"Thought about Opanas". 1926

At the beginning of the summer of 1926, a large company of writers came to Bagritsky. Among them was George Moonblit. He immediately felt that the near-literary fuss was alien to the poet. Living literature, thinking about it day and night, Bagritsky was infinitely far from any kind of group and editorial fuss. Glancing sideways at his guests, who were chattering about the next appointment or transfer of some editor or editorial secretary, he whistled inaudibly to a tiny bird jumping from perch to perch in a cage that stood in front of him on the table. The conversation slowly began to fade.

"Maybe we should read poetry?" suggested Nikolai Dementyev, the organizer of the trip to Bagritsky.

“I propose Blok,” replies Bagritsky.

He began to recite "Commander's Steps." In those places where, like the ringing of a funeral bell, the name of Donna Anna is repeated, Bagritsky lowered his voice. Almost sang, swaying and stamping his foot. When he finished reading, he glanced around at the audience and grinned:

"Good poetry, huh? How do you think?"

“It was customary for us at that time, for laughs, to build phrases in genitive case Moonblit writes. - Odessans ridiculed their fellow countrymen in this way, and besides, not long before that, a little book by some versifier who published it in his own edition and at his own expense acquired notoriety. The book was called “Your nights”, and this amused us all a lot. But I remember how I was struck then in Bagritsky by the sudden transition from excited, enthusiastic reading of magnificent verses to rude and unassuming jocularity. I had yet to learn that this was his usual manner. He was very much afraid of any manifestation of sentimentality and, in a youthful way, confusing feeling with sensitivity, considered it necessary to cover up touchedness with ironic jokes.

“Read him Poems about a Nightingale and a Poet,” said Dementyev, pointing to Moonblit. I read them to him and he didn't like them. Edward, this is the same critical thinker who doesn't like your poetry."

Suddenly, turning to someone behind the partition, he shouted in a sharp, piercing voice: “Li-da! If Sevka comes, don't let him in here!"

“The integrity of the artistic impression” was also a quote. On the programs of the Moscow Art Theater it was then printed that the audience was asked not to applaud until the end of the performance, so as not to violate this very integrity, and this also seemed very funny.

Bagritsky cleared his throat, winked at Dementyev, and immediately, as if removing one mask from his face and putting on another, began to read.

He read "The Ballad of East and West" translated by Elizaveta Polonskaya and read in such a way that the most talented performer could envy this reading. But the strangest thing is that Moonblit and his comrades did not understand this very well at that time. If someone had told them that in a few years Kachalov would imitate Bagritsky by reading his poems, they would never have believed it. Although they will always remember the prayerful silence that reigned in the room when, half-closing his eyes, swaying his whole body and chanting every stressed syllable, Bagritsky read the introduction to Kipling's ballad.

Then there was a chaotic, completely student tea party. Munblitu Lidia Gustavovna and Seva were remembered as follows: “... A thin young woman in teacher's, very serious glasses, brought into the room a large colorful tray filled with cups, mugs and glasses of various sizes. She looked like the only adult in our boyish noisy crowd, and we immediately subsided in her presence. Following his mother, a swarthy, all-scratched five-year-old imp, very similar to his father, and speaking in a very adult way, burst into the room.

After tea we decided to go boating. Kuntsevo in those years, just like Sokolniki in Chekhov's time, was a dacha. There was a real forest, boats on the river, a distant horizon, silence. It has already begun to evening. Bagritsky suddenly cheered up, began to teach the company to row. Then he sang a song: “It’s not a black raven that curls, it’s not a nightingale whistles - I didn’t want to, but I’ll have to irrigate the grass with blood ...” After listening to this sad song, everyone fell silent.

And then Bagritsky suddenly suggested:

“Do you want me to read my new poems to you?” – and, without waiting for an answer, he began to read the beginning of The Thought about Opanas.

“When Bagritsky finished reading, no one uttered a word. Only a minute later everyone started talking, but not about poetry, but about something else. And Bagritsky, as if it were not he who had just read his amazing poem, interrupted by excitement, coming from the very heart, began to laugh, tell jokes, make rude jokes, ”Moonblit returns that evening. Dementiev asked him, leaning over, his eyes gleaming: “Well, how?”

“I didn't answer him. And what was I to say? After all, for the first time I saw Poetry so close, very close to me, and you can’t say about it in simple words.

Soon a company of writers headed by Bagritsky paid a visit to Lunacharsky. They decided to offer the publication of a series of translated adventure literature in translations adapted for the mass reader. For solidity, it was decided to include the People's Commissar of Education Lunacharsky as an editor in the application.

The writers went up to the fifth or sixth floor of an old Moscow apartment building. For some time they argued about who to press the call button. The timid authors were let into the dimly lit anteroom. At first, a small dump formed in it, which arose due to the fact that no one wanted to stand in front. Bagritsky managed to secure a place for himself in the rearguard, but in the commotion he dropped a very elegant lady's hat from a hanger and stepped on it with his foot.

It was at this moment that the door opened and Anatoly Vasilyevich came out of the room in a warm knitted waistcoat, without a jacket and in slippers. He seemed to have noticed nothing - neither the embarrassment of the guests, nor the fuss that Eduard Georgievich raised, removing from under his rough boot, shaking off the dust and placing the ill-fated hat on the hanger, no attempts faithful comrades cover Bagritsky with their bodies. Milo accepted and talked with those who dreamed of a series of books promising fabulous fees for those who came.

“But why, in fact, cut these books? Lunacharsky expressed his doubts. – You just need to choose the best of them and give them to young readers with good prefaces. Don't you think it would be more correct?"

Of course, this would be more correct. But to agree with Lunacharsky meant jeopardizing the planned, so ingenious and so profitable enterprise. The guests began to convince him, and themselves, that they would cut almost nothing. In the meantime, Anatoly Vasilievich looked around the guests with a fixed gaze, smiling slightly at their ardor and, obviously, understanding everything very well. Then he suddenly asked: “Which of you is Bagritsky?”

The writers froze. True, when negotiating with the secretary, they listed all their names. But it never occurred to them that they would immediately become known to Lunacharsky. Finally, Eduard Georgievich, in the tone of a man who decided to atone for his guilt with a frank confession, said: "I am Bagritsky."

Lunacharsky looked at him attentively and, taking off his pince-nez, began to rub it. “I recently read your poem in Krasnaya Nov. I think it's a great thing!" he said gravely. His kindly husky voice, which those gathered around were accustomed to hearing from the podium, here in the room was filled with the same charm as there.

Bagritsky stood up, smiled embarrassedly, and suddenly barked something between a soldier's "glad to try" and a pioneer's "always ready." He subsequently vehemently denied this, but facts are stubborn things. Everyone heard his bark with their own ears.

Lunacharsky said something else flattering about the "Duma about Opanas." Bagritsky muttered something more embarrassed. Then the guests began to say goodbye.

Going down the stairs, Eduard Georgievich was stubbornly silent, not answering either congratulations or jokes. And as soon as he went out into the street, he said:

"François Villon was also a poor man, but he would not allow himself this."

“What would Villon not allow himself?” someone asked.

"Slicing up good books is what."

“Well, what about bad ones? The bad ones would he allow himself to shred?"

"Don't ask stupid questions! A decent person should not have anything to do with bad books at all, ”Bagritsky concluded edifyingly.

Viktor Shklovsky emphasized how diligently Eduard Bagritsky studied plot verse from Burns, Kipling, Walter Scott. “He managed to speak with his own voice in the “Duma about Opanas,” concludes Shklovsky.

“I wrote The Duma about Opanas,” Bagritsky shared in 1933. - In it, I described what I saw in Ukraine during the civil war ... I worked for a long time, eight months. I wanted to write it in the style of Ukrainian folk songs, as Taras Shevchenko wrote. To do this, I used the rhythm of his "Gaidamakov" ... This thing has stood the test of time: it was written in 1926 and is still being printed everywhere.

In 1929, Bagritsky spoke about his musical image as a civilian and how he writes poetry. “Poems come unexpectedly. You walk around the city for hours, wander with a dog and a gun through the forest - nothing happens. But a stone turned up under his feet. You stumble, the chain of associations begins to work. The first image appears randomly. Like a shot from around the corner - and the car moved. Creativity begins. The poem is the prototype of the human body. Each part is in place, each organ is expedient and has a specific function. I would say that each letter of a verse is like a cell in the body - it must beat and pulsate. There can be no dead cells in a verse. Appendicitis is absolutely impossible. A poem is born without a blind gut. I work slowly. After a collision with a stone, I try to immediately write down everything that came to my mind. But after a few days, everything written seems so ugly to me that it takes several months to bring the whole work into a more decent form. Rhythm feels like an underground rumble. Opanas was written because of the syncopations that burst like Makhnovist carts into the regular army of lines. "Stone" was a Ukrainian song. Which my wife sang to me. Before “Opanas”, the “Song about Ustin” was written - a version of the song sung to me by my wife ... The size was the same as in “Opanas”. It seemed to me that this size would be the best way to write a poem about the civil war.

We hear syncopations in the second and fourth lines of each stanza:

On the slopes of the vineyard

fussing with leaves,

Where does Panko run from Balta

Dear steppe...

... The wind is blowing over the carts

Wide, fighting.

Cossacks before the fighters

Grigory Kotovsky ...

“The Thought about Opanas” is a poem about the war in the minds and hands of Ukrainians, which has no end in sight. About the delirium of "Ukrainianism", which has no translation. In A Walk with Pleasure and Not Without Morality, Taras Shevchenko writes about the Sicilian vespers served by the Poles Maxim Zheleznyak in 1768. That year Shevchenko's fellow countrymen Bartholomew's night and even the first French Revolution outdone. In the 20th century, the Makhnovists and Grigorievites went further. But even the tyrant Stalin was forced to defend them against the rootless cosmopolitans in the late 1940s. Bagritsky was accused of slandering the freedom-loving Ukrainian people.

Kyiv. Vladimirskaya street, 57. Hall - amphitheater of the Teacher's House. In 1917–1918, the Central Rada sat in it. Her attempt to create an independent Ukraine failed. And now, in 1949, from February 28 to March 1, Ukrainian masters of the red word confer here. There is a plenum of the Writers' Union.

M. Bazhan: “These cosmopolitan snobbies lived on our land, scorned everyone – and paid with hatred, contempt, and arrogance.”

O. Korniychuk: “Cosmopolitans are leaning on our patriotism: stink to repeat that in the era of the atomic bomb there is no way, having moved, there is a place for national frameworks.”

O. Gonchar: “we always felt our sympathies there, our antipathies on ourselves.”

P. Tichina: “What is the point, if in the 32nd rotation of the revolution the proletarian art is brought to protect some of them?”

M. Rudenko: "The accusation of cosmopolitanism is the same as the accusation of the people's sake."

S. Sklyarenko: “The whole of Ukraine is to follow the work of the Plenum. In this hall with us here is the party and the whole people.

From the capitalist distance of post-Soviet Moscow, he stormily greets the speakers and tramples on Bagritsky in the blogosphere, the author of “Endless Dead End” Dmitry Galkovsky: “Thieves’ poetry of high feelings ...”

The decisions of the Plenum of 1949 are fully supported by the leaders of the Union of Writers of Ukraine of the 21st century. In the red corner, in place of Lenin's writings, they hoisted Vasil Shklyar's novel Zalyshynets (Black Raven). “Having read Shevchenko. I often eat at the novice's: why did you come before me? I feel: in that Muscovite the hut was burned down, that one was plundered, that one’s maiden was plundered… – we read in the Black Raven. - It’s always so bulo with us - until the wading is full of fat for the skin, mi nichichirk. And this one seems to me: after reading the Kobzar. You so chuv if-nebud? What if a person reads Shevchenko and becomes a “bandit”? From de force! Tse I before, abi ty knowing, scho need an hour to read to the Cossacks a corner. It’s better for every drill ... It doesn’t mean that we’ve been overcome ... Mousimo check in this year, if the whole world is reconciled, what is the Jewish-Moscow commune, and our people, having proven themselves, will again take up the zbroy. Then we will get new allies abroad, and new fresh forces in the Batkivshchyna ... "

Bagritsky answers in the "Duma ...":

Ukraine! Dear mother!

Young life!

We used to go to the Cossacks,

And now - in the bandits!

And in 1926 in the poem "From black bread ..."

We have a knife - not on the brush,

Feather - not to your liking,

Kirk is not honorable

And glory is not for glory:

We are rusty leaves

On rusty oaks...

In 1930, Kharkiv philologist Alexander Finkel (1899–1968) wrote a parody of Bagritsky's "Thought about Waverley". He imagines how the poet would interpret the plot of the novel of the same name by Walter Scott:

I did not die from a bullet

At Popov's log,

I won't get fried even in July -

Into the smoke, into the tin, into God...

It would be better to tell

Yes, sorry I can't...

In the early 1960s, Alexander Finkel created one of the best studies of Bagritsky's work known to me, an article on the poem "The Origin". It was published for the first time only in the late 1980s in Poland. Fortunately, it is available to the Ukrainian reader on the Internet.

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The publication includes poems and the poem "The Thought about Opanas" by Eduard Bagritsky (1895-1934). The heyday of the poet's work came in the 20s of the last century. His poems are full of enthusiasm and revolutionary romance. The poet passionately believed in a bright future and painfully tried to justify the cruelty of the revolutionary ideology and the emerging totalitarianism. That is why in one of his poems, the deceased Dzerzhinsky, who appeared to the author, speaks of the coming century: “But if he says: “Lie!” - lie. But if he says: "Kill!" - kill.

Thought about Opanas; Poetry

Thought about Opanas

Haydamaks shone
Life in Ukraine
But don’t stink yoga.
What do we want to work?

T. Shevchenko (Gaidamaki)

1

On the slopes of the vineyard
fussing with leaves,
Where does Panko run from Balta
Dear steppe.
Turnips bite the leg
Whistles life to pasture,
Star Cart is dear to him
Seems to be shafts.
Star Cart shows the way
In the heavens pure -
For poor farms
To the German colonists.
Opanase, don't give a damn
Take a good look -
You see the black hat
At the watchman?
Know from an unclean conscience
You fled from Balta
Stomp to Shtol-colonist,
And you got to Makhna!
Makhn is up to his shoulders
Hair is thick:
Where are you from, man?
From what region?
You are in our army
Willy or unwilling?
- I, father, fled from Balta
To the colonist Stol.
Oh, vexation gnaws at me,
Strong insult!
I ran from the food squad
From Kogan the Jew...
Along ravines and slopes
Kogan roars like a wolf,
Gets nose into the huts,
Which are cleaner!
Look left, look right
Snoring angrily:
"Shovel out of the ditch
Hidden Life!
Well, who will raise a storm -
Don't make noise, bro.
Mustache in the garbage heap,
Shoot - and cover!
Chernozem flowed like a swamp
From blood and sweat, -
I don't want to swing a rifle
I want to work!
Oh, father, say mercy
Coming from the field
Where the farm is located
Colonist Shtol?
- Shtol? Which one, man?
Red and chipped?
He was shot close
Around the corner from the house...
And you got the road
Bed with me.
Turn back drawbar -
I'll shut my mouth with a bullet!
Give the fur coat to Opanas
The cloth of the city!
Offer to Opanas
Wine of the young!
Knock up your boots
Forged iron!
Give a hat, reward
Bomb and sawed-off!
We will go far with you
From end to end! -
Makhn has the very best
The hair is thick...
. . . . . .
Opanase, our share
Waving a saber now -
Noisy Gulyai-Polye
All over Ukraine.
Ukraine! Dear mother!
Life is young!
Opanasu's share is out
Chat with Makhno.
Ukraine! Dear mother!
Young life!
We used to go to the Cossacks,
And now - in the bandits!

2

Noisy Gulyai-Polye
From a terrible dance, -
Gogol at will
Horse of Opanas.
Opanas looks at the picture
In a shaggy hat,
Fur coat from a dead rabbi
Filmed near Gomel.
Fur coat - fur dress -
Open - hot!
English cut French
Obtained for Vapnyarka.
On a hand with a strong whip
Foal soap;
Revolver hanging on a chain
From the chandelier.
Opanase, our share
Wrapped in mist, -
You want a grain grower in the field,
And you go - a bandit!
You will fly on a clean road,
Fly into the gate
Beat the Jews and the Communists -
Easy job!
And Makhno hurries in the fog
Along the spacious paths
In the monastery chaise,
Under the black banner
Gulyai-Polye groans with a groan
From a terrible dance -
Gogol at will
Steed of Opanas…

3

A little bread is collected -
Do not creak carts.
Kogan is having dinner in the hut
Zhitnyak and honey.
Kogan is having dinner in the hut,
milk sips,
Bolshevik conversation
Men are confused:
- I ask you to answer honestly,
Directly, without slope:
How many in the parish
Brewing moonshine?
What are the crops? How are the taxes?
Do sheep fall?
At this time on the road
The Makhnovists are stomping...
Horses are dancing on the road
Hooves beat into the ground.
Opanas from under the palm
Looks at life.
Midnight gray, steppe
stood before the fighters,
From a distance the darkness of the night
Smoldering kagans.
The horn dogs are lying,
They sing songs.
Chilly advanced
We entered the village.
Behind the church fence
The iron clanged:
- You will not find a food detachment:
Cut into a plank! -
Farm dogs, dance
On explosive steel:
Like a quail in life
Kogan was caught.
They took him on the road
Gray, steppe, -
Met Joseph Kogan
With Nestor Makhna!
Makhno looked sternly,
shook his head,
Makhno did not say a word,
And he waved his hand!
Oh, Joseph Kogan lived
Until the hour of death
Kohl converged his road
With the path of Opanas!..
Opanas put his foot down
Worth and proud of:
- Hello, Comrade Kogan,
Please shave!

4

Poplars gray-haired flock,
Poplar air...
Ukraine, dear mother,
Song-Ukraine!..
On your steppe expanse
Syromakha jumps,
Tumbleweed whistles
Yes, the crow croaks ...
The fighting sun rises
Over the steppe road
There are two on the road today -
Opanas and Kogan.
Above the burning threshold
The heat smokes and melts;
Commissar, Comrade Kogan,
The junk is dropping…
Spread on a white body
The sun is young.
- On, Panko, when you shoot,
Take the rest!
I won't regret a pair of trousers
Useful at home -
Still, a former salesman,
Good friend! .. -
The fighting sun rises
Drying the corn
In the corn the wind howls
Opanasu in the ears:
- I once followed the oxen,
Fought as a soldier.
Are you on a sugar morning
Do you go out into the steppe? -
And spread out in the dance
County votes:
- Opanase! Opanase!
Katyuga! Katyuga! -
The homeless kopeck screeches
Under a white cloud
- Fight unarmed, lad,
Last thing! -
And the plain howls like a wolf -
From the Dniester to the Bug
Animal, stone and grass:
- Katyuga! Katyuga! .. -
Don't look, the sun is evil,
Opanasu in the eyes:
He is sad, as if drunk,
Doesn't want to kill...
Either from the heat, or from a groan
Fatigue set in
Turned:
- Three cartridges
Left in the cage...
Blood is a hateful burden
The man's son...
Drain into the corn -
I'll shoot you in the back!
I won't knock you down
Walk with God! -
Corrects eyepieces,
Smiling, Kogan:
- Opanas, work cleanly,
I don't blink a fly.
Uncomfortable communist
Run like a greyhound!
You will rush straight - in the fog
river pools,
To the right - German farmers,
To the left - sentries!
I'd rather die in the field
From a dishonorable bullet! ..
Silence in the steppe expanse -
Only the shot cracked
Only Kogan trembled weakly,
Only gasped Kogan,
Started to fall sideways
Fall a little...
From iron strike
Above the eyebrows clot,
Look through the eyepieces
Cold and empty...
From the Black Sea along the roads
The dust is dancing
Kogan buried his nose in the dust
Before Opanas...

5

Where is the wide road
Free reach of the Dniester,
Calling at Popov's Log
Commander Kotovsky.
He looks over the valley
commander's eye,
The stallion under him sparkles
White refined.
The stallion lifts his leg
Drop another one
It's like he's trying his way
Steppe road.
And on the stone slope
From the Popov Log
Squadrons fly out
Right on the road...
From welding, the faces are smooth,
step away,
Ammunition is ok
Like Nicholas.
Horses turn their heads
The tail is laid in the wind:
Makhna is being chased
Exactly a week.
. . . . . . .
No noise over the shores
young life,
Behind the crazy wagons
The bandits are hiding.
There, behind a jug of moonshine,
In a tent,
With the ataman zatubenny
Interprets Bunchu:
- It is necessary with the Bolsheviks
We accept the battle -
Spin in front of the shelves
Give orders! .. -
How dad moved in a big way
On the table with your hand
How the father thundered on a grand scale
On the ground with a foot:
- Come on, give before the fight
fatter food,
Come on, knock out before the fight
You are from the barrels of the bottom,
To hands to machine guns
They themselves took a liking
So that the lads from under their hats
They looked like a kite!
To smoke the gunpowder
Over the water of the Dniester,
To choke with grief
Commander Kotovsky!
. . . . . . .
Lightning shoots with arrows,
The mist crawls into the potholes,
Red foxes chirping
To the chum camp.
Behind the wide bullish roar -
Vague headboard;
Div promises midnight cry
The death of Transnistria.
And behind the dark wagons,
For the drowsy dormouse
For feather grass forelocks,
Behind the wing of a crow
Washed by the bitter shadow
Rise above the ground
The sun of a new battle -
Battle sun...

6

Well, the palms took
For curved sabers,
Horses take off on their hind legs,
Like whirlwinds of the steppe.
Horses creep on the run
Align with the road
On crazy carts
On the muzzle of an ox.
The wind is blowing over the carts,
Wide, fighting,
Cossacks before the fighters
Grigory Kotovsky ...
A checker is playing over the horse
pouring force,
Broken red cap
On the shaved back.
Shoulders tremble in harmony
From the horse dance...
Breaks out towards
Grivun of Opanas.
- Fly in, my wild horse,
Move your hooves
Saber, bullet or pike
Let's get the brigade commander! -
They flew and collided
Moved by horses
Sabers immediately overlapped
crooked streams...
The brigade commander has combat
The soul took
He cuts with a raid
Saber of Opanas.
Rubanuv, threw back the saber,
Threatening eyes:
- Show your flair
Now fists! -
The brigade commander has a vigorous move,
Heavier than pigs
Turned around - and with acceleration
Crap on the sopatka! ..
. . . . . . .
Opanase, what's wrong with you?
Hang your head...
Turned around, swayed
Fell into the grass...
Eye above left cheekbone
Flowing blue...
Silently falls on his back
Palms outstretched...
Opanase, our share
Scattered in the field!..

7

Balta is a decent town,
The town is what you need.
There are no rouge cherries anywhere,
Sweeter than grapes.
In cheese, in kavuns, in dill
Call day market;
Boy is chasing pigeons
From the fire tower...
Opanase, you did not guess
In a loose feather grass,
What will you go through Balta
A sloppy tract;
What is after you women
Longing for a look;
What shoves you at the headquarters
Watch butt…
Oh, crazy open spaces -
Bitter loss!
Corridors to corridors
There are doors in the corridors.
And through the corridor dust
Through a deaf house
Opanas was carried out
For interrogation to the headquarters.
And the staff had for interrogation
The old habit
Offers a cigarette
Lights a match:
- Citizen, I beg your honor
Talk to me.
How long have you been hanging out together?
With Nestor Makhna?
Answer without cheating
Not for fear,
How many sabers and carts
Is he in the squad?
Answer, but not immediately
And thinking a little, -
How much to the main base
Did the forage fit in?
Do you know the district
Where does he lead the gang?
- What I knew: a horse, a girth,
Saber and reins!
How the distance of the steppe trembled,
Do not say in words:
Ukraine - mother dear -
Fought under horses!
As we walked in wheeled thunder
So the sky is hot
Remember Gaisin and Zhytomyr,
Balta and Vapnyarka!..
daring
Into the smoke, into the tin, into God!..
... I will not forget one
How did Kogan die?
Dear dear
Legs won't go
If Kogan stretched out
Across the road...
Well, headquarters, shake your head,
Move the ink:
With this very hand
Kogan was killed!
Die, Gulyai-Polye,
Young life!
. . . . . . .
Opanase, our share
Covered in fog!..

8

Opanas, step bolder
Look more fun!
Oh, don't hoot, oh, don't stomp,
Don't clap your hands!
Friendly fingers loosened
Sabers will not be pulled out.
The last evening has come
You have nothing to cover!
Opanas, your road -
Not beyond the threshold.
What do you see? What do you hear?
What do you know? What do you breathe?
The night is hot and dry
Yes, the darkness of the shed.
A light bulb smolders on the roof, -
Hey, head up!
And towards over the threshold -
Lost Kogan.
neat hairstyle,
And wax cheeks.
Smiling sternly:
- Buddy, great!
Where we are destined by fate
Collide with you!
Opanas, your road -
Beyond the threshold...

Epilogue

Leaked over Ukraine
Fighting years.
Shut down, go off
Young waters...
I don't know where they are buried
Opanas bones:
Maybe under a willow bush
Maybe on the sidelines...
The blue-winged goose splashes
Over the water of the Dniester;
Glory walks over the grave,
Where is Kotovsky...
Behind the bandit steppes
Hooves do not rattle:
Over burning bones
Life blooms.
Blue over the bones
Impenetrable pool
Yes, the Red Army soldier is coming
On a visit to the house…
Stop and look
blue eyes -
On a homeless round stone,
Washed out by the rains.
And bend down and lift
lone stone:
On the palm - a white skull
With a hole above the eyes.
And he will say, feeling
Dead cold:
- You looked into the eyes of a rifle,
You died as it should! .. -
And go across the plain
Through the whirlpool of heat
To young Ukraine
In a young life...
. . . . . .
So let me die
At Popov's log,
The same glorious end
Like Joseph Kogan!

Poetry

Poems 1914–1925 Odessa

Dionysus

Where the ledge is cold and gray
Falls down like a waterfall
I scream at the silent cave:
– Dionysus! Dionysus! Dionysus!
Tired after a long hunt
Dusty your purple outfit,
He went to the turquoise grottoes
Squeeze golden grapes...
Dionysus! On a gilded shield -
Faded snakes blue fight,
And weeps with a torn groan
A pipe directed to the sky ...
And on the ashes of burned backgammon,
Intoxicated, I prostrate;
Above me is the head of a leopard,
The golden leader of the chariots...
Oh, throw up your hands
In the cornice decorated by Diana! ..
Stretch the stubborn bows, -
Dionysus is coming to us, Dionysus!
In the clouds golden purple
The evening wept in the misty distance...
In my heart, a patterned urn,
Light sadness tremble crystal.

On my way

And the night follows the day, like a wolf behind a quiet chamois,
And the sky seems like a bottomless cistern,
Where the towers are collapsing misty cities...
It's been twelve days since Carthage has been abandoned,
For twelve days the monsoons have carried us far away! ..
The heavy sword will not tinkle, the scarlet shield will not tremble,
The pattern of the Sidon walls will not splash with whiteness ...
In vain the third day they burn blue smokes,
In vain the priest prays at the black mast,
In vain they pour the hissing fat of sheep on the backgammon:
Ferocious Poseidon knows no regret...
On the dirty deck, red from the sun,
Between the abandoned gear and torn sails,
The sailors are sleeping quietly; and the bitterness of summer dreams
Silently took possession of swarthy bodies ...
And the night follows the day ... Purple thread
A sick sunset is spinning beyond the distance of dying ...
But we are more afraid of thunders, and storms, and sobs -
In the burning silence, a trembling exclamation: “Drink!”
And the cold night goes with the wrong foot,
Scattering behind you the flowers of faded dreams...
For twelve days the shores have not been seen,
And the night follows the day, like a wolf behind a quiet chamois...

Creole

When she gets bored of crafty novels
And get tired of lying in wicker hammocks,
She comes to the port to watch the caravels
Sailing from troubled countries on unsteady sails.
A wide cloak of golden fabric rustles;
The sand barely crunches under the red heels,
And a little Hindu in an azure turban
Carries a heavy train embroidered with silver.
She goes alone to the abandoned pier,
Where the sails of the Algerian brigantines splash,
When the farandole is danced at sunset,
And the flute rattles, and the tambourine groans.
From the decks of ships so vaguely pulls tar,
So softly embroidered silks rustle.
But the funniest thing for her is to lightly touch with her elbow
A mulatto fisherman who cast his net ...
And at home waiting for her crystal arbors,
Cupid of marble, looking into the fountain,
And a red parrot hanging in a copper cage
And a flock of little tailless monkeys.
And the green cicadas rattle loudly
In transparent corollas of porcelain flowers,
And the pearly bulks of the distant mountains will sink
In berets of blue fluffy clouds.
When will the night wake up over the marble balcony
And the nightjar will shout, trembling wings,
She alone goes to the abandoned columns,
Shrouded in a rain of green ivy...
In the blue alley, where in the silver of the fog
The viscous aroma of tea roses is transparent,
Bending down, waiting for her by the blue fountain
With a viola under a cloak, a laughing mulatto.
He will kiss the fearful Creole,
When flowers sing and silence cries...
And in the clouds, sliding on blue silk,
The moon barely rustles with sharp edges ...

jetty

Green steam rises above the blue swell,
And the sky in the distance is transparent blue ...
And the month, drunk on silence and heat,
Torn to pieces by a blow of thin rails ...
Skeletons of brigantines, like black fighters,
They plunged the spears of the masts into the azure paper ...
And the purple corsair silently sharpens his sword,
To spread death to distant ends.
In the Blue Brig tavern, the weary skipper Pete
Plays a sad waltz on a decrepit mandolin,
And nearby, at the table, in a broken basket
A huge black cat, grinning, snoring...
And the cabin boy, silently immersed in a dream of love,
Inhales blue smoke from the mouth of a black pipe,
And in the lace of lights they seem through a dream
Singing ringing of earrings and purple lips.
And long sabers knock on the dirty floor,
And caustic beer from barrels splashes into mugs ...
And in the morning copper guns will be directed at them
A patrol frigate sailed up to the pier ...

End of the Flying Dutchman

Cracked guitars are so rattling sounds
The hoarse pipe coughed into the fog,
And bony ruthless hands beat
In a large, patterned, Turkish drum ...
By the red sign of an abandoned tavern
Where green hops crawl along the damp wall,
A drunken sailor bawls a ritornello,
And the verse replaces the verse, melodious and untrue...
Sticky smoke flows over the red lantern.
Fat Martha's apron, stained with wine,
Two drunken boatswains, scolding, playing cards;
On a damp tablecloth, rum trembles in glasses ...
The sailors' berets are trimmed with galloons,
On purple cloaks in the clasp - turquoise.
Pale girls have green eyes
And a white row of teeth behind red lips...
Porcelain lantern - transparent moon,
In the rosette of blue clouds it flickers wearily,
They will pattern the moonlight on the blue of the backwater,
About the half-rotted pier, a wave silently beats ...
At the old pier, where the cry of drunkards is muffled,
Where less often is the blue smoke of tobacco fumes,
Crazy old brig of the Flying Corsair
The painted flags drooped.

Miner

I went to the mountains on an emerald night,
In the silence of snow and opal ice floes...
And the pearl shreds circled in the sky,
And the carbine on the belt interfered with jumping ...
Between gloomy firs and rustling birches
On skis I glided on dull ice,
Where the dwarfs brought in wheelbarrows creaking
From stone mines to gold ore...
I saw crumbling rubble on the clay
Bear footprints intertwined pattern,
Crystal towers of broken crests
And blue dresses of frozen lakes...
And the frozen sky descended lower and lower,
And the moon was an ice floe over blocks of ice floes,
But the rough skis hissed sharply,
And the carbine trembled measuredly on the belt ...
In the frosty gorge three winter weeks
I blew granites with a heavy pick,
While over the cliff, at the broken spruce,
Metal ignited in the scattered quartz...
And the polar lights of the necklace went out,
When I went to the Far East...
And he stood, swaying, over the haze of the gorge
Transparent spring emerald smoke ...
I came to the city in the elusive darkness,
Where melting ice fell on the streets.
I stepped into puddles. And the dogs growled
From dilapidated kennels, at rotting gates...
And where the lantern is over the wooden fence
Swaying in a puddle like a yellow shadow
Were drawn with a rough pattern
On the signboard, the letters "Running Deer" ...
And where weaves silver nets
Above the screech of the orchestra tobacco smoke,
I threw at the circle of crazy roulette
Golden sand on the green of the cloth ...
And in the morning, drunk and foggy from the sun,
Huge thighs heaved up the earth ...
But she squeezed her neck silently and strangely
Cold snake tight loop.

Slavs

We lived in green spaces
Where the air is filled with spring
Flickering in downcast eyes
Bonfires of nomadic tribes…
Dressed in shaggy skins,
We burned sacrifices for you
To you, O foolish and gloomy
Perun on a high pillar.
We drove the herds along the ravine,
Where keys splash with beads,
But soon bloody mash
Drink axes and swords.
Teutons come from sunset
With a cross and a crazy eagle,
And the swans, leaving the backwaters,
They break the sedge with their wing.
Yarila is hiding in the clouds,
Stribog rises to the heights,
They laugh in the prickly thickets
Only a wolf and a spotted lynx ...
And drunk on raw bile,
Perun trembles on a pillar.
The mad heart of the Teuton,
Thunderbolt, I throw you...
Burning hills and ravines,
The battlements on the towers blushed,
Carry red banners
Priests in white cloaks.
Frenzied trumpets roar,
The sobs of the strings roar,
Baring bloody teeth
Mad Perun laughs! ..

Enemy

Compresses a broken leg
Shoe lined with nails,
He prays to a sad god;
Will God hear prayers?
Cold dawns will sweep
In the fields of golden lights ...
Noise in the crimson expanse
Green elms alone.
Only the wind that broke from the steep,
Whirl of silver dust
Let the prickly Tatar dance,
Let the feather grass droop silently.
And at night will cover the roads
Slime-soaked mist
Weary feet trample
The drum will sound the alarm.
Goes, bending under a knapsack,
In the smoke of perishing villages,
Silently screaming, choking,
On the banner is a black eagle.
It tramples like a wild dance,
Horses stunned gallop ...
The copper helmet is lowered
On a damp, dusty forehead.
Dried lips faded
The gun shook in his hand;
The sentinel trumpets sang
In a village on a nearby river...
Now over damp fields
The east will open its fan ...
Knocks heavily with boots
And cocks the elastic trigger ...

September 1914

Suvorov

In a gray cocked hat, nimble and small,
In a blue overcoat with torn elbows, -
He put on warm boots in winter
And he wrapped his throat with scarves and handkerchiefs.
In those days, stagecoaches creaked along the roads,
And the coachmen sat on the goats in camisoles and felt hats;
In the evenings, in hotels, cheerful girls sang romances,
And in the low halls a minty smell flowed.
When the mail-coach horn sounded in the distance,
Green curtains were raised on the dirty windows,
Tender duets fell silent in the dark halls,
And a whisper was heard: “Suvorov is coming!”
Thin skirts rustled on the narrow stairs,
The gates were opened by helpful Cossacks,
The red-faced travelers respectfully hid their pipes,
Burning your hands with hot coals.
In the evenings he sat by the extinguished fireplace,
On which stood Saxon clocks and china freaks,
Reading a French novel, opening it in the middle,
"About the torments of poor Juliet, who fell in love with a noble seigneur."
In the morning when the shepherd's horns sing
And the fat maid taps her shoes down the corridor,
He was going to his cold villages
Pulling on boots with knocked down heels.
Dirty fleece turned yellow in wrinkled ears;
Groaning like an old man, he went into the yard, holding on to the railing;
A coachman in a blue caftan whipped a red horse,
And the hotel, the grove rushed, so that it was rippling in the eyes.
When in front of him floated out of the fog
Little houses and a church with a peeling roof
He pulled the tall coachman by the half of his caftan
And he shouted to him in an old voice: “Go quietly!”
But sometimes on the first snow that has fallen,
Standing in the cab and holding on to the driver's shoulder,
A courier came to his village
And he brought a letter from the mother-empress.
“My lord,” he read, “Alexander Vasilyich!
How sad it is for me to disturb your peaceful rest,
You, like the ancient Cincinnatus, retired to your village,
To multiply your possessions with wise work and sciences ... "
He looked at the perfumed paper for a long time -
It seemed as if the words would go down on a thin thread;
Then he went to the closet, took out orders and a sword
And he became the Suvorov of textbooks and books.

Breaking the harmony

ultramarine sky,
Sweaty earth from storms
And unfolded the bile of bread
Chessboard of the field.
Who, who came out of the dark distance,
Absorbed the power of underground forces,
In the expanse of the earth they became a seal
Did you stick the rectangles?
Who, glaring into the distance with a cloudy look,
By pressing a slow hand
geodetic instrument
Silently tears the earth to pieces?
O Surveyor, in a dream weary
You see that distant slope,
Where is the triangle with a sharp sting
Stuck into the outlined square.
And the compass draws a circle in dimensions,
And the line is drawn
But still he sings, bowing incorrectly,
Copper string plumb:
About that square slopes
Under the earth pipe
What emerald squares
The curve is dissected by the boundary;
What, intoxicated with a dusty haze,
Having occupied the nearest slope with a square,
Angle enclosed in a circle,
The rustling branches of the old garden;
That only a monument is powerless,
Frozen over the blood of late roses,
What's in the copper cracked convolutions
Drunk green vitriol.

Hymn to Mayakovsky

A brutal bison in a shiny top hat -
You slowly move your glazed eyes
On pipes catching clouds like hands,
On the dirty pavement, filled with sewage.
Universal sportsman in an orange suit,
You hit the ground with a forged heel
And she flew into the fire spaces
And it goes faster, faster, faster...
Divine sybarite with a bronze body,
Watching, as in the emerald bowl of the Earth,
Hanging over the fires of ages
Peoples swell and burst.
O Commander of Cities barking furiously at the Sun,
When you proudly walk down the street
Houses are drawn to the front,
Turning the roofs to the right.
I, pampered on down jackets for centuries,
I offer you my well-groomed hand,
And you shake it with a confident hand,
So blue marks remain on white skin.
I, who hate Modernity,
Seeking oblivion in mathematics and history,
I see clearly with my still inspired eyes,
That soon, soon we will perish like smoke.
And respectfully avoiding, I say:
"Hello, Mayakovsky!"

Deribasovskaya at night

(Spring)

On the dirty sky are embossed with rays
Green letters: "Chocolate and cocoa",
And cars, like cats with their tails down,
They squeal furiously: “Ah, meow! meow!"
Black trees with disheveled brooms
Sweep the rouged stars from the sky,
And red-red trams, rattling their muzzles,
On the skulls of cobblestones they crawl to rest.
Granite dolphins - fat pugs -
At the dirty fountain they wanted to drink,
And the monument to Pushkin, putting a cigarette in his mouth,
He asks the lantern: "Let me smoke!"
Degenerate clouds are sweeping low
From women's lips carries penny cigars,
And the moon hung like an orange sausage
Above the pavement, combing the parting with sidewalks.
Seven-story house with signs in an armful,
Smokes coal like a dandy cigar
And a red-nosed lantern in a gymnasium cap
Winks at the sign - he's on a roll today.
On black lakes of oily asphalt
Red stars serve the night mass ...
Rejoice, pimps, raise the pipes at home -
And Deribasovskaya has a poet!

About the nightingale lover

I'm in love with him.
And he loves some nightingales…
He doesn't know it's not my fault
That I'm in love with him
No clicking, no whistling, and even no words.
It's hard for him to understand
How can you love him Human:
So far he has only been loved nightingales.
Cute! Let me hug you
See the arrows of lowered eyelids,
Talk about the pain of love.
I know he will ask me: “Where is your tail?
Where is your beak? Where are your wings attached?
"My dear! I don't nightingale, Not warbler, Not thrush…
Love me - GIRL,
BIRDLIKE
And
frail ... My dear!

Autumn

The timpani of the swans fell silent in the distance,
The cranes quieted down behind the swampy meadows,
Only hawks circle over the red haystacks,
Yes, autumn rustles in the coastal reeds.
Flexible hops curled on broken wattle fences,
And the apple tree droops, and the plum smells in the morning,
In merry taverns, beer is poured into barrels,
And in the quiet darkness of the fields, trembling, the flute sounds.
Above the pond, the clouds are pearly and light,
In the west, the lights are transparent and purple.
Hiding in the bushes, bird-catcher boys
Snares were placed in the shade of green needles.
From golden fields where blue smoke rises
Girls pass behind heavy carts,
Their hips wobble under thin canvases
Their cheeks are tan like golden honey.
In autumn meadows, in unrestrained expanse
Hurry hunters under the lace of fog.
And in the unsteady dampness piercingly and strangely
The trembling barking of the packs that found the beast sounds.
And autumn drunkenly wanders from the dark thickets,
Strung dark bow with cold hands,
And aims at Summer and dances over the meadows,
Throwing a yellow cloak over a swarthy shoulder.
And the late dawn on the altars of the forests
Burns dark nard and splashes scarlet blood,
And to the summer turf, to the damp headboard
The cold noise of falling fruit flies.

commander

1

Behind the dusty gold of heavy chariots,
Flying to the purple of dazzling feet,
Curly slaves with greasy skin
Nubian mares are led under the bridle.
And where the bronze sunset burned
Blood-red mountains steep slopes,
Heavy elephants pass slowly
Dragging embroidered blankets in gray dust.

2

Ferocious warriors are called to battle by horns;
And now they crawl, covering their backs with shields,
Along the scorched bottom of an abandoned rapid
To the spread tents - the camp of the enemy.
But in a quiet camp they hear the wheezing of a trumpet,
They see the eagles soar above the legion,
Like a purple sunset on bronze foreheads
It pours copper and cinnabar in a red-hot stream.

3

Blood rusts thickly on the blades of swords,
Drips from the arrows that pierced the backs,
And pale corpses squeeze clods of clay
Crooked fingers with stubbed nails.
But silently he froze on a scorched mountain,
As on a pedestal erected over the centuries,
And the gloomy profile shines at dawn,
As if embossed on a fiery medal.

Oh humble love of spring evenings

Oh, the humble love of spring evenings!
The distant barking of dogs… The whistle of the watchman behind the house…
And breathes in the heart of the quiet and familiar
From the balconies of narrow and sad greenhouses.
How sweet to drink such love fumes -
And see in the evening, in some kind of dim grid,
A sullen cat and a canary in a cage
And the walls are white, and golden steam! ..

About the kobold

Porcelain cows mooed for good reason,
It was not for nothing that the woolly parrot fought against the cage, -
In a dark corner, in an old abandoned hall,
The elves flew to the kobold's mother,
The membranes of transparent wings rustled;
Two painted paper heralds,
Cheeks puffed out, trumpets were blown.
Long-nosed magician in a green cap
I came to the manger on a cardboard goose;
The wax shepherdess looked in amazement
And almost melted from quiet laughter.
The kobold was made from gutta-percha,
Instead of a crown, they glued a golden piece of paper to him;
The stern mother tilted her bonnet
She brought the semolina to his lips.
Behind the stove, cockroaches were very surprised,
Why such a noise in the old hall, -
Today there are no guests, skirts and caftans do not rustle,
The powdered boy doesn't play the piano.
The wax shepherdess went to worship,
And the tin hussar yearned for her with passion:
He did not know that in the living room, where the blue shadows,
A kobold was born in a candy box.

I found treasures at the bottom

I found treasures at the bottom -
Silent silver of a mysterious cargo,
And from the depths of a transparent jellyfish
Extending tentacles towards me!
With slippery stickiness squeeze my sadness,
With green crystal, let me merge more closely ...
... Only birds flicker in the opened eyes,
And the foam of the clouds, and the golden distance.

“Oh Noon, you walk in painful anguish…”

Oh Noon, you walk in anguished anguish
Bless those empty shores with fire,
Where the boats are white and the nets are golden
Glow lazily on the sunny sand.
But in the blue twilight you are stuffy and heavy -
For blue salt you leave with a smoky block,
So that the wind, smelling of resin and fresh fish,
He ran his wet palm along the shore.

With a timid movement

With a timid movement
Night wraps the room with yarn,
In the dimmed window
Crew lights flickering...
And from under the steel
The snake is ready to pour out
Into the paper
A sudden blooming word.

Oh sweet coffee and you dry almonds

Oh, sweet coffee, and you dry almonds!
Cups on white tables...
Checkered board, and round knuckles
Arranged in ranks by careful hand.
The god of the checkers game is calm and gloomy, -
Leaning on your elbows, silently dozing behind the counter ...
What a lofty and rigorous theorem
A prophetic mind has taken up the tobacco rainbow! ..
Look carefully, thoughtful player,
Where did the scattered flock go ...
And now, freeing the brown square,
The dazzling circle is moving! ..

Autumn

I've been on the roads all day
I go to villages and sit in taverns.
They throw me into my travel bag
Shabby penny, curd cake
Or a piece of salted ham.
I see how the pie-woman-Winter
He pours flour and sugar on the roads,
Hanging candies on the trees
And stains his face with flour,
And stealthily sings a song into his nose.
But now - the troublemaker will think,
Forgets to close the oven with a tight bolt,
And a warm spirit, out of nowhere,
It suddenly blows, and the lollipops will melt,
And loose flour will turn black.
And over the bumps, over the mounds and paths
Shy at first, then bolder
Raise your dress to your knees
And baring pink legs
Jumping, splashing water from puddles,
The girl-Spring is already in a hurry to us.
Then I climb the green hill
I look from under the palm into the dry distance -
And I see how with a sprawling gait,
Pulling a knitted cap over his forehead
And wiping his sweaty forehead with his hand,
A good-natured summer is trudging towards us.
It will come and sit by the road,
He will spread his legs in heavy shoes,
Light a pipe and fall asleep in the sun.
But a face leans over him
Workers, and gloomy Autumn
The drowsy pushes Summer away.
And, awakened, it rises,
Yawning and cursing slowly
So that, God forbid, not to hear
A worker of sad grumbling;
And slowly, through forests and valleys,
It wanders with a sprawling gait
In an unknown space. A Autumn
Hurries to the gardens, where the juice of grace
Filled with heavy fruits.
She works all day. Add to cart
Heaped and apples and pears.
Beer is brewed from barley in the villages.
Cheerful smoke flows from dead carcasses,
And the beehives smell of wax.
Hello, oh blessed Autumn,
Feeder of the orphans and the poor,
Bent over a heavy basket,
From where they fall to the ground
Either a red ear, or a ripened fruit.
And we vagabonds pick up greedily
Sweet gifts in their hems.
When will the steppe suffering end
And over wagons creaking in the fields
Crows will be heard like cranes, -
I, poor wanderer, raise my hands
And I say: go, go, dear,
Holy of saints. Yes, your path will be
Fragrant and clear. Let them not burden
Thee fruits are heavy baskets.
And you go, led by the village
Flying cranes. You go and melt.
And only your cloak flutters in the wind.
Another moment - and around the corner
He disappeared too. The dust swirls and the leaves
They fly over the cold ground.

Eclogue to the world

... And the formidable regiments stopped their current ...
In the gardens of Campania, between roses and delicate lilies,
As a gift to the peaceful god of tunes and passions
The sons of Ausonia, tired of the hard battle,
With sweet prayer, with delight of hopes
They brought lambs and doves to the altar...
But formidable Rome was seething: in the fire of world glory
The shields and laticlavas of the warriors sparkled,
And where a quiet beam streamed hotly,
Chlamydes throwing a dusty edge over his shoulder,
At the marble columns, the bearded philosopher
The bloody hour of madness and retribution drew near.
The sound of swords was heavy, and the ringing of bronze is menacing,
And in Tyrian purple, bowing his naked skull,
With a crowd of lictors, wild and cheerful,
Caesar directed the step of the horse through the Rubicon ...
But the bloody games of war are abandoned,
And bloom sweetly in the radiance of peaceful glory
And wondrous wisdom, and joyful peace -
Under the canopy of marble, golden from the sun.
Oh world! Singers compose loud odes to you,
The strings of the lyre are roaring, the praises of the peoples are being said ...
You are a gentle youth, solemn and simple,
With a quiet smile, inaudible foot
You walk through the fields... And it's sweet over you
The glow of the stars trembling in the sky flows.
…But the stormy ages are striving after the ages!
I see how they run before the formidable regiments
Rows of frightened, defeated Saracens ...
I see the easy run of the Spanish brigantines,
Carrying the light of the cross to America far away ...
I hear howling horns in the night, like a deep dream,
And the clatter of frantic, unheard-of hunts...
So measured and cruel is the hundred-year sensitive move! ..
And in the fog, evil and sun-stained,
From stuffy pyramids to blue snows,
From the foamy Tiber to the Rhine banks -
Led by Napoleon
With Gallic eagles go into the expanse of the shelf!
But trihedral bayonets are formidable to Russians,
And fall, rustling, world banners
On the snow, illuminated by the silver moon ...
And you come again to the passionate roar of the lyre,
With an olive in his hand, a beautiful child-world,
And quietly pour oil - a blissful gift of peace -
On the waves of foam, swept up by a thunderstorm ...
... The severe wrath of the gods again excited Russia,
Again on the snows of her transparent blue
Thick drops of deaf blood flows ...
And rose slowly over the black forests,
In a bloody rainbow, raging flames
And creepy in the twilight, the drawn-out howl of horns...
And the dead stars float in cold clear
Over a world maddened by hot blood,
And crows scream on broken crosses...
But quietly comes to us, with a smile on his lips,
Cheerful youth-world in an azure robe,
Promising peace, and passion, and wise desires ...

autumn fishing

It's time for autumn fishing
Resinous smoke hung over the cauldrons,
And nets hung on stilts
Swaying from the sound of hammers.
And we follow the morning catch,
We see how the schooners go to sea,
Like fishermen heavy longboats
Salt loaded with cod.
Whoever you are: whether a Sunday hunter,
Or a clerk with inked fingers
Or a fisherman, or a fist fighter,
On an autumn day, at the hour of the morning fishing,
When sailing schooners leave
When the tarry smoke coolly melts
And it smells of dumped cod,
Can you feel it start to beat
Pirate's heart under the old shirt.
Thank you! You clench your jaws
So as not to swear by the boatswain's abuse,
And on the palms, not accustomed to salt,
You find strong corns.
Wherever you are: on the coast of Alaska,
Wrapped in bristling fur,
On the hot islands of the Archipelago
Are you standing in a flannel shirt
Or are you sitting at the Klyazma with a fishing rod,
Looking at the waves and watching the sway
Suddenly trembling float, -
Thank you! The simple heart of the ancients
Entered you and spreads its wings
And you start a battle song, -
Where the roar of the wind and the surf of the seas.

cats

Al. Sokolovsky

Already on the roof, behind the pipe,
Under a benevolent moon
They're gathering in a crowd
Raising their tails with a pipe.
Where sweet smells of milk
And tender fat turns white,
curled up in a velvet ball,
They grumble tiredly in the corner.
And excited by the heat
They are full of food
They don't care about your smell
Blessed roast.
How sweet is the spring heat
In the kitchen where the stove is on fire
And fragrant steam of soup
It smells good there.
About black stairs silence,
An attic smelling of mice
Where from a broken window
It is easy to follow the pigeons.
When silence falls over the house
A wave of evening fumes
Then, sliding along the edge of the roofs,
The lovers are passing couples.
After all, you, love, are one for all,
You are more tender and higher than all passions,
And a benevolent moon
Calls them to the rooftops at night.

“I am sweetly exhausted from silence and dreams…”

I am sweetly exhausted from silence and dreams,
From slow boredom and inept songs,
I love cocks on white towels
And ancient soot of harsh images.
Under the hot rustle of flies, day after day passes,
Piously filled with humility,
A quail mumbles under a low ceiling,
Yes, it smells like raspberry jam on holidays.
And at night the soft goose down languishes,
The stuffy lamp flashes painfully,
And, stretching out his neck, he sings lingeringly
Rooster embroidered on the towel.
So to me, oh Lord, you humble gave shelter
Under a blissful roof, not knowing excitement,
Where the days are heavy, like jam from a spoon,
Thick drops flow, flow, flow.

Ballad of a gentle lady

Why are you reading pages
Dull, weeping newspapers?
There are ducks and other birds
You are terrified. - No,
Take my friendly advice:
Take a pack of ads
Read - they have life, they have a bright light:
"I'll buy a Japanese dog!"
Oh gentle lady! Capital Cities
You have been cherished! Cornet
I called you queen
You are white as a cherry blossom.
What is bloody nonsense for you
And chewing gum in the throat of meat cannons, -
Your dream is brighter than the planets:
"I'll buy a Japanese dog."
Smezhivshi black eyelashes,
You sweetly eat sherbet.
Your smile is like lightning
And your keeper is dressed
In the thinnest silk vest,
And hires a third laundress, -
And you dream like a poet:
"I'll buy a Japanese dog."
When from hunger in the skeleton
You will turn into a sore
Let them cook for dinner
Your Japanese dog.

Tavern

Dedication 1 (ironic)

Praise and glory to all the losers!
Praise be to him who, longing to be free,
As a gift, keeps its daily right -
Eat three times and be hungry three times.
He is blind, he runs into walls.
He is alone. He hobbles timidly.
But he will be precious
Wheat bread and greasy stew.
When, fanned by dying laziness,
His breath will fly out of the world
He full will find peace
In the shadow of the promised tavern.

Initiation 2 (romantic)

Alas, my friend, we are too old
And they were not completely satisfied with happiness.
Let us remember the drinking parties and duels,
Love walks under the moon.
The damp night is shrouded in mist...
What of that? Our voice is not silent
In those cellars where young men and drunks
Do not let go of inspiration in debt.
We are married. We don't care about love.
Home lyrics comes time.
It's time! It's time! It's already blowing in our faces
Memories are a weak breeze.
And by the planed pine bed
We will remember again in deathly silence
Merry drinking and dueling,
Love walks under the moon.

The scene depicts an attic in section. A winding staircase rises from the attic to low and loose clouds and is lost in the sky. The poet leaned on the table, lowering his head. The Reader comes to the fore.

For those who wander through empty courtyards
With a guitar and a learned dog,
Whose voice rattles at the black stairs,
Near chaotic kitchens, at garbage pits,
For those resilient vagabonds
Whose life is like an unpaved road
Only covered with puddles and bumps,
Whose property is the pilgrim's staff
Or the singer's bag full of holes, -
For you, my losers,
There will be a moralizing story
About the life and death of the singer.
O you who have a warm corner,
Bed and quilt
You, warming your hands over the fire,
Listening to the gentle murmur
Soups in a heated pot, -
Listen to this sad story
About the life and death of the singer.

The day is over, and the work of the day is over.
The shoemaker who forgot to beat
The last nail in the wide sole,
Meets the night, comfortably collapsed
Sleep with your wife. Tailor, butcher and cook
End the day in a hospitable tavern
And beer, and sausages with cabbage
Meet the coming night.
Tenth hour. Now on slippery rooftops
The feline dates begin.
An hour of thieves' work and love,
The hour of inspiration and the hour of robbery,
The hour that announces hot coffee
About rolls with butter, about a cherry pipe,
About dinner and about the coming dream.
And only I, a loafer, do not recognize
Your wonderful blessings, the tenth hour.
And the dream goes and blows down
Eyes, but I'll just lower my eyelids,
And the street floats before me
In the glow of dismantled shop windows.
There pink ham gets cold,
Like a cool dawn
And the fat that envelops the meat
Like a cloud passing by in the dawn.
O pies scalded with butter,
From the heat of the hot wind
Brown tanned,
Tender sugar covered you with frost,
And you lie in an oily heap
Among rusty pears and wax apples.
And in the dark shops, among the carcasses hanging
Between boxes and barrels of corned beef,
I see red-cheeked butchers
Kolbasnikov in green aprons.
I see the scales swing
Under the weight of weights, like a knife and bacon shines,
Whistling, cut into pieces.
And it seems to me that hunger is a slippery mouse
down the throat into the stomach,
Scratches with tight paws,
It flounders, whines and gnaws.
Oh Lord, you gave me the voice of a bird
You touched my tongue
Eyes opened to see the hidden
Gave the ear of an owl and taught the heart
The way to beat off the song being composed.
But, Lord, you forgot to give
I am full and sweet idleness,
The hearth where damp firewood crackles,
And a lamp to light up my evening.
And now I raise my eyes to the sky
And I put my hands on my chest
And I say, "Oh God, maybe
In some unknown quarter
There still lives a sentimental butcher,
Muttering sweetheart verses
In a hot and rosy ear.
I will teach him the language of words,
Like heavy honey, sweet and fragrant,
I will give him my sight, and hearing, and voice, -
And I myself - I will tie an apron under my arms,
I'll sharpen my knife, shiny with fat,
And silently I will stand behind the oak bar
A slow and important salesman."
But none of the butchers will change
Your knife and apron for the fate of the singer.
And pathetic I wander now dear,
And I meet a miserable evening without fire -
Autumn evening, late and damp.

So, whatever the evening, the singer complains
On the Lord and Providence of heaven.
And through the singing of violins and fanfare,
Through the angelic ceremonial praise,
The Lord, seated on a high throne,
Heard the mournful plea of the singer
And so he said:

Come down, obedient messenger,
From heaven to earth. There, in the dust and ashes,
Exhausted find the singer.
And take your hand and bring
Him to me - to my promised land.
Give him heavenly bread to break
And wet his dry throat
Wine from my vineyards.
Give him warmth and silence
And prepare a hot bed,
So that he tastes idleness and rest.
Come down, runner!

And running towards the ground
Up the stairs high and creaky
Broad-winged messenger. And to him
The earth is moving closer and closer.
Already he vaguely distinguishes the roofs,
Tree tops, cathedral domes,
He sees the light through the closed shutters.
And in the street lights
Evening city - confused and calm.
An obedient messenger runs up the stairs,
Scaring away the doves of the earth,
Asleep under the railings of the cathedral.
And heavy conversation of bells
The messenger drinks in an unusual hearing ...
Lower, lower into the kingdom of attics,
To the world of black stairs, among the rotting rafters,
A messenger runs, and in a dusty web
Clear clothes flicker easily
And his outstretched wings.
Oh, how near is the hungry abode,
Where the emaciated singer prays!
So hurry up, wide-winged messenger,
Knock harder on the unlocked door
To hear the voice of deliverance!
From hunger and from earthly sorrows.
Knock on the door

Who is knocking on my door at this hour!
Came for the fire to smoke
An extinguished pipe, or, perhaps,
My friend, hungry like me?
Come in, alien!

And goes into the room
Freckled and red and ruddy
The clerk from the tavern, and the singer
Looks at his brisk face,
On the hands are red, like carrot juice,
On clear sly eyes,
Shining with unearthly light.

Oh, the visit is strange. For what
Did the messenger from the tavern come to me?
I haven't met such guests for a long time.
With a blush hot and cheerful look.
Messenger
My master invites you today
Dine and drink with him.

But who is your master and from where
Does he know about me?

My master
He remembers all your songs by heart.
Although he is an innkeeper, but still a muse
Poetry is close to him, and now
He is now inviting you to his place.
Get ready soon. Long way -
Dinner will get cold before we get there,
And tender wheat bread will stale.
Pack up faster.

Only in a raincoat
I wrap myself up and put my hat on.

It's time to go, the owner does not like to wait.
Singer
Now I'm going. Where is my travel scarf?

They come from damp attics,
From wet roofs, from pipes covered with soot,
From the screech of cats, the cawing of crows
And the ringing of the bell, higher and higher
The stairs are dangerous and steep.
Worn out steps wobble
Under their step. And grabbed tight
For the fingers of the escorted singer.
Higher, higher, to low clouds,
Damp and loose, through the rainy dusk;
Swayed by the stubborn wind,
A steep staircase leads the messenger.
And falling, and stumbling down,
And clutching the leader's hand,
The singer goes higher, higher, higher
Trembling from the bitter cold.

The path is dangerous, and I don't know
Where does it lead.

Don't worry. You
Now you will find the promised shelter...

But I'm afraid from the dampness of the night
The foot slips and the stairs crack...

Stay strong, don't look over the railing
Hold on tight, here's my hand -
She is strong and able to hold on.

The end of the road is slippery and steep.
The clouds are breaking apart,
Like a calico curtain. Light
From the lantern hung over the door,
Blinding dust blew into their eyes.
And a huge singer sign
Looking with greedy curiosity:
There, a wide brush painted
Orange herring on a blue platter
Raspberry sausage and cups
Green with gold trim.
And the clumsy inscription reads:
"The driving yard - peace of hearts."
Oh, ever-praised inn,
Oh, the smell of beer, steam floating silently
From wide open doors
At your cherished threshold
All earthly paths have crossed,
And here came the singer and greedily
Looks at your unlocked door.
Yes, he did not dare to wish for better:
Under the ceiling where dampness has grown
A wide spot, hung on hooks
Huge hams, and fat
From them drips measured on tables and chairs.
At the walls covered with raw paint,
Large barrels are knocked down by hoops,
And slowly buzzing behind the boards,
Hissing and fermenting beer hops. And there,
On low racks, fried fish
With a piece of lettuce stuck in their mouths
Brown drenched in gravy
Spread out on long platters. There
Leaky cheese, smelling of tender rot,
There lard lies in a marble layer,
There are piles of apples, and a honey tan
Covered their cheeks with golden dust.
And at the table, happy, they sit
The guests are on chairs. kettles around,
Like lazy pigeons flutter
And tea, murmuring, flows into cups. Here
Where did the exhausted singer come?
And the angel says to him:
"Go
And sit at the table. you have found
The much-awaited relief
The owner will give you everything.

But
What will I pay?

It's just a bribe
For the songs that you composed on earth ...

From morning to evening - food, and only ...
The singer is getting fat. Instead of eyes
Some peepers. Instead of hands
Sausages. And poems long ago
He forgot. Only sings through the nose
Some kind of favor. weeks
Weeks go by. And so
The food became disgusting to him. He
Dreams about work, about fun
Earthly roads, about earthly love,
About the hunger that taught
To his poems, about the empty attic,
About drops of stearin on paper...
He says:

Well, that's enough, let's go!
Now it's time to go home. My job
Abandoned. Let me in. It's time!

But the one who invited him to his place,
Doesn't let go of the poor poet...
He brings him the best drink,
He slips the best dishes:
Let him eat! Let it get better! For what
Singer land where hunger and murder:
Sit and eat! What else do you want?

Let me in. Not that I will interrupt
Dishes in this room are hateful.
I am strong. I've eaten and now
I will fight like the last loader.
Let me down to earth. I have
Comrades stayed. The whole world,
overgrown with trees and water
Splashed - in fogs and lights
Left by me. Let me in! Let it go!
Otherwise I will spit in your beard,
Damned boar!.. I say: let it go!

Then a voice rang out:

Damn you!
Enough! Leave! Roll to the ground!

1919–1920, 1933

Scattered chain

Guns drumming with crackling shot
On gray larches and on pines.
Random thrush, wounded, on the ground
Falls off. screaming, fluttering wings!
Cold forest, and snow, and a sharp wind ...
And we stand in a scattered chain,
In the hands of a double-barreled shotgun, and they squeal with a drawl
Faces on loose belts ...
Friends, be quiet! He lay stubbornly
And only steam hung over the lair,
And only his heavy snoring is heard
Yes, low and evil grumbling ...
Friends, be quiet! Let, clinging to the trunk,
A patient hunter will take aim!
And thunder strikes between the eyes of the beasts,
And the rearing carcass will tremble
And collapse into frozen bushes and snow!
So now we spread out in a roundup -
Poets, fishermen and birders,
Artisans, blacksmiths, - widely
In the cold forest, where the prickly wind
It's blowing in our faces. We stand around
Lairs, where he sat down in the frozen bushes
The world, mother and heavy on the rise ...
Hey, let the dogs go, let them beat them!
Let them cry with sharp teeth
Strong in the back of the head. And quickly through the snow
Through hollow leaves, through frosty needles,
Rolling like a squealing ball through the bushes,
Dogs are flying. And already getting up
From the darkness of the protected lair
Heavy world, huge and shaggy,
And under his lowered paw
The heavy-breathing dog scratches!
And we stand in a scattered chain -
Poets, fishermen and birders.
And, rearing, comes at us, swaying,
Mother's world. And here is one of us -
Broad-shouldered, fair-haired and stubborn -
Pulls a knife out of his boot
And, legs wide apart, waiting
A wheezing and rabid beast.
And the beast is coming. The bushes crack and bend,
Frightened, the thrush flies
And we stand in a scattered chain,
And our hands are numb, and we can't
Aim the bear between the eyes...
And the beast is coming ... And the gloomy worker
Standing in the snow and clutching a knife in his hand,
And stretched out his neck, and carefully
Look into animal eyes! Friends,
The raid is nearing its end! Will hit
A working hand in a fatal heart,
And groan and fall heavy
Ferocious world - in the frozen bushes ...
And we, the poets, that during the battle
We stood in silence, we will run together,
And over a huge and shaggy corpse
We will sing glory to the winner!

Signs

Noisy and flowing peoples,
Boiled and passed the wave -
And the wind of glory and freedom
He blew banners over the army ...
And in every battle a special sign
Illuminated the affairs of heroes
And covered with a terrible brilliance
Coffins not betrayed to the earth ...
There was a time: cruel and proud,
Madly leading the fighters
With the iron clatter of cohorts
Caesar walked through the Gallic fields ...
And over the stream of yellow haze
And to the clouds of swept dust
Solemn flight circled
Kvirita copper eagles…
And lonely, indomitable,
Through the dust of the roads and the dusk of the rocks,
Went to the golden gates of Rome
Under the roar of the elephant Hannibal ...
The centuries flowed like a booming stream,
And a new path lay down
Like the Parisian lanes
For the first time the crowd rushed -
So that, like excited foam,
Sweeping away the gold of the chambers,
Green branch of Desmoulins
Decorate the stacks of barricades ...
And lo and behold, sublime and youthful,
Messenger of high blessings, -
Contributed by the Paris Commune
In the right hand of the beggar is a red flag ...
And, choosing a special sign
All peoples and times
We stopped not knowing
Which one is ours...
We did not recognize ... And above us
Then it flared up in the mists,
Shining red lights
Five pointed star!

Putnik

Are you a student of the Sorbonne or a wandering rogue,
Look: my bag is filled with food.
Throw on your torn cloak and we will go with you
In a wonderful country that is called Flanders.
On the road, we will find shelter in any tavern,
Under the downpour we will get wet and dry from the heat,
Until from under the hills in our eyes they sparkle
Canals of Flanders like a cold wave.
Enough you bowed over the dusty bale chest,
Look: a free path flows through the fields!
Change your grammar to a pilgrim's staff,
Forget all wisdom and rejoice like a thrush -
And our life will pass in a jet of instantaneous smoke,
Among the silence of the herds and in the quiet brilliance of the stars.

“Here is a boom step. In warehouses empty ... "

Here is a boom step. In warehouses empty
No food for rats. Only cobwebs
Tweaked the corners. And dove
You can't see the flock in the streets of the dumb.
The cry of the movers in the squares died away.
There are no ships ... And only on the old
The high tower strikes the clock. deserted
And it's boring here, among the damp houses.
Look sailor! Your time has come
So that in the port, abandoned and bypassed by everyone,
Vessels came from distant countries again.
And a red flag over the heavy customs
He proclaimed to us the immutable truth,
About the free land of strength and labor.

Damn dolls

From the steeply saddled Tatar cavalry
The stubborn spirit of koumiss and horse meat
Resin flowed through the cities and towns
To the hoarding housekeeper of Moscow.
Quail nights stood
And the rusty moon poured with an ear
Stretched for grasses low and damp.
And beyond the river there was a dog barking,
Yes, the whistle of a tight scourge cut the air,
Yes, a woman's screech, yes, the clatter of a nightingale
Merchant. And at Lobnoye Mesto
Homeless dogs swarmed
Above the thief's head. Goodel
Suspicious chime. Before Byzantine
Wide-eyed importance icons
The shaggy monk wept and wailed.
Then he shouted like an unfinished lamb
Whirling Dmitry - and wandered severe
Broad-shouldered Godunov. And there
From poplars and Lithuanian larches
The dust swirled; there are redheads
In shaggy hats and bear cloaks
Rocked in the saddles; there in the dust
Looming unseen wings
Warsaw cavalry. And heavy step
There, stocky infantry wandered.
And trumpet tight voices
The horses were infuriated: “To Moscow, forward!”
And the blond man looked
On the sunny heads of the cathedrals.
And in the black wilds, in the deserts of the bears,
With a clumsy plow picking the ground,
The peasant waited for the night off-road,
So that, having let the boyars into the tower
Crimson and evil rooster,
Hit the Volga and the Don,
Go to Yaik, disappear in Transbaikalia,
Only occasionally distant Moscow
Robbery roll call to disturb.
"Saryn on a kitchka!" Don starts.
"Saryn on a kitchka!" Volga answers.
"Saryn on a kitchka!" - groans in the taiga
And freezes in the thicket and chapyga ...
The rain has flown by. cool clouds
We passed in slow steps.
Budyak prickly and dope whitish
They grew out of gun locks,
Yes, the dexterous dodder curled on them
Shields with non-Russian words.
The rain rumbled. And again leaf ringing
Hanging over wooden Moscow.
By the gray-bearded clergy again
Wide cathedrals are smoky.
And again the crown is pulled tight
To the novice on the adolescent forehead.
And down the Volga, to the blue Zhiguli,
Planes fly by the Khvalynian waves,
Saratov falls, bleeding,
Samara breaks her hands in horror,
Smerd begins to straighten,
And the whole earth screams with the mouth of a stink:
"Death! Death! Kill and inflate with the wind
A nest of vipers and nettle seeds,
Beat with a flail yaryzhek and boyars,
Backhand beat, swoop without a miss,
So that on the bones, on their blood ascended
Different rye and new wheat…”
But money has not lost its weight,
But gold still shines under the sun...
And the hired regiments are moving,
Non-Russian halberds flash,
And the wide-throated cannon roar
Fills the steppes with non-Russian bass...
The executioner sings tirelessly
And the wind whistles through the desert tents.
The bones of the Cossacks have long decayed,
For a long time the will of the archer died,
For a long time the head from ringing and cazhdenya
Full of seething kvass.
And the rebel settlement rises,
And the woman from the dark window
Kissing the cross with a cold blue fingernail
Seems like a sacrifice. And the saw gnaws
The hammer jumps, and the lad
Wipes off sweat with a hardened palm
From the stubborn forehead of a child.
Oh barber! Already from dexterous scissors
Belly boyars are saved,
And cropped beards stubbornly
Bristling with gray bristles,
And you guards rusty cleaver
You open the abscess, rubbing it with your finger
Eyes from splashed pus. You
You take a tired executioner
His ax - and the heads of archers,
Like apples, they fall. And in the face
You breathe astonished Europe
Hot and smelly fumes.
Let strong salt and Dutch vodka
And you are punished with a corrosive disease,
All the same majestic and terrible
A cat's face.
And so, putting on a festive camisole,
You lay down in the domino with your arms crossed,
Crazy hard worker.
In the palace
Disheveled red-haired princess
Plays hide-and-seek with the singing red-cheeked
And falls on hot pillows, -
And a little black girl in a brocade turban
Under the rattle of a buffoon's pipe
Draws the curtain, laughing.
Haven't shot hanging rats yet
A snub-nosed German in a curly wig,
Another toy brigade sleep
And the generals doze at the door,
A woman in a coat of guards
An enraged horse directs, -
And among the boiling shakos and hats
German accent and cheek blush
Military fornication inflamed. Dust
Still swirling, more shots
They sound awkward in the cool air,
And the powdered head droops
On the Life Guards cloth caftan,
Yes, a bright-eyed officer, throwing back his sword,
Kisses sweet lips.
In the steppes
Where Stenkin's voice is inflated by the wind,
It makes noise again, the horde rises again,
Again, the eyes are filled with inspiration,
Garrisons are burning, fortresses are being smashed,
Officials on the gallows are dancing,
Carts creak, grass moon
Climbs out with a bent Tatar bow.
The storm is about to hit Petersburg,
The queen is about to be dragged by the braids
On the pavement and sing for shame
The crowd, so that everyone in whom still lives
Love for freedom, could collect saliva
And spit on her damned womb...
No Pugachev ... His blood lay down
Carpet embroidered under the feet of the queen,
And the queen walked along it - and came
To the end, and at the end - a chamber pot
Took her last breath...
And the corpse was gray as an autumn day,
And showered powder on the pillows
With a double chin...
fly in
And fall dead, crazy knight.
And the blond boy wipes
Wide forehead with a cambric handkerchief.
And there buzzes and quarrels Paris.
And between the bodies hanging sadly
From screeching lanterns, already wandering
Artilleryman is hungry. May be,
Boiling crown of Egyptian sands
He crowns his head with a black cosmos,
And the papal three-headed tiara
Fell into his narrow boots.
And the wild snow silvered the whiskey
Under a triangular hat and eyebrows
Showered with gentle snow powder ...
Anything can be ... And now only a whistle
A downward knife yes voice
Judge reading the verdict.
And there, in Russia, secret circles,
Guided by freedom
Yes, bald forehead, bowed between candles
To sheets of paper - slippery and rustling.
Trips on the pole roads,
Barriers, horns before sunrise,
And, tired of labor boredom,
The king falls into the pillows of the charaban.
And in Taganrog - death. wooden coffin,
Incense, flowers and dirges,
And to the north yarugi wanders
Cheerful wanderer, clear eyes
Lifting into the thundering sky from the songs.
And the sun runs frantically
On a bald radiant forehead ...
Kingslayers have no mercy now.
Let the disheveled singer run
Among the timid army. Let
The sailor pulls his glove and greedily
Waiting for help. But gray eyes
And narrow sideburns pass
Between the soldiers and the drunken gunner
Points a gun at the friends of the people.
So year after year. The same heavy step
German dialect, cold glass eyes,
Terry joy, a drunken groan and ...
And obedient soldiers.
But the old revenge is still alive,
Not yet bent in stone and iron,
There are still young men with fire in their eyes,
There are still girls with a love of will.
They go out on a wide path
Scouts for future uprisings.
... The carriage is broken ... On the pavement
Raw pile of rags, meat, blood,
And the red-haired janitor fell at once
On a young man in a student's cap.
But the lost people rise
And Stenka gets up quartered
From four sides. And head
Killed Emelka on a stake
Spinning and mouth open
To utter an unknown word.

Liberation

(Excerpts from a poem)

1

Behind the tramp of steps is unknown
Random cavalry raid,
Behind the haze and dust -
Next, next
The machine gun is already chirping.
Where is the dragonfly habit
He, walking around, found it?
autumn day,
Raw and short
It walks the streets like an ox...
autumn day
The cursed path
Slowly wandering there
Where under the protection of Kronstadt
Military ships smoke.
The sailor will not get up, as it used to be,
And will not take under the visor,
On a blouse, a scarlet bow burns,
Hard cocked.
And with the power of a five-shot
That's where the blow comes from
From there, furious and greedy,
The city will be on fire.
The sailor will raise his hand to his eye
(The sight is stubbornly given to him),
Pull the trigger -
And right away, right away
Filled with a tenor revolver.
And on the bridgeheads
Rain and wind
Wheels, guns and bayonets,
Gathered here at dawn
Shelves ready for fire.
Here:
galloons of a cavalryman,
Papakha and Cossack edging,
Here come the hazy road
Sapper,
Sailor
And a musician.
Here Putilov from work
They rush with rifles in their hands,
Machine guns lurk here
On foggy corners.
October!
A stubborn blow has been taken
And waiting for the fall of the hand.
Everything is ready:
And black dusk
And phones, and shelves.
Everything is waiting for him:
shade trees,
The trembling of the stars and the waves run,
And there, under the autumn Gatchina,
A thin and shaved man.
October!
Night sounds go out,
But Smolny is dressed in flames,
From there to the world of sorrows and boredom
Decree slaps like a cannon.
And in the sky above the military crowd,
From the high roof
In rain and darkness
Simple and extraordinary
Flying and waving red flag.

2

He chickened out!
English costume
And caps don't care anymore
Soldier's rebellious will
And the prisoner does not disturb the mind.
And only a handful of junkers,
In overcoats tangled wide,
Stayed true.
The path is ready
For strong, passionate and cruel.
"Wait, who's coming?!"
Autumn rain
And darkness shrouded in mist
Terrible as death
"I am the new leader!"
And past the relentless step,
In an empty night and in melting snow,
Through the glitter of bayonets and the talk of malice,
Hurrying, the highbrow goes,
Broad-shouldered man.
O you born of labor,
About you will pass from generation to generation
Praise! You are the bullet and the bayonet
The ark was built by freedom.
Where did the blow fall
Working hands?
running through
Through the sidewalk
Who exclaims, dying:
"The Commune is near..."
On the walls,
Smell of newspaper paint
Decrees are splashing...
Death and fear
Through the gates, imperceptibly,
They hustle like stockbrokers
They mutter, quarrel and whine,
The ends are cracking.
Armored cars
Hidden siren howl.
It boils and buzzes
Random fight.
sailor huge
Stands in fire and roar
Among the stones, under the dark cannon,
The caster laid his cheek,
Aiming at the frosty butt.
And defending the barricade -
Tram broken on its side.
Thundering with steel armor,
All in soot, soot and smoke,
The armored car rolls!
It's time
Finish the game...
No mercy
To all the weak in spirit...
Until morning
Barricades rumbled with fire...
And in the sky above the military crowd,
From a high roof, in rain and darkness,
Simple and extraordinary
Flying and splashing the red flag.

1921–1923

Harvest

The spirit of spring is inflamed and new
Bursting the womb of the earth
Through the forests where owls bristle,
Through the swamps where the cranes sleep
After the winter wind and cold,
After blizzards and flying snows
Warm rain hits puddles
Drops honey from swollen flowers.
And the hungry fate is before us
Does not loom with steppe fog,
The steppe turns yellow with native bread,
Winter darkness flies away like smoke.
Bogatyrskaya will dear!
The steppes freeze in green fluff,
And Mikula, unharnessing his horse,
He drags himself along the expanses of the plow.
Dawns are walking over the harsh haze,
May is filled with birdsong,
And the pipe plays thunderous
A young harvest in the meadows.
Well, for the long dark winter
We've lost our strength
Ile space is golden and beloved
Our tired is not pleasing to the eye,
Or a flock of birds
The coming sowing does not promise us,
Or the land is young, dear
The power of escapes does not hide in itself?
We saved up focus and patience
Heavy autumn, impoverished winter,
So that half a day sometimes spring
With cunning hunger to move into battle.
Hey friends, where are you?
Plows are shining, and plows are ringing,
Tight crops grow
Like fighters lined up.
This grain army is now
A heavy spike lifts forward
And through the poor and meager desert
Blessing will spread into the distance.

Alexander Blok

From the praises of the angelic rabble,
End of introductory segment.

Eduard Georgievich Bagritsky ( real name- Jubin (Juban); 1895-1934) - Russian Soviet poet, translator and playwright.

THOUGHT ABOUT OPANAS
1926

Haydamaks gave thanks
In Ukraine! life,
But don’t stink yoga.
What do we want to work?
T. Shevchenko (Gaidamaki)

On the slopes of the vineyard
fussing with leaves,
Where does Panko run from Balta
Dear steppe.
Turnips bite the leg
Whistles life to pasture,
Star Cart is dear to him
Seems to be shafts.
Star Cart shows the way
In the clear skies
For poor farms
To the German colonists.
Opanase, don't give a damn
Take a good look-
You see the black hat
At the watchman?
Know from an unclean conscience
You fled from Balta

Haidamaks have sown
Living in Ukraine.
They didn't pity him.
What to do, tell me?
There is no truth, has not grown -
Krivda muffles ...............

Read by Dmitry Zhuravlev

Dmitry Nikolaevich Zhuravlev (1900-1991), Soviet actor, master of artistic expression. National artist THE USSR.
Since 1928, Zhuravlev has been reading the poetry of A. S. Pushkin, A. A. Blok, V. V. Mayakovsky, the stories of I. Babel, M. M. Zoshchenko, and then completely devotes himself to the work of artistic reading. His decision was influenced by the work of the reader A. Ya. Zakushnyak.

Bagritsky, Eduard Georgievich

Bagritsky, Eduard Georgievich (1897 -) - poet. He began to print shortly before the revolution, in Odessa. He spent the years of the civil war at the front, in the Red Army. He published his first book of poems in 1928 (by the publishing house ZIF - "South-West"). Included in the group of constructivists (see). His first works, which coincided with the period of the civil war, are imbued with a tense, physiologically pronounced cheerfulness, greed for life. But this cheerfulness is not thematically linked in B. with modernity. In the past, he is looking for bright figures, the poetic embodiment of which would give him the opportunity to creatively defuse an extremely optimistic, active worldview, permeated with pantheistic moods. The program poem of this time is "Til Ulenspiegel" (Til Ulenspiegel is a cheerful Flemish folk hero, perceived by the poet obviously in de Coster's illumination). Already in this period of B.'s work, a predilection for archaic and mystical fantasy is noticed.
The emotional coloring of B.'s recent verses is radically different from the nature of the initial stage of his cast activity. The transition from the period of war communism to peaceful economic construction is critical for B.'s work. The ideological crisis of the poet continues to this day. If the period of the heroic years of the civil war, refracted through enormous cheerfulness, as an individual quality of the poet, gives rise to works that are to a certain extent consonant with the era in terms of vigorous optimism, then our construction is not perceived at all by B., is not reflected in his poems. The poet remains on archaic lyrical positions, very often, as if defiantly, resorting to especially trivial devices "The Nightingale and the Rose", "Watermelon", bringing them, however, to great skill. In the new environment, the poet is "bored", the main theme of his poems becomes an anarchic romantic rampage ("Black Sea"); he expresses the assertion of his physiological tension with hysterical erotic works ("Spring"). The mystical stream is intensifying ("The Bog"), a feeling of longing and restlessness appears, the poet complains that only the evening hour brings him "neither tea smelling like a wife, nor a pack of cigarettes" ("Night"). This poem - "Night" - represents the highest point of the poet's expression of incomprehension of our construction (for him, the showcases of cooperation are only "rabid grub"). All recent poems B. imbued with pessimistic moods. B.'s largest work, The Thought About Opanas, depicts the clash between the Makhnovshchina and the Reds. In the center of the "Duma" there is a picture of the execution of the communist Kogan and the rebirth, under the influence of this execution, of his executioner, a Ukrainian peasant - a forced, involuntary Makhnovist, bright in emotional expressiveness. Nevertheless, The Thought about Opanas is a romantically abstract work. Romantic, vague refraction of reality in general is the main thing in B.'s work. B. gave several masterful translations (of Burns, Walter Scott and others). The internal dynamism of the images, the great intensity of the verse, the perfectly felt rhythm, the ability to give a sense of the texture of what is being described - all this puts B. among the significant poets of recent years.

Current page: 1 (the book has 11 pages in total)

Eduard Bagritsky
Thought about Opanas; Poetry

Thought about Opanas

Haydamaks shone
Life in Ukraine
But don’t stink yoga.
What do we want to work?

T. Shevchenko (Gaidamaki)

1

On the slopes of the vineyard
fussing with leaves,
Where does Panko run from Balta
Dear steppe.
Turnips bite the leg
Whistles life to pasture,
Star Cart is dear to him
Seems to be shafts.
Star Cart shows the way
In the heavens pure -
For poor farms
To the German colonists.
Opanase, don't give a damn
Take a good look -
You see the black hat
At the watchman?
Know from an unclean conscience
You fled from Balta
Stomp to Shtol-colonist,
And you got to Makhna!
Makhn is up to his shoulders
Hair is thick:
Where are you from, man?
From what region?
You are in our army
Willy or unwilling?
- I, father, fled from Balta
To the colonist Stol.
Oh, vexation gnaws at me,
Strong insult!
I ran from the food squad
From Kogan the Jew...
Along ravines and slopes
Kogan roars like a wolf,
Gets nose into the huts,
Which are cleaner!
Look left, look right
Snoring angrily:
"Shovel out of the ditch
Hidden Life!
Well, who will raise a storm -
Don't make noise, bro.
Mustache in the garbage heap,
Shoot - and cover!
Chernozem flowed like a swamp
From blood and sweat, -
I don't want to swing a rifle
I want to work!
Oh, father, say mercy
Coming from the field
Where the farm is located
Colonist Shtol?
- Shtol? Which one, man?
Red and chipped?
He was shot close
Around the corner from the house...
And you got the road
Bed with me.
Turn back drawbar -
I'll shut my mouth with a bullet!
Give the fur coat to Opanas
The cloth of the city!
Offer to Opanas
Wine of the young!
Knock up your boots
Forged iron!
Give a hat, reward
Bomb and sawed-off!
We will go far with you
From end to end! -
Makhn has the very best
The hair is thick...
. . . . . .
Opanase, our share
Waving a saber now -
Noisy Gulyai-Polye
All over Ukraine.
Ukraine! Dear mother!
Life is young!
Opanasu's share is out
Chat with Makhno.
Ukraine! Dear mother!
Young life!
We used to go to the Cossacks,
And now - in the bandits!

2

Noisy Gulyai-Polye
From a terrible dance, -
Gogol at will
Horse of Opanas.
Opanas looks at the picture
In a shaggy hat,
Fur coat from a dead rabbi
Filmed near Gomel.
Fur coat - fur dress -
Open - hot!
English cut French
Obtained for Vapnyarka.
On a hand with a strong whip
Foal soap;
Revolver hanging on a chain
From the chandelier.
Opanase, our share
Wrapped in mist, -
You want a grain grower in the field,
And you go - a bandit!
You will fly on a clean road,
Fly into the gate
Beat the Jews and the Communists -
Easy job!
And Makhno hurries in the fog
Along the spacious paths
In the monastery chaise,
Under the black banner
Gulyai-Polye groans with a groan
From a terrible dance -
Gogol at will
Steed of Opanas…

3

A little bread is collected -
Do not creak carts.
Kogan is having dinner in the hut
Zhitnyak and honey.
Kogan is having dinner in the hut,
milk sips,
Bolshevik conversation
Men are confused:
- I ask you to answer honestly,
Directly, without slope:
How many in the parish
Brewing moonshine?
What are the crops? How are the taxes?
Do sheep fall?
At this time on the road
The Makhnovists are stomping...
Horses are dancing on the road
Hooves beat into the ground.
Opanas from under the palm
Looks at life.
Midnight gray, steppe
stood before the fighters,
From a distance the darkness of the night
Smoldering kagans.
The horn dogs are lying,
They sing songs.
Chilly advanced
We entered the village.
Behind the church fence
The iron clanged:
- You will not find a food detachment:
Cut into a plank! -
Farm dogs, dance
On explosive steel:
Like a quail in life
Kogan was caught.
They took him on the road
Gray, steppe, -
Met Joseph Kogan
With Nestor Makhna!
Makhno looked sternly,
shook his head,
Makhno did not say a word,
And he waved his hand!
Oh, Joseph Kogan lived
Until the hour of death
Kohl converged his road
With the path of Opanas!..
Opanas put his foot down
Worth and proud of:
- Hello, Comrade Kogan,
Please shave!

4

Poplars gray-haired flock,
Poplar air...
Ukraine, dear mother,
Song-Ukraine!..
On your steppe expanse
Syromakha jumps,
Tumbleweed whistles
Yes, the crow croaks ...
The fighting sun rises
Over the steppe road
There are two on the road today -
Opanas and Kogan.
Above the burning threshold
The heat smokes and melts;
Commissar, Comrade Kogan,
The junk is dropping…
Spread on a white body
The sun is young.
- On, Panko, when you shoot,
Take the rest!
I won't regret a pair of trousers
Useful at home -
Still, a former salesman,
Good friend! .. -
The fighting sun rises
Drying the corn
In the corn the wind howls
Opanasu in the ears:
- I once followed the oxen,
Fought as a soldier.
Are you on a sugar morning
Do you go out into the steppe? -
And spread out in the dance
County votes:
- Opanase! Opanase!
Katyuga! Katyuga! -
The homeless kopeck screeches
Under a white cloud
- Fight unarmed, lad,
Last thing! -
And the plain howls like a wolf -
From the Dniester to the Bug
Animal, stone and grass:
- Katyuga! Katyuga! .. -
Don't look, the sun is evil,
Opanasu in the eyes:
He is sad, as if drunk,
Doesn't want to kill...
Either from the heat, or from a groan
Fatigue set in
Turned:
- Three cartridges
Left in the cage...
Blood is a hateful burden
The man's son...
Drain into the corn -
I'll shoot you in the back!
I won't knock you down
Walk with God! -
Corrects eyepieces,
Smiling, Kogan:
- Opanas, work cleanly,
I don't blink a fly.
Uncomfortable communist
Run like a greyhound!
You will rush straight - in the fog
river pools,
To the right - German farmers,
To the left - sentries!
I'd rather die in the field
From a dishonorable bullet! ..
Silence in the steppe expanse -
Only the shot cracked
Only Kogan trembled weakly,
Only gasped Kogan,
Started to fall sideways
Fall a little...
From iron strike
Above the eyebrows clot,
Look through the eyepieces
Cold and empty...
From the Black Sea along the roads
The dust is dancing
Kogan buried his nose in the dust
Before Opanas...

5

Where is the wide road
Free reach of the Dniester,
Calling at Popov's Log
Commander Kotovsky.
He looks over the valley
commander's eye,
The stallion under him sparkles
White refined.
The stallion lifts his leg
Drop another one
It's like he's trying his way
Steppe road.
And on the stone slope
From the Popov Log
Squadrons fly out
Right on the road...
From welding, the faces are smooth,
step away,
Ammunition is ok
Like Nicholas.
Horses turn their heads
The tail is laid in the wind:
Makhna is being chased
Exactly a week.
. . . . . . .
No noise over the shores
young life,
Behind the crazy wagons
The bandits are hiding.
There, behind a jug of moonshine,
In a tent,
With the ataman zatubenny
Interprets Bunchu:
- It is necessary with the Bolsheviks
We accept the battle -
Spin in front of the shelves
Give orders! .. -
How dad moved in a big way
On the table with your hand
How the father thundered on a grand scale
On the ground with a foot:
- Come on, give before the fight
fatter food,
Come on, knock out before the fight
You are from the barrels of the bottom,
To hands to machine guns
They themselves took a liking
So that the lads from under their hats
They looked like a kite!
To smoke the gunpowder
Over the water of the Dniester,
To choke with grief
Commander Kotovsky!
. . . . . . .
Lightning shoots with arrows,
The mist crawls into the potholes,
Red foxes chirping
To the chum camp.
Behind the wide bullish roar -
Vague headboard;
Div promises midnight cry
The death of Transnistria.
And behind the dark wagons,
For the drowsy dormouse
For feather grass forelocks,
Behind the wing of a crow
Washed by the bitter shadow
Rise above the ground
The sun of a new battle -
Battle sun...

6

Well, the palms took
For curved sabers,
Horses take off on their hind legs,
Like whirlwinds of the steppe.
Horses creep on the run
Align with the road
On crazy carts
On the muzzle of an ox.
The wind is blowing over the carts,
Wide, fighting,
Cossacks before the fighters
Grigory Kotovsky ...
A checker is playing over the horse
pouring force,
Broken red cap
On the shaved back.
Shoulders tremble in harmony
From the horse dance...
Breaks out towards
Grivun of Opanas.
- Fly in, my wild horse,
Move your hooves
Saber, bullet or pike
Let's get the brigade commander! -
They flew and collided
Moved by horses
Sabers immediately overlapped
crooked streams...
The brigade commander has combat
The soul took
He cuts with a raid
Saber of Opanas.
Rubanuv, threw back the saber,
Threatening eyes:
- Show your flair
Now fists! -
The brigade commander has a vigorous move,
Heavier than pigs
Turned around - and with acceleration
Crap on the sopatka! ..
. . . . . . .
Opanase, what's wrong with you?
Hang your head...
Turned around, swayed
Fell into the grass...
Eye above left cheekbone
Flowing blue...
Silently falls on his back
Palms outstretched...
Opanase, our share
Scattered in the field!..

7

Balta is a decent town,
The town is what you need.
There are no rouge cherries anywhere,
Sweeter than grapes.
In cheese, in kavuns, in dill
Call day market;
Boy is chasing pigeons
From the fire tower...
Opanase, you did not guess
In a loose feather grass,
What will you go through Balta
A sloppy tract;
What is after you women
Longing for a look;
What shoves you at the headquarters
Watch butt…
Oh, crazy open spaces -
Bitter loss!
Corridors to corridors
There are doors in the corridors.
And through the corridor dust
Through a deaf house
Opanas was carried out
For interrogation to the headquarters.
And the staff had for interrogation
The old habit
Offers a cigarette
Lights a match:
- Citizen, I beg your honor
Talk to me.
How long have you been hanging out together?
With Nestor Makhna?
Answer without cheating
Not for fear,
How many sabers and carts
Is he in the squad?
Answer, but not immediately
And thinking a little, -
How much to the main base
Did the forage fit in?
Do you know the district
Where does he lead the gang?
- What I knew: a horse, a girth,
Saber and reins!
How the distance of the steppe trembled,
Do not say in words:
Ukraine - mother dear -
Fought under horses!
As we walked in wheeled thunder
So the sky is hot
Remember Gaisin and Zhytomyr,
Balta and Vapnyarka!..
daring
Into the smoke, into the tin, into God!..
... I will not forget one
How did Kogan die?
Dear dear
Legs won't go
If Kogan stretched out
Across the road...
Well, headquarters, shake your head,
Move the ink:
With this very hand
Kogan was killed!
Die, Gulyai-Polye,
Young life!
. . . . . . .
Opanase, our share
Covered in fog!..

8

Opanas, step bolder
Look more fun!
Oh, don't hoot, oh, don't stomp,
Don't clap your hands!
Friendly fingers loosened
Sabers will not be pulled out.
The last evening has come
You have nothing to cover!
Opanas, your road -
Not beyond the threshold.
What do you see? What do you hear?
What do you know? What do you breathe?
The night is hot and dry
Yes, the darkness of the shed.
A light bulb smolders on the roof, -
Hey, head up!
And towards over the threshold -
Lost Kogan.
neat hairstyle,
And wax cheeks.
Smiling sternly:
- Buddy, great!
Where we are destined by fate
Collide with you!
Opanas, your road -
Beyond the threshold...

Epilogue

Leaked over Ukraine
Fighting years.
Shut down, go off
Young waters...
I don't know where they are buried
Opanas bones:
Maybe under a willow bush
Maybe on the sidelines...
The blue-winged goose splashes
Over the water of the Dniester;
Glory walks over the grave,
Where is Kotovsky...
Behind the bandit steppes
Hooves do not rattle:
Over burning bones
Life blooms.
Blue over the bones
Impenetrable pool
Yes, the Red Army soldier is coming
On a visit to the house…
Stop and look
blue eyes -
On a homeless round stone,
Washed out by the rains.
And bend down and lift
lone stone:
On the palm - a white skull
With a hole above the eyes.
And he will say, feeling
Dead cold:
- You looked into the eyes of a rifle,
You died as it should! .. -
And go across the plain
Through the whirlpool of heat
To young Ukraine
In a young life...
. . . . . .
So let me die
At Popov's log,
The same glorious end
Like Joseph Kogan!

Poetry

Poems 1914–1925 Odessa

Dionysus

Where the ledge is cold and gray
Falls down like a waterfall
I scream at the silent cave:
– Dionysus! Dionysus! Dionysus!
Tired after a long hunt
Dusty your purple outfit,
He went to the turquoise grottoes
Squeeze golden grapes...
Dionysus! On a gilded shield -
Faded snakes blue fight,
And weeps with a torn groan
A pipe directed to the sky ...
And on the ashes of burned backgammon,
Intoxicated, I prostrate;
Above me is the head of a leopard,
The golden leader of the chariots...
Oh, throw up your hands
In the cornice decorated by Diana! ..
Stretch the stubborn bows, -
Dionysus is coming to us, Dionysus!
In the clouds golden purple
The evening wept in the misty distance...
In my heart, a patterned urn,
Light sadness tremble crystal.

On my way

And the night follows the day, like a wolf behind a quiet chamois,
And the sky seems like a bottomless cistern,
Where the towers are collapsing misty cities...
It's been twelve days since Carthage has been abandoned,
For twelve days the monsoons have carried us far away! ..
The heavy sword will not tinkle, the scarlet shield will not tremble,
The pattern of the Sidon walls will not splash with whiteness ...
In vain the third day they burn blue smokes,
In vain the priest prays at the black mast,
In vain they pour the hissing fat of sheep on the backgammon:
Ferocious Poseidon knows no regret...
On the dirty deck, red from the sun,
Between the abandoned gear and torn sails,
The sailors are sleeping quietly; and the bitterness of summer dreams
Silently took possession of swarthy bodies ...
And the night follows the day ... Purple thread
A sick sunset is spinning beyond the distance of dying ...
But we are more afraid of thunders, and storms, and sobs -
In the burning silence, a trembling exclamation: “Drink!”
And the cold night goes with the wrong foot,
Scattering behind you the flowers of faded dreams...
For twelve days the shores have not been seen,
And the night follows the day, like a wolf behind a quiet chamois...

Creole

When she gets bored of crafty novels
And get tired of lying in wicker hammocks,
She comes to the port to watch the caravels
Sailing from troubled countries on unsteady sails.
A wide cloak of golden fabric rustles;
The sand barely crunches under the red heels,
And a little Hindu in an azure turban
Carries a heavy train embroidered with silver.
She goes alone to the abandoned pier,
Where the sails of the Algerian brigantines splash,
When the farandole is danced at sunset,
And the flute rattles, and the tambourine groans.
From the decks of ships so vaguely pulls tar,
So softly embroidered silks rustle.
But the funniest thing for her is to lightly touch with her elbow
A mulatto fisherman who cast his net ...
And at home waiting for her crystal arbors,
Cupid of marble, looking into the fountain,
And a red parrot hanging in a copper cage
And a flock of little tailless monkeys.
And the green cicadas rattle loudly
In transparent corollas of porcelain flowers,
And the pearly bulks of the distant mountains will sink
In berets of blue fluffy clouds.
When will the night wake up over the marble balcony
And the nightjar will shout, trembling wings,
She alone goes to the abandoned columns,
Shrouded in a rain of green ivy...
In the blue alley, where in the silver of the fog
The viscous aroma of tea roses is transparent,
Bending down, waiting for her by the blue fountain
With a viola under a cloak, a laughing mulatto.
He will kiss the fearful Creole,
When flowers sing and silence cries...
And in the clouds, sliding on blue silk,
The moon barely rustles with sharp edges ...

jetty

Green steam rises above the blue swell,
And the sky in the distance is transparent blue ...
And the month, drunk on silence and heat,
Torn to pieces by a blow of thin rails ...
Skeletons of brigantines, like black fighters,
They plunged the spears of the masts into the azure paper ...
And the purple corsair silently sharpens his sword,
To spread death to distant ends.
In the Blue Brig tavern, the weary skipper Pete
Plays a sad waltz on a decrepit mandolin,
And nearby, at the table, in a broken basket
A huge black cat, grinning, snoring...
And the cabin boy, silently immersed in a dream of love,
Inhales blue smoke from the mouth of a black pipe,
And in the lace of lights they seem through a dream
Singing ringing of earrings and purple lips.
And long sabers knock on the dirty floor,
And caustic beer from barrels splashes into mugs ...
And in the morning copper guns will be directed at them
A patrol frigate sailed up to the pier ...

End Flying Dutchman

Cracked guitars are so rattling sounds
The hoarse pipe coughed into the fog,
And bony ruthless hands beat
In a large, patterned, Turkish drum ...
By the red sign of an abandoned tavern
Where green hops crawl along the damp wall,
A drunken sailor bawls a ritornello,
And the verse replaces the verse, melodious and untrue...
Sticky smoke flows over the red lantern.
Fat Martha's apron, stained with wine,
Two drunken boatswains, scolding, playing cards;
On a damp tablecloth, rum trembles in glasses ...
The sailors' berets are trimmed with galloons,
On purple cloaks in the clasp - turquoise.
Pale girls have green eyes
And a white row of teeth behind red lips...
Porcelain lantern - transparent moon,
In the rosette of blue clouds it flickers wearily,
They will pattern the moonlight on the blue of the backwater,
About the half-rotted pier, a wave silently beats ...
At the old pier, where the cry of drunkards is muffled,
Where less often is the blue smoke of tobacco fumes,
Crazy old brig of the Flying Corsair
The painted flags drooped.

Miner

I went to the mountains on an emerald night,
In the silence of snow and opal ice floes...
And the pearl shreds circled in the sky,
And the carbine on the belt interfered with jumping ...
Between gloomy firs and rustling birches
On skis I glided on dull ice,
Where the dwarfs brought in wheelbarrows creaking
From stone mines to gold ore...
I saw crumbling rubble on the clay
Bear footprints intertwined pattern,
Crystal towers of broken crests
And blue dresses of frozen lakes...
And the frozen sky descended lower and lower,
And the moon was an ice floe over blocks of ice floes,
But the rough skis hissed sharply,
And the carbine trembled measuredly on the belt ...
In the frosty gorge three winter weeks
I blew granites with a heavy pick,
While over the cliff, at the broken spruce,
Metal ignited in the scattered quartz...
And the polar lights of the necklace went out,
When I went to the Far East...
And he stood, swaying, over the haze of the gorge
Transparent spring emerald smoke ...
I came to the city in the elusive darkness,
Where melting ice fell on the streets.
I stepped into puddles. And the dogs growled
From dilapidated kennels, at rotting gates...
And where the lantern is over the wooden fence
Swaying in a puddle like a yellow shadow
Were drawn with a rough pattern
On the signboard, the letters "Running Deer" ...
And where weaves silver nets
Above the screech of the orchestra tobacco smoke,
I threw at the circle of crazy roulette
Golden sand on the green of the cloth ...
And in the morning, drunk and foggy from the sun,
Huge thighs heaved up the earth ...
But she squeezed her neck silently and strangely
Cold snake tight loop.

Slavs

We lived in green spaces
Where the air is filled with spring
Flickering in downcast eyes
Bonfires of nomadic tribes…
Dressed in shaggy skins,
We burned sacrifices for you
To you, O foolish and gloomy
Perun on a high pillar.
We drove the herds along the ravine,
Where keys splash with beads,
But soon bloody mash
Drink axes and swords.
Teutons come from sunset
With a cross and a crazy eagle,
And the swans, leaving the backwaters,
They break the sedge with their wing.
Yarila is hiding in the clouds,
Stribog rises to the heights,
They laugh in the prickly thickets
Only a wolf and a spotted lynx ...
And drunk on raw bile,
Perun trembles on a pillar.
The mad heart of the Teuton,
Thunderbolt, I throw you...
Burning hills and ravines,
The battlements on the towers blushed,
Carry red banners
Priests in white cloaks.
Frenzied trumpets roar,
The sobs of the strings roar,
Baring bloody teeth
Mad Perun laughs! ..

Enemy

Compresses a broken leg
Shoe lined with nails,
He prays to a sad god;
Will God hear prayers?
Cold dawns will sweep
In the fields of golden lights ...
Noise in the crimson expanse
Green elms alone.
Only the wind that broke from the steep,
Whirl of silver dust
Let the prickly Tatar dance,
Let the feather grass droop silently.
And at night will cover the roads
Slime-soaked mist
Weary feet trample
The drum will sound the alarm.
Goes, bending under a knapsack,
In the smoke of perishing villages,
Silently screaming, choking,
On the banner is a black eagle.
It tramples like a wild dance,
Horses stunned gallop ...
The copper helmet is lowered
On a damp, dusty forehead.
Dried lips faded
The gun shook in his hand;
The sentinel trumpets sang
In a village on a nearby river...
Now over damp fields
The east will open its fan ...
Knocks heavily with boots
And cocks the elastic trigger ...

September 1914

Suvorov

In a gray cocked hat, nimble and small,
In a blue overcoat with torn elbows, -
He put on warm boots in winter
And he wrapped his throat with scarves and handkerchiefs.
In those days, stagecoaches creaked along the roads,
And the coachmen sat on the goats in camisoles and felt hats;
In the evenings, in hotels, cheerful girls sang romances,
And in the low halls a minty smell flowed.
When the mail-coach horn sounded in the distance,
Green curtains were raised on the dirty windows,
Tender duets fell silent in the dark halls,
And a whisper was heard: “Suvorov is coming!”
Thin skirts rustled on the narrow stairs,
The gates were opened by helpful Cossacks,
The red-faced travelers respectfully hid their pipes,
Burning your hands with hot coals.
In the evenings he sat by the extinguished fireplace,
On which stood Saxon clocks and china freaks,
Reading a French novel, opening it in the middle,
"About the torments of poor Juliet, who fell in love with a noble seigneur."
In the morning when the shepherd's horns sing
And the fat maid taps her shoes down the corridor,
He was going to his cold villages
Pulling on boots with knocked down heels.
Dirty fleece turned yellow in wrinkled ears;
Groaning like an old man, he went into the yard, holding on to the railing;
A coachman in a blue caftan whipped a red horse,
And the hotel, the grove rushed, so that it was rippling in the eyes.
When in front of him floated out of the fog
Little houses and a church with a peeling roof
He pulled the tall coachman by the half of his caftan
And he shouted to him in an old voice: “Go quietly!”
But sometimes on the first snow that has fallen,
Standing in the cab and holding on to the driver's shoulder,
A courier came to his village
And he brought a letter from the mother-empress.
“My lord,” he read, “Alexander Vasilyich!
How sad it is for me to disturb your peaceful rest,
You, like the ancient Cincinnatus, retired to your village,
To multiply your possessions with wise work and sciences ... "
He looked at the perfumed paper for a long time -
It seemed as if the words would go down on a thin thread;
Then he went to the closet, took out orders and a sword
And he became the Suvorov of textbooks and books.

Breaking the harmony

ultramarine sky,
Sweaty earth from storms
And unfolded the bile of bread
Chessboard of the field.
Who, who came out of the dark distance,
Absorbed the power of underground forces,
In the expanse of the earth they became a seal
Did you stick the rectangles?
Who, glaring into the distance with a cloudy look,
By pressing a slow hand
geodetic instrument
Silently tears the earth to pieces?
O Surveyor, in a dream weary
You see that distant slope,
Where is the triangle with a sharp sting
Stuck into the outlined square.
And the compass draws a circle in dimensions,
And the line is drawn
But still he sings, bowing incorrectly,
Copper string plumb:
About that square slopes
Under the earth pipe
What emerald squares
The curve is dissected by the boundary;
What, intoxicated with a dusty haze,
Having occupied the nearest slope with a square,
Angle enclosed in a circle,
The rustling branches of the old garden;
That only a monument is powerless,
Frozen over the blood of late roses,
What's in the copper cracked convolutions
Drunk green vitriol.

Thought about Opanas; Poetry

Thought about Opanas

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Epilogue

Poetry

Poems 1914–1925 Odessa

Dionysus

On my way

Creole

jetty

End of the Flying Dutchman

Miner

Slavs

Enemy

Suvorov

Breaking the harmony

Hymn to Mayakovsky

Deribasovskaya at night

About the nightingale lover

Autumn

commander

1

2

3

Oh humble love of spring evenings

About the kobold

I found treasures at the bottom

“Oh Noon, you walk in painful anguish…”

With a timid movement

Oh sweet coffee and you dry almonds

Autumn

Eclogue to the world

autumn fishing

cats

“I am sweetly exhausted from silence and dreams…”

Ballad of a gentle lady

Tavern

Dedication 1 (ironic)

Initiation 2 (romantic)

Scattered chain

Signs

Putnik

“Here is a boom step. In warehouses empty ... "

Damn dolls

Liberation

1

2

Harvest

Alexander Blok

Eduard Bagritsky Thought about Opanas; Poetry

Thought about Opanas

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Epilogue

Poetry

Poems 1914–1925 Odessa

Eduard Bagritsky
Thought about Opanas; Poetry