below. I touched its heel. The dedication to Naiman isn’t about him per se, but our shared milieu, the Petersburg where we grew up, recited verses beneath these “celestials”. He was a kindred spirit who shared those sensations.
M.B.: You mention Naiman, your quartet. You’re called “Akhmatova’s orphans”. What was meeting Akhmatova like?
D.B.: She embodied poetry. Initially, I craved her reaction to my work, but that faded. What mattered was conversing, hearing her recite her own suppressed, searing critiques of the era. Her tales of the Silver Age, poets of the 30s, Mandelstam… She endured humiliations yet emerged unbroken, retaining dignity and grandeur. It left an indelible mark. Through her, I met Nadezhda Mandelstam, reading her memoirs pre-publication.
M.B.: You’ve spoken of a long journey. How have your style and tools evolved?
D.B.: Tools shifted – from quill and inkwell to iMac. But the mind’s essence remains, albeit altered. I began with lyric poetry, then epics, cycles. Later, memoir called – the tetralogy Humanotext emerged. Life became text; I felt half-human, half-text. Four volumes: I Am Here (pre-Akhmatova), Self-Portrait in Faces (pre-emigration literary life), I Am Absent (exile, invisible to Russian friends), and PS (postscript, recent American years).
M.B.: Did prose change your poetry?
D.B.: Yes – mysteriously. Lyric poetry ceased as before, yet lyrical ideas persisted. Hence miniatures: epigrams, puns, “berries”.
M.B.: Why “berries”?
D.B.: Enough of St. Francis-like “flowers”. Time for thorny satire on literary pretensions. Ripe “berries” – prickly, sardonic notes. Then, Harms-esque absurdist anecdotes on modern figures. Now, fairy tales by “Uncle Demeter” (like Uncle Remus) on my site. Satire? By “Count Champaign” (I reside in Champaign County).
M.B.: Do you revise extensively?
D.B.: Endlessly. Even early works. In Heavenly in the Earthly, written pre-exile, a line: “I am but your unquenched love”. “Love” felt imprecise even then. Decades later, the right word struck: “yearning”. But the book printed “love”… I inked “yearning” into my copy – yet what now? Published words linger. This isn’t mere semantics; it’s soul-deep. You’re the first I’ve told.
M.B.: What drives you creatively now?
D.B.: Writing poetic essays for Belgium’s Émigré Lyre, curating the “Poetic Essays” column. Virtual exchanges dominate, but visitors come – poets, bards, collectors. A Canadian TV crew recently filmed here. Nikolay Kazantsev from Cambridge visited. Life persists.
A conversation with Dmitry Bobyshev immerses one not only in his world but in the grand narrative of 20th- and 21st-century Russian poetry. From Leningrad youth among geniuses to professorship in Urbana; from Baroque odes to satirical “berries” and philosophical prose – his journey is marked by rare integrity and ceaseless reinvention. He remains a “Petersburg poet”, roots sunk in American soil, his “sense of vastness” – of world, language, history – permeating every text. Bobyshev’s unique voice, blending tradition’s might with modernity’s edge, occupies an irreplaceable niche in Russian literature. His Humanotext continues, each new word an event for those who cherish poetry’s true essence.
