The message on the topic of Agashina is short. Here is the train. It flared up with bright light. dust-choked flower

Margarita Agashina was born in the village of Bor, Yaroslavl region. The childhood of the poetess was spent at the Strelka trading post in the north Krasnoyarsk Territory. The poet's father was a doctor by profession. By the nature of his activity, he had to roam the taiga along with Evenk hunters. Margarita's mother taught Evenki children at school.

In the early 1930s, the Agashins family moved to the city of Teikovo, Ivanovo Region. Margarita went to school number 4, where she taught German her mother is Elizaveta Ivanovna. (A memorial plaque is now installed on the school building).

After leaving school, Margarita Agashina entered the Moscow Institute of Non-Ferrous Metals and Gold, but, without completing her second year, she left for the Literary Institute. Gorky. She studied at seminars with Vera Zvyagintseva,. She graduated from the Literary Institute in 1950.

Since 1951, after graduating from the institute, Margarita Agashina lived in Volgograd. Here she lived until the end of her life, devoting the main part of her work to the city on the Volga, which became truly native to her.

In 1952 for the poem "My Word" Margarita Agashina was admitted to the Union of Writers. Real fame came to Margarita Agashina after Lyudmila Zykina performed a song based on her poems.

In 1993 Margarita Konstantinovna Agashina "for outstanding services in the field of literature, a significant creative contribution, recognized by the people of Volgograd and all of Russia" by the decision of the Volgograd City Council people's deputies was awarded the title "Honorary Citizen of the Hero City of Volgograd".

Margarita Agashina She died in 1999 at the age of 75.

She has been published as a poet since 1949.

The main part of the poetess's work is devoted to Volgograd, its glorious history.

In total, the poetess published 36 collections of poems in the publishing houses of Moscow and Volgograd. Many poems were set to music and became famous songs.

Agashina Margarita Konstantinovna (1924 - 1999). Famous Russian poetess. She was born on February 29, 1924 in the village of Bor, Yaroslavl Region. She spent her childhood in the city of Teikovo, Ivanovo Region, where she studied at high school No. 4. Graduated from the Literary Institute in 1950. Since 1951 she lived in Volgograd.

Author of numerous collections of poems and books for children, including such well-known ones as “Not just a woman lives”, “Birch grows in Volgograd”, “Handkerchief”, “Poems about my soldier”, “Forty herbs”, “Indian summer” , “Alyonushka has things to do” and many others. other.

She was awarded the Order of the Red Banner of Labor, the Order of the Badge of Honor; Laureate of the Stalingrad Prize.

The main part of Margarita Konstantinovna's work is devoted to Volgograd, its glorious history.

The title "Honorary Citizen of the City - Hero of Volgograd" was awarded to Margarita Konstantinovna Agashina by the decision of the Volgograd City Council of People's Deputies of October 19, 1993 for outstanding achievements in the field of literature, a significant creative contribution, which was recognized by Volgograd residents and all of Russia.

The childhood and youth of M. Agashina were held in the city of Teikovo, Ivanovo Region, starting in 1936. About life in early childhood her autobiography tells us:

“The house in Yaroslavl where I was born stood on the left bank of the Volga. In one of the springs, the river overflowed so much that boats came into our yard, geese swam. As a child, I also lived in the Penza region, in the village of Verkhozim. Behind the village river Karada, the first collective farm was created. Our favorite song was “We walked under the roar of cannonade”. Favorite game - "Twelve sticks". My favorite thing is to go to the forest and meadows across the river, where there was a lot of everything that is impossible to forget! Forget-me-not - so the whole coast. Strawberries - so whole glades! Mushrooms - you won’t pass like that: families are oiled in a rut, it’s a pity to crush. And - also by families - snowdrops on fluffy gray legs. Then we lived in the north of the Krasnoyarsk Territory, at the Strelka trading post. My father is a doctor, he wandered along with the Evenks - hunters: in winter - on reindeer sleds, in summer - on horseback. Mom taught Evenki children at the school, which was recently opened. There on Strelka, I learned to “pick sulfur from larches” (we chewed it), searched for chipmunk holes full of sweet lingonberries, put chopping blocks on stoats. People on the Strelka lived simply and amicably, worked hard, gathered all together for the holidays on May 1, November 7, on Red Army Day. Many years later. But I remember everything and know for sure that there, on the Strelka, for the first time I was happy because everyone was together!”

Margarita was 12 when their family moved to Teikovo. Father Konstantin Stepanovich was a surgeon in the 2nd city hospital. Mother Elizaveta Ivanovna taught the children the German language at the then new secondary school No. 4, where she came with her daughters Kaleria and Margarita, students of the 5th and 4th grades. In Teykovo, their son Felix was born in their family.

At school, everyone admired neatly dressed, modest blond girls with ironed ribbons in braids and red ties. Attracted by their politeness, respect for others, sociability and seriousness. Soon they became exemplary students, active social activists, pioneer leaders in the elementary grades. Margarita was very energetic, lively, persistent in any business. Participated in holding evenings, disputes, competitions, various trips and excursions. She loved all public affairs, had many friends and girlfriends. Rita studied only at 5, in everything she was an example for the guys.

She also loved poetry very much, wrote interesting literary compositions, which her teacher Marfa Stepanovna Chesnokova was proud of. Often Rita was noticed thoughtful, dreamy, her head bowed to one side. In those moments, her poems were born, which were printed by both the local Bolshevik Tribune and the regional newspaper Always Ready. Margarita's first poem was "My little sister", which was soon published in the local newspaper. Rita performed at reading competitions at school, in the city, and at the regional one she received a diploma for her own poem “I Will Answer”.

1938 – 1939 academic year. Grade 7 with teachers (6th from the bottom left - Margarita Agashina)

A drama club was created at the school, led by Margarita Agashina's mother, Elizaveta Ivanovna. It was the core of a team of capable guys, around which others united. V. Izosimov, M. Alfeeva, L. Umnikova, sisters Agashina, G. Lipin, A. Ofitserova, V. Pariyskiy turned out to be especially gifted. Kruzhkovites performed not only on the school stage, but also in urban and rural clubs. Paid productions strengthened material base: this is how musical instruments were acquired for their orchestra. Performances of young actors at school were an unforgettable holiday.

The friendship grew stronger every day. A love for the performing arts was born, which many dreamed of serving. But the plans of graduates, like everyone else Soviet people crossed out by the Great Patriotic War. In her autobiography, Margarita Konstantinovna wrote about this as follows: “I saw the first grief in my life when I was almost an adult, sixteen years old, when the war began. First we saw off the father and teachers, then classmates. We worked on a collective farm and a hospital, sawed wood, were donors and went to school. It was already in the city of Teikovo, Ivanovo region. There I graduated from high school. In grief, people were also together. And if it were not so, then I would have written completely different poems.”

With the outbreak of war, Margarita's business and worries increased: she took on the duties of the Komsomol organizer of the school. She organized the seeing off of volunteers to the front, assistance to the sanitary troopers, duty in the hospital, work in logging and peat extraction, assistance to the collective farm in drying hay and harvesting vegetables. Rita helped collect parcels for the front, write letters, prepared concerts for the wounded. On August 31, 1941, in the regional newspaper “Bolshevik Tribune”, a note was published by the secretary of the Komsomol committee of secondary school No. 4, Rita Agashina, “We are confidently striding into life”. The article said:

“Everything for the front” - with this slogan in their hearts, the Komsomol members of our school work in the hot days of the Great Patriotic War

August 17 - All-Union Komsomol Sunday. Several teams of students worked in the forest sawing logs. They returned home in the evening. The battle song did not stop for a long time:

For eternal peace in the last battle

The steel squadron flies

We firmly know that much more endurance and stamina will be required, readiness for serious sacrifices will be required, but we believe in the future - bloody fascism will be defeated!”

But the Motherland called to where it was difficult. One by one, the guys who served as tankers, pilots, sailors, and scouts left. Many were squad, platoon, and company commanders. The girls served as nurses, orderlies, signalmen, typists and even drivers. Komsomol members fought on different fronts, but kept in touch with the school, teachers and comrades. Everyone kept a poetic memo of Rita at their hearts:

In a cold dugout, a snowy field,

In study, combat, intense struggle

You remember Teikov, remember the school,

And it will become warmer and easier for you.

Poems helped to overcome the difficulties of military service, reach the Victory, remember fallen friends and work for oneself and the one who died in battle. Rescued by the memory of school friendship, communication with teachers E. I. Agashina, M. V. Kiseleva, F. I. Antipova, meetings with Margarita, who traveled a lot around the country as a poetess.

After graduating from school, Margarita Agashina entered the Moscow Institute of Non-Ferrous Metals and Gold. But soon the girl realized that it was not her and, without even finishing her second year, in 1945 she went to the institute of her dreams - the Gorky Literary Institute. And there Paustovsky, Lev Kassil, Fedin - her idols, who became her teachers.

In the post-war Literary Institute, a little more than a hundred people studied at the same time in all five courses. That is, everyone knew each other well. The guys were mostly from the front, from schools - a few. There are very few girls. Most of all, two young girls who always stuck together stood out among them - these are Inna Goff and Margarita Agashina. Both wrote poetry. True, Inna had already switched to prose - from Svetlov's seminar to Paustovsky. Evenings and skits flourished at the institute. The walls themselves were literally saturated with poems, parodies, ditties. And girlfriends also had a hand in all this. Here is one of their collective ditties:

student life -

Occupation, hunger, darkness.

Fundamentals of Leninism

They do not climb on an empty stomach.

Wow! "Fundamentals of Leninism" - that's what it was called main book Stalin. No, they were ideologically correct girls and were not going to oppose the regime. They simply composed fables about their life - being, not thinking about the consequences. But for such a thing it was possible to get oh what a time! But it's good that nothing happened. Either no one “knocked”, or they were simply pitied. Inna and Margarita remained the closest friends for life, which does not happen so often. They had an amazing, unrelenting need to communicate with each other. After graduating from the institute, they often met, walked for a long time, reminisced about themselves, their youth, and comrades.

Further life path Margarita is simple and clear: she got married, came to Volgograd in 1951, and since then it has been her favorite and hometown. Here her children grew up, here she found true friends. It is no coincidence that in one of her poems she wrote:

I love you as a person, my holiday is my city, Volgograd!

It was here, in Volgograd, that she published her first work, the poem “My Word”, a monologue of a mother condemning the war:

Let it rush, this word,

Over hundreds of mountains, over thousands of seas.

Its in all parts and countries of the world

Will be heard by millions of mothers.

We don't want to be on the battlefield

Thousands of fighters marched again,

To make the blue sky black,

To leave children without fathers

For this poem, Margarita Agashina was admitted to the Union of Writers. Subsequently, she published 36 collections of poems. Many of them were set to music, becoming popular songs. One of these is “A Birch Grows in Volgograd”, which was performed throughout the country by the famous Lyudmila Zykina.

You were also born in Russia, a land of fields and forests.

In every song we have birch, birch under every window.

On every spring glade their white live round dance.

But there is a birch in Volgograd - you will see, and your heart will stop.

She was brought from afar to the regions where the feather grasses are noisy.

How difficult it was for her to get used to the fire of the Volgograd land, for how long she yearned for the bright forests in Rus' - the guys lie under the birch - ask them about it.

The grass under the birch is not crumpled - no one got up from the ground.

But how a soldier needs it, for someone to grieve over him.

And he cried - lightly, like a bride, and remembered - forever, like a mother!

You, too, were born a soldier - don't you understand that

You were also born in Russia - a birch, sweet land.

Now, wherever you meet a birch, you will remember my birch, its silent branches, its patient sadness.

A birch grows in Volgograd!

Try to forget her.

After the premiere of the song, Margarita Konstantinovna began to come from all over the country Thanksgiving letters with a laconic address “Volgograd, M. Agashina”.

The most famous poems by Margarita Agashina were: “To the Soldier of Stalingrad”, “Crossroads”, “Evening”, “Son”, “Bachelorette Party”, etc.

She knew how to be friends with her readers, and the workers of Metallurgstroy enjoyed her special love: “Who would know how glad I am, I value the invitation, I put on everything that is more fashionable, once a year I put on a manicure.”

Agashina was abroad, where with great attention they listened to the rhythm of her poetic lines. She is a subtle lyrical poet: “I will go up to the beautiful mountain ash, I will put my hand on a branch, according to which the only reason I'm sad today, I'll tell you." Her lyrics are soft, sincere and tender: "A person becomes happier if he sees: the cherry has blossomed." “I’ll go out to the river, crack with a thin branch, break the tight thread. It is always sad in autumn, even if there is nothing to be sad about!”

But the pinnacle of her work is civil lyrics, highly patriotic and sublime: “Here we are, as we once were, taking a handful of Stalingrad land. We won, guys, we reached Berlin”, “A hundred years will pass and a hundred snowstorms, and we are all indebted to them. February-February, soldier's month. Carnations are burning in the snow.”

Decisive in the life of Margarita Agashina was her meeting with Grigory Ponomarenko. It was in 1963 in Volgograd. The composer was surprised at the simplicity and spiritual charm of Margarita's poems. The songs “What was, it was”, “A birch grows in Volgograd”, “Give me a handkerchief” became public property, gained national love. Then Ponomarenko moved from Volgograd. Agashina even wrote poems “Don't leave, Ponomarenko”. But he left, and their new songs stopped appearing.

Now Margarita Konstantinovna Agashina is not with us. She passed away on August 4, 1999. But our country remembers the faithful, talented daughter of Russia, her work and contribution to literature are highly appreciated. She has awards: the Order of the Red Banner of Labor, the medal “For Valiant Labor”, was awarded the Gorky State Prize, was awarded the title of Honorary Citizen of Volgograd, a street in Volgograd was named after her, and a memorial plaque was installed on the house in which she lived. On November 11, 2006, a memorial plaque was also installed at the native school of M. Agashina - school No. 4 in Teikovo in honor of the memory of the great poetess.

But the highest reward for her was and remains people's love and admiration for her work. Along with poetry and immortal songs Margarita Agashina continues to beat with us, as if alive, her open to people kind heart.

Where can I get this song

Where can I get this song

about love and fate

and that no one guessed

what is this song about you?

So that the song flies around the world,

took someone by the heart

lured someone into the grove,

led someone into the field.

To have a factory club

and at a distant village,

from this song fading,

cute girl was waiting.

And to wait for her

pressed against his trembling shoulders...

Yes, so that no one guessed

what I cry about at night.

Oh you guys guys...

A scarlet dawn flared up.

The grasses bowed at their feet.

Oh, how disturbing and bitter

smells like steppe wormwood!

Quiet sunset time

a wing descended into the Volga ...

Oh you guys guys!

How many of you have been killed here!

How young you were

how did you fight...

Here, we have not forgotten about you -

How can we forget about you!

Here we take, as once,

a handful of Stalingrad land.

We won guys!

We've made it to Berlin!

Evening dawn again

paints poplars with fire.

Again anxious and sad

smells like native land.

Again harsh and holy

Young hearts beat...

Oh you guys guys!

There is no end to life.

Baba Tonya

And in winter, and in autumn, and in summer,

and today is the same as yesterday

they go to Baba Tonya for advice

women of a huge court.

I visit her often.

I sit quietly, lean against the wall.

And she is good, simple

tells me his life.

Far away is the village of Peskovatka,

all as is covered with sand.

Native home - care and lack,

married barefoot.

All my life I worked, I worked hard,

every day from dawn to dusk.

And for all her love was enough,

she took care of everything.

Baba Tonya... Isn't that her?

at night when the kids are sleeping

cutting diagonal pieces

sewed gymnasts for soldiers?

Isn't it her warm palms

revived the city of Stalingrad?

"Antonin Mikhalna!", "Baba Tonya ..."

Isn't that what they're talking about?

On screens, in books and on stage -

famous women names.

Who will notice and appreciate

what has she done in her life?

Sews blouses for grandchildren from bikes,

washes the floor and cooks dinner...

The quiet fate of a housewife,

there is nothing special.

Indian summer

In September, the trails are thick

variegated leaves lay down.

September people are sad

called Indian summer.

Just what is this:

only the machines will be silent,

before dawn over the river

the laughter of the girls does not stop!

Apparently, they live happily -

dresses are ironed, curls are twisted,

across the shattered meadow

pumps float.

And they will sing a song -

the willow will bend down to the stream,

the old birch trembles:

remember his youth.

The moon will rise to the sky

but she doesn't know either.

Is it Indian summer

or girlish spring!

At lunch break

I've been here. Everything here is familiar to me.

And yet, through the roar of the factory

a friend from the factory committee leads me

and frankly laments with anguish:

Here, it seems, and you are not to blame,

And we, again, also have nothing to do with it.

Of course there won't be enough people.

They don't understand at all!

The plant was booming. Breathe in one breath.

Pipes rose in fiery dust.

And he kept walking and mumbling over his ear,

that "people have not grown up to poetry",

that "youth and the club is something infrequent",

that "she would only spit on the ceiling" ...

We finally arrive at the site

and look:

full of red corner!

The guys are sitting - guys and girls -

from the stage to the last row!

My companion delightedly took off his cap

and with a wink said:

Wow!

Ah, this state of combat,

when your poems - to the judgment of the people!

Hall was with me.

But there were two in the hall

conjuring over a chessboard.

I understood: it's time for a break,

they have lunch and they are not up to me.

And here is one of them leisurely

takes the white horse by the mane.

Well, it was not supposed to be offended here,

but I don't feel like giving up either.

How I tried, how I tried

so that the guys quit the game!

Already in the notebook is visible and weighty,

Satisfied with my success

the factory committee worker put the bird,

wingless like him.

Already a girl on the bench left

looking for a handkerchief, jingling with a trifle.

And those, like a pawn, twist the queen

and still

don't look at me.

The horses gallop in the cages angularly

and kings march regally.

And I'm the only one to blame

that two have not grown up to poetry!

I've been called stubborn since childhood

but not stubbornness broke out in the blood,

reminding me of a tried remedy...

And I read

I don't know, maybe there were so many

in verses of love, and happiness, and longing,

or maybe just -

I loved you...

But the guys came off the board!

I left the guys delighted,

feeling the reader's shoulder.

Will they say tomorrow

in bookstore:

They don't buy anything!

Varya

Leaves rustled dryly on the boulevard,

the ice of October cold puddles crunched.

To my neighbor, silent Varya,

In the autumn morning the husband returned.

Not like returning in forty-five

husbands are soldiers from that big war.

He knocked softly, guiltily,

leaving the house of his second wife.

And Varya wiped her hands with an apron,

The front door quietly opened.

I saw. Throat squeezed with palm

and did not immediately lead into the room.

Then she cried a little

Well, what was, is gone...

And now they have an accordion ringing

and clinking cut glass.

And Varya, all dressed in new clothes,

left the bottom of the chest,

rattling the sheets of the gas oven

and hurriedly fries pike perch.

And I thought that Varya had strength,

for the fact that, the pain and bitterness are concealed,

she never forgave in her life

that I have forgiven so many times!

And it seemed to me: everything is not as it should be,

and the guests triumph for nothing,

and Varya has not forgotten and is not happy

and this feast is a mountain not because

that now he returned, the father of the guys

and to her dearest and dearest.

But because he once upon a time

left Varya for another woman.

I kept waiting for Varya to stand up proudly,

folds his hands royally on his chest,

sparkle with eyes, look straight into the soul

and, as to a stranger, he will say:

But Varya was still sitting next to her husband,

looked at everyone simply and brightly,

with such a calm, forgiving look,

as if indeed: what was - is gone.

And danced, pushing the chairs,

as if she didn't cry

how this evening she cries, the other,

second annoying wife.

As if the wind does not howl outside the window,

breaking young trees...

And she, that one, had children,

like Varina once, without a father.

And he - the father - sits with his back to the chest of drawers,

jokes with guests, clinks glasses, eats.

And Varya, maybe a year or six months

he won't get bored this time.

She, out of an old, memorable habit,

a thin sock will pull on the fungus,

and put matches under her husband's pillow

and cigarettes of cheap boxes.

Remember everything that was precious

in those happy years.

And it will seem to everyone around that again

in the family of Varya - happiness, as then.

And the husband will decide: “I forgot about the offense!

Habit! Well, it's in everyone's blood..."

And Varya just won't show it,

that there is no more love in this house.

I don't know, maybe she'll come back

the love that Varya had been waiting for.

Isn't that why it sings joyfully

at the festive noisy table?

And someone, shouting the song drowning out,

some toast proclaims again...

And Varya dances for a long time, seeing off

my great first love.

widow's song

The years fly by like swallows...

What's ahead - I'm not afraid.

With whom only, dear, to say goodbye

at the hour when I get ready?

Will I go out to the Volga at dawn,

Is the night in the window idle, -

my dear, just about it

I think my mind.

My dear, the children have grown up,

family died...

You were, my dear, in the world

I only have one.

All that we got in life -

happiness is yours and mine -

did not regret for the fatherland,

You gave everything for her.

Years - let them rush!

Old age is not a joy, but a burden.

With whom should I, my dear, say goodbye

at the hour when I get ready?

August is already behind us

August is already behind us.

The Volga freezes. The winds are fresh.

This is a quiet and bright sadness,

this is our time to think.

Ozimi pure seedlings

and gardens of liquid colors ...

Suddenly for the first time you will feel the years

and decide that life is lived.

The birds say goodbye to us.

but someone came up with it for a reason,

what is knocking on the windows in August

golden time of September.

With bright celebration

indian summer,

with relentless faith in my chest

that the best song is not sung

and that life is still ahead.

Here is the train. flared up bright light

Here is the train. Blazed with bright light

around a familiar curve.

I'll cover it with a saving bouquet

bitterly smiling mouth.

You, too, will hide in the bouquet.

After all, eyes covered with flowers,

it's easier to pretend not to notice

nothing that torments me.

It is happiness - to meet at the station.

Only we do not have happiness again:

since others saw you off,

What a joy for me to meet you?

Always - meeting, seeing off

Always - meeting, seeing off -

and you were right, and I'm right.

And a stranger lived near us,

all-capable rumor.

It happened like this: trouble happened.

The work suddenly didn't work.

Rumor has always been there -

selflessly indignant

and followed us around.

It was bitter. I was silent.

Rumor sighed and grumbled

around my silence:

"She's stupid - she forgives..."

"She's smart - doesn't notice..."

I noticed everything

and did not forgive anything.

And we are all together! Is it a century, is it a moment,

or fifteen years in a row!

Well, it's easy for them - they're used to it! -

they talk about you and me.

And we are silent and we both know -

what was the cost of labor

to like this:

love till death,

not a permanent habit.

Just something grief - woman's share

Just grief -

woman's share!

And from the carriage window:

pine tree in the snow

blade of grass in the field

white birch -

One path -

turned around

went to a distant village...

Why suddenly

breathe so easily?

After all, it was breathing

Isn't it from that

not from that

what is from this window -

and everything is visible

in full view,

woman's share...

Pine tree in the snow

blade of grass in the field.

I'm not alone!

I'm not alone.

February second

In due time -

not too late and not too early

winter will come

the earth freezes.

to Mamaev Kurgan

the second of February.

at that frosty one,

at that sacred height,

you are on the roof

white blizzard

put red flowers.

And like for the first time

notice

what was he like,

their military path!

February, February

soldier's month

blizzard in the face

chest-deep snow.

One hundred winters will pass.

And a hundred blizzards.

And we are in front of them

everything is in debt.

February, February.

Soldier month.

carnations

on snow.

I'll go out to the river, crunch with a thin branch

I'll go out to the river, crunch with a thin branch,

I will break the tight thread.

Autumn is always sad

even if there is nothing to be sad about.

I'll go to the beautiful rowan,

put my hand on her neck,

for what, the only reason

I'm sad today, I'll tell you...

My stubborn

I ask you:

Forgive me for these conversations.

I always keep quiet about our quarrels -

I can’t take rubbish out of the hut.

And now no one will know.

All winter the mountain ash watches dreams,

and she, the beauty of the forest,

my story will be forgotten until spring.

Just let the wind take it

all the winds at once:

there are a lot of people in the world

quarrel, like you and I yesterday.

Let the winds blow around them

they will be told our yesterday's dispute.

And they laugh at us

and have not quarreled all their lives since then!

Pride

I get up in the morning like everyone else.

But how can I get up

I do not want!

I'm not tired of worries -

I'm tired of being alone.

I love the evenings

for the fact that by the evening, trustingly,

falls from the shoulders of my heat -

my affairs are handed over by the evening.

I love hard days

for waiting for no one to help,

and don't have time to think about yourself.

From hard days

I sleep tighter.

But the morning comes again!

And me again -

don't want to get up

and lie that everything -

vice versa:

that I'm tired

from worries,

what i don't care

to loneliness.

bitter verses

When it's not easy for a woman to live -

one lives, one raises children -

and does not interrupt, but beats, -

"Male character" - people say.

But why is that woman not happy?

Not money after all, not a summer residence, not rags -

two proud words, whatever the reward

for her quiet dignity?

And why is everything sadder over the years

these two words in the turmoil of the day,

like my two only medals,

rattling around me?

Oh, how can I get to the bottom of the reason!

and receive favors from us?

I'm not talking about you, Work and Care!

You are on the shoulder, even though it's hard with you.

But there is something even more courageous,

what is not on the shoulders - on the heart fell.

When life is not easy for a woman

when she raises children alone

and does not interrupt, but beats,

her - "Be a man!" - people says.

And how annoying "to be a man"!

Do not gasp, do not cry, do not lie,

ignore wrinkles

and cheaper dresses to choose.

To return from smoky meetings -

everything, up to the shirt, hang on the balcony

not to be a woman,

and so that the night does not smell of tobacco.

No, should I get to the bottom of the reason!

From what trouble, at what wrong hour

they forgot that they are men,

and receive favors from us?

Well! We have learned by taming

winged arrogance of eyebrows,

look at them calmly, forgiving everything,

how mothers look at their sons.

But it's getting harder and harder to believe in the night,

when they, succumbing to comfort,

suddenly remember that they are men,

and still get on their knees.

Cranes

Winter, as they say, is angry!

But somewhere there

still far away

silver birds fly

gray-haired birds - cranes.

They fly on a long road

in a way that knows no end.

Stubborn crane wedge

they cut into the heart.

And cry, full of spring news,

and every vein in the wing,

unbridled love,

which is crowded on the ground!

They have gone so far

they flew for so many days!

They must be so tired

that they don't think about it.

They met snow and slush,

mists sticky network.

They are singing -

not to cry.

They fly -

to fly.

And suddenly one sighed wearily

and began to fall heavily.

But somewhere near trembled

native gray wing.

And he took a last look

chain of elongated bodies

(and that wing was still beating nearby!)

and - did not fall.

And - flew.

They fly all over Russia

gray-haired birds - cranes.

Their triangles are oblique

all white light crossed.

And before the first snowfall

into the tight blue they will rise again.

They fly side by side all their lives

More than love.

dust-choked flower

dust-choked flower

for some reason forgotten on the window.

Nobody will ever know

what happened to me today.

I won't tell anyone about the trouble

or maybe my joy.

I will find my favorite dress

and sing my favorite song.

I will braid differently,

I'll loosen a curl at my temple...

And I'll take it somewhere

dust-choked flower.

Whenever everything we wanted

Whenever everything we wanted

done in life without difficulty,

courage would disappear from the face of the earth,

which the cities took.

And if bitter mistakes

our hands and minds,

would consider pure smiles

just a courtesy we.

And I am for meeting in life

and failure, and a thunderstorm,

notice a smile in time

hide a tear in time.

To every turn

anxious

the light is not extinguished.

So that both in life and in work

fate did not spoil us.

OK. I will survive. Not the first!

OK. I will survive. Not the first!

And when unbearable

all your hopes are true

reread for the hundredth time.

All the pain years will cure,

grief - they will take it to the song.

Strength is not enough

pride will save

good people will save.

Do people want it

Do people want it that way?

did you like February -

only blizzards bring

everything I love in life.

Just step through the gate -

here they are, white, here!

It's not good to cry,

so they sweep clean.

Why don't you look openly?

Well, tai do not tai -

sewn with white thread

my secrets and yours.

Mother

Who cares young!

Who was saved from pain!

Look how many legs came out

and how many hands brought.

Look how much she cried and sang,

and saw off, and waited!

And it wasn't old.

Yes, it is clear that the heart could not stand it.

And the mother gave in.

And the mother went to bed.

In the eyes - not a bitter "I'm sorry"

no pity, no pain - one anxiety:

Still to live. Even a bit.

Get the guys to work.

I have often heard

I have often heard

incomprehensible words,

that a woman likes to be unhappy,

that the woman is alive with torments.

And did not skimp on potholes

my road is long

so that more than once an ordinary woman -

deceived

and weak -

I felt myself.

But everything is stubborn with every flour,

without renouncing longing,

I mastered science

love freedom like a man!

And now, with a heavenly, new power

broke free along the way!

And no happiness

no misfortune

you can't bring me.

My living book

She is stronger than all my books

and people need it more

my poems, my poems,

not yet read by anyone.

Let me alone know

how difficult it is to write

and how much is invested in it.

But in her

my immortality.

This book has a hundred roads,

and kilometers of bright lines,

and human words

and endless rights!

I am not writing this book.

I carry it in my arms

I sing over her

I am silent over her

I teach her to be silent and sing.

But she is not silent - she sings!

And won't let me work.

She hurts - be patient again.

She calls - do not sleep again!

Again, do not sleep until the roosters!

Again - alas! - not to poetry:

the son screams all night -

my living book.

On Mamaev Kurgan

Already he is in the grasses, pungent in the steppe,

bumblebees are already working on them,

its already cooled fragments

tourists were taken all over the earth.

And everything goes according to all the laws of the world.

But every year, as soon as the snow melts,

a mine comes out from under his land -

the last, distant plan of the enemy.

She lies on a dry path,

is silent, and waits, and thinks his own.

And thin brave blades of grass

they look at the white light from under it.

Grasshoppers and flies scurry along it,

on it are earrings of poplars,

and rust iron freckles

They tried to make it more fun.

She is greedy, stupid and narrow-minded.

And she will not become kinder and more earthly.

Her inhuman malice

so many years

accumulated in it.

Good and evil boil, not cooling down.

Life struggles with death for centuries.

And the living touches the mine,

from hatred gentle hand.

Then thunder will strike over the pure steppe -

and echo from above.

And noisy tourists on the mound,

looking at the sky, pull out umbrellas.

They will follow the same path.

and they won’t even notice near the legs

tired trembling blades of grass

and a trail of heavy forged boots.

Let them go quietly by!

Let the sun shine in the blue!

After all, life is life.

And all the soldiers of the world

and young

and roam the grass.

On the pre-dawn window sill

On the pre-dawn window sill

heavy dew fell.

Steppe curly -

honey clover

climbed onto the windowsill.

Ah, you steppe, steppe!

I'll change my shoes, I'll go wandering along the feather grass.

And I bow.

And I will love it.

And love - do not love.

Where there!

With ancestral blood

and with mother's milk

one and only love

in the soul of that meadow -

for Krasnaya Novya,

the one behind Vetluga,

behind the wood

with chamomile

cornflower.

Not because I'm responsible for everything

Not because I'm responsible for everything,

not because I'm right about everything,

but whatever happens in the world

I measure with my own arshin first.

And I will not be afraid and I will not hide.

And I'm not a hero, not a coward.

And I - with a lie, I will cry to my fill,

but I still get to the truth.

And I, like you, am cool and self-willed:

I die - I will not back down from my own.

But who knows how it hurts

when you're right

and no one around!

When you are sicker and harder

and comes "to be or not to be",

every time I yearn and regret

that I didn't fall in love with you.

What, about you, sadness and suffering

and dressing the gardens in white,

not a woman

the song is young

again takes you out of trouble.

Oh, how light it is for you with her!

And how sad and tender she is!

But you know: others need it more.

And let the song out the window

And do we cry that goes around the world

my only darling!

Let someone evil say

what do poets

no tears from the eyes -

lines in two streams.

If so, then let -

bitterness and debt

take their source from these sad eyes

not two streams -

two future Volga,

running along your cheeks now.

I invented, I know, these Volga.

And you didn't cry.

I know. Wrong.

No offense.

Just everything in the world

I measure with my own arshin first.

But friendship is hard for me

But friendship is a burden to me,

when sometimes I hear

that I did not live the way I should, -

my friends tell me.

That she wrote few songs,

that did not fight, but waited,

that did not live, but faded away,

that did not burn, but lived.

That I ruined myself

didn't save herself...

And I lived - I loved you!

And I live happily!

I don't want to start over

neither change nor repeat!

And is it really not enough?

waiting all the time

love all your life?

autumn

On a huge flower bed near the station,

blown to the ground by the wind

late chamomile froze

trembling on a dry stem.

Curved a thin body

and resisted as best she could.

As if until the last wanted

be at least a drop of summer heat!

Trains in the distance honked oncoming.

People were walking, bending over from the wind.

And chamomile is something endless

appeared to all of us.

A clean branch of a young birch.

Poplar fluff in the spring.

First snow. Splashes of lime

on an unpainted wall...

Not one, probably, the heart sank:

what to do - to each his own!

Only pity did not crash into the heart -

her little courage.

I do not claim immortality.

But if you leave - do not yearn.

So leave, so that, even freezing,

warm someone's soul.

From a birch peg

From a birch peg

from a distant wattle

the Volozhka river broke off,

came up to me.

Here are the gray-winged geese,

here is the old thread...

Why so late, dear river?

Where were you before?

Here's the bittersweet

floats down the river:

“Not that got the girl,

That's why the tears are shed!"

The willow froze:

All right, I understand.

Why are you late, the song is right?

Where were you before?

Boy writing poetry

There are stupid insults in life:

not sleeping because of some nonsense.

came to me

quite modest in appearance

boy,

writing poetry.

He told me,

must be, for order,

that my poetry is deep.

And immediately immediately

pulled out a notebook

his poems about the essence of life.

His hand cut the air sharply,

the bass trembled, breaking off at the top.

But, apart from quickness and cod,

I didn't see anything in the lyrics.

In response, the boy, while forgetting,

how deep is my poetry,

said that many poets divorced,

and real

and people like me.

He told me, -

believe it, or don't believe it,

that all my work -

Artel "Vain Labor",

and the lines will not reach immortality,

halfway to immortality will die.

We are all cruel in our youth

scolded by someone for the first time.

But let the undying lines

big Time will choose without us.

And for me

means much more

when, bowing my head over the line,

at least someone will tremble,

someone will cry

and someone will say:

It's about me.

crossroads

At the noisiest intersection

at the entrance to the city of Stalingrad,

there are chestnuts and birches

and spruces are slender.

No matter how you look - you will not meet them

in the forests of the Volga side,

and they say these trees

brought from afar.

And it was like this: the war once

was on the Volga coast.

Three soldiers at the crossroads

sat side by side in the snow.

It was January. And the wind is biting

winded the snow into rings.

A fire was burning at the crossroads -

warmed the hands of the soldiers.

What will be the battle - the soldiers knew.

And before the fight for half an hour

they probably remembered

their distant forests.

Then there was a battle ... And three soldiers

forever remained in the snow.

But the crossroads of Stalingrad

they did not give to the enemy.

And now at the crossroads

at the place of death of soldiers,

there are chestnuts and birches,

and spruces are slender.

They make noise with alien leaves,

washed by the rain in the morning,

and burn our memory

the fire of a soldier's fire.

Give me a handkerchief

Give me a handkerchief

blue patch.

And to be on the edges

golden curl.

I won’t put it in the chest -

I will tie on my chest

and what you gave

I won't tell anyone!

Let the ice on the river

let you be far away.

And a scarf on the chest -

not a ring on your hand.

I am alone, not alone.

Melancholy is not melancholy,

I don't even have a great day

and the night is not bitter for me.

If on a dark night

or in broad daylight

for nothing for nothing

you fall out of love with me -

I won't ask anything

I won't say anything

on a donation scarf

I'll tie a knot.

A birch grows in Volgograd

You were also born in Russia -

the edge of the field and forest.

We have a birch in every song,

birch - under each window.

In every spring meadow -

their white live round dance.

But there is a birch in Volgograd -

you will see, and the heart will stop.

She was brought from afar

to the edges where the feather grasses rustle.

How hard did she get used to

to the fire of the Volgograd land!

How long did she miss

about light forests in Rus' -

guys lie under the birch, -

ask them about it.

The grass under the birch is not crumpled -

no one has risen from the earth.

But how does a soldier need it,

for someone to grieve over him.

And cried - light as a bride,

and remembered - forever, like a mother!

You were also born a soldier -

don't you understand it.

You were also born in Russia -

birch, sweet edge.

Now, wherever you meet a birch,

you will remember my birch,

her silent branches,

her patient sadness.

A birch grows in Volgograd.

Try to forget it!

peers

Either a storm or a blizzard

covered snow in braids ...

Well, girlfriend!

What, girlfriend?

Is all youth gone?

Has all the rye in the field ripened?

Did the blackberry bloom?

Have you sung all the songs?

Have you shed all your tears?

Or just kept silent

what have you been waiting for.

If only I could start over

I would start the same way.

Just got up before the light,

did the same things

the same sang that she sang,

gave birth to the same children.

Our song is our children.

They - and sing, and see again:

how many songs are there in the world

and all songs

about love!

You can't hide yourself from her.

you will not go into thick rye.

And you won't cry all the tears.

And you won't sing all the songs.

Rowan

Whose destiny are you?

In whom is red and high?

You will see, you will exhale:

Rowan...

You will not immediately remember how bitter.

The river is already freezing.

And the snow is not in jest gathered.

One mountain ash, know, blushes,

know, paints dark forests.

And everything warms someone

someone is on fire.

And what makes her sad

about that she

does not speak.

Soldier of Stalingrad

A quarter of a century ago, battles died down.

They got sick, your wounds healed.

But, keeping loyalty to distant courage,

you stand and are silent at the holy fire.

You survived, soldier! At least a hundred times died.

Though he buried his friends and even stood to death.

Why are you frozen - a palm on the heart

and in the eyes, as in streams, fire was reflected?

They say that a soldier does not cry: he is a soldier.

And that old wounds hurt bad weather.

But yesterday it was sunny! And the sun in the morning...

Why are you crying, soldier, at the holy fire?

Because the river sparkles in the sun.

Because clouds are flying over the Volga.

It just hurts to look - the fields are golden!

The forelocks of feather grass just turn white bitterly.

Look, soldier - this is your youth -

At the soldier's grave are sons!

So what are you thinking, old soldier?

Or is your heart on fire? Or do the wounds hurt?

Cope with this difficult burden

Cope with this difficult burden

my incomprehensible will.

Here again about what you -

I tell my daughter.

Daughter is happy!

Daughter looks both ways.

Catching my every word.

Apparently, she wanted to

she has a good one.

Only suddenly, as only children can,

speaks without fear and shame:

If dad is the best in the world,

why are you always sad?

Whether it hurts, or it became bitter.

I said: - I'm just tired,

because I'm always alone.

Daughter eyebrows moved stubbornly

bows trembled on the pigtails.

Came up to me.

She snuggled up.

The best in the world

only you.

Old song

Let's sit down, shall we?

Let's drink, shall we?

Let's look at each other.

What is a woman's share -

and we'll talk about it.

Woman's share -

in the open field

turquoise grass,

forget-me-nots on the hem

and lace on the sweater.

Woman's share -

goodbye, will!

Wedding ring.

And there is also a share -

corner letter.

That's when

will converge on it

black wedge white light:

and alive, and the heart beats,

and the share is no more.

Woman's share -

woman's share.

She didn't miss us.

In the forty-third woman's share

died the death of the brave.

yes, got up again -

I understood everything like a woman:

raised the world from the ashes!

Raised the kids.

Look around the native land,

stand on the Volga shore:

this share

in Russia -

like daisies in the meadow.

And when you go out into the open field,

remember everything

look around -

this share, our share,

woman's lobe

bow.

Poems about my soldier

When, the chased step is equal,

soldiers go to the parade -

I freeze, remembering

that my soldier was in the world.

War. And the enemy at Stalingrad.

And there are no letters from my father.

And I'm standing with a soldier

at the snow-covered porch.

Not about love, not about separation

I don't say anything.

And only silently warm my hands

in his three-fingered mittens.

Then - I say goodbye the whole evening

and return to the house again.

And the first snow flies towards,

just like first love.

What was he like? He was cheerful.

IN Last year before the war

he just finished school

and just met me.

He was cheerful, dark blond,

above the forelock is a red star.

He went into battle near Staraya Russa

and will never return.

But still - along the alleys

and near my house

the soldiers walk with a booming step,

and everyone is like him.

They go, sing, equaling the shoulders.

Earflaps are shifted to the eyebrow.

And the first snow flies towards -

and someone's first love.

Poems about discontent

Dark cloudy day

clear blue day

every day man

dissatisfied with himself.

Sowing bread.

Changes the course of rivers.

And again - dissatisfied

a person.

Behind him

lights, cities.

Still no rest

labor man!

He worked. Tired.

He goes to sleep

and decides: - In the morning

I'll start differently.

I still have life

in debt,

I'm not like that yet

in the world I can!

Life has rewarded me

good fortune:

i live every day

dissatisfied with herself.

If I'm happy

if you are proud of something, -

because I have no rest

nowhere, never

that I am indebted too

by the snows, by the rains,

with good ones

dissatisfied people.

Does the sun shine at the entrance

Is the rain knocking on the window -

when a person is three years old,

then it doesn't matter to him.

For some strange reason,

which he does not understand

over the summer they taught him

to short:

No one to walk with!

And here he is, stockings inside out,

shakes himself endlessly

a plastic monkey

an old gift from my father.

And everything turned out unexpectedly -

he sat quietly, drawing,

and dad packed his bags

and kissed him for a long time.

And mom buried herself in the pillows.

It happened to him a few times too.

when the toys are broken

he was crying like mom is now ...

In winter the snow fell

it rained in the spring.

And he fell asleep, woke up,

hugging the monkey to his chest.

That's how he woke up one day

pressed his head against the wall,

unclenched his fists, stretched

and - dad saw in the window!

Rejoiced, laughed

ran to the window and fell...

And dad kept walking, smiling,

bought ice cream!

Now he's going up to the door

and the key will click in the lock.

And dad went through the park

and - immediately disappeared in the distance.

The son did not even understand at first

how hard it was for him

as something inside pounded,

and something came out of my eyes.

But, squishing your nose like a child,

he suddenly acted like a man:

drew the curtains in the window,

firmly on the toes,

adjusted the stockings inside out

and wiping the tears from my face,

threw a monkey behind the sofa -

an old gift from my father.

Hush, years! Everything in the heart is sacred

Hush, years! Everything in the heart is sacred.

It's hard and happy for two.

You look like that soldier

named mine by me.

Everything is mixed up. Lily of the valley moved

on the edge of the swamped land.

I don't know if he's back

Or is it you who came to me.

I raise my hands on your shoulders -

the hands themselves fall back:

This is the first time I understand

what the soldier did not live up to.

Because helplessly and sternly,

who do you want to see

I will come. And again at the threshold

like a girl, I'll take my lips.

Because we stand at an angle,

we won't even put our hands together.

To whom am I more to blame -

in front of you or in front of him?

Anxiety, pain and love

Anxiety, pain and love

and bright joy of grief,

the grove of Pritambovye shone

mid September.

She shone, trembled

over the stiff stubble...

So that's what I was missing

in my great city!

Forest clear dawn,

paths in the unmowed meadow.

And suddenly I thought: I'm leaving.

I'm leaving! Enough. I can not.

But only again, only again

I will freeze at the Eternal Flame,

when the eyes of the sentry

Russia will look at me.

When, dear to pain,

like the first snow, like a widow's board,

like two birch trees in an open field,

these two boys are standing.

And the pain of unfading light

everything turns blue...

To whom will I give? Where will I go?

Whom will I tear from my heart?

At the creaky pier

At the creaky pier

the wind leans towards the river...

Like a century did not leave

I am from this village!

Just waiting for the ferry

and then transported

and stay home

only a few minutes.

I will go, counting the steps,

and towards me - bushes

and glade, golden

from night blindness.

Mowing hay "New North" -

almost to the sky they put a haystack.

Forage purple clover

splashed honey from under his feet.

And behind the clover is a ditch,

and above it, in the semi-darkness,

Aunt Marya from the district health department

do not write travel diaries.

That I don’t get bored from bad poems,

what's at the meetings

I don't ask for a word

And I don't criticize anyone

I don't write bad reviews!

Don't believe those

who will tell me

lofty tombstones!

What was -

but I was different,

I'll tell you as long as I'm alive.

And I - like everyone else:

and cried and sang,

ashamed to cry

and loved to sing.

And I am much more

did not make it,

what was me

entrusted with time.

I love life.

I, and saying goodbye to her,

looking for roads

and enjoy spring!

And I try to live

easier and more honest

than after death

they will say about me.

Bread of the 47th

May be,

forget this too:

like, damned frying pan,

burned bread

dry summer,

and the earth cracked with pain.

As in houses

sick, by agreement -

guarded the last grass,

and dry linden bark,

grinding,

grind millstones.

But remember:

torrential thunderstorms,

gilded ear at the shoulder,

creaky carts

in bells and ribbons of kumach;

seeing a sea of bread,

raising your hands to the sky

What was, was

What was, was:

sunset faded...

Loved it myself

no one said.

I don't scold my friends

I don't blame my relatives.

I freeze in the heat

and I burn in the cold.

What was, was...

Couldn't hide.

I forgot my pride

came up with everyone.

And he answered me:

Don't cry, I won't.

It's not your fault

love another...

What was, was!

And - there is nothing.

I love how I loved

Slowly slammed shut again...

And stands at the school threshold

Yurkina is a tearful mother.

look around slowly.

Yurka gets out of hand.

Jacket, quilted cloaks,

bread is not enough, sugar is not always -

this is all that was Yurka's childhood

during difficult war years.

Mother comes after midnight from the factory.

The key is hidden in the corner of the woodshed.

Yurka climbed a stone near the entrance,

to reach the castle.

And one in an unheated apartment

for a long time silently did self-propelled gun,

at night he ate a potato in his uniform,

without waiting for mom, fell asleep ...

Man in a leather jacket

mother brought them to them once

and asked, looking past Yurka:

Do you want your uncle to live with us?

Gently patted her cheek,

ran her hand over her shoulder

Yurka slammed the cork of the self-propelled gun

and said, crying:

Don't want.

On the same evening, returning from the registry office,

stepfather took off his galoshes slowly,

looked at Yurka, threw: - Crybaby! -

painfully clicking on the baby's forehead.

Whether the son remembered this phrase,

or just like that, in defiance,

only the boy's tears never

I haven't even seen my mother since.

But since then, more and more severely,

only stepfather will come down from the porch,

Yurka, moving thin eyebrows,

I asked my mother about my father.

He was killed in the battles near Stalingrad

Yurkin's father, guard soldier.

Yurka listened to his mother, standing nearby,

and asked:

Let's go to Stalingrad!

And so they lived. Mother left work.

Yurka suddenly noticed

new sparkly boots,

pink thin linen.

Here she is at the big mirror

trying on a flannel robe.

Yuri looked. Didn't say a word.

Stop asking to go to Stalingrad.

He only became more secretive and inaudible.

The stepfather was angry and yelled at the mother.

And so it happened: the third is superfluous.

Who was redundant? Difficult to decipher!

The years went by. From cover to cover

Yurka read thick books,

brought threes and fives,

and dreamed of long voyages.

Years passed ... And in a childish jacket

Yurka's shoulders became cramped.

I grew up and noticed: my mother was crying,

going to the kitchen at night.

Mom is crying! She had a hard time!

Maybe mom was waiting for help! ..

First decisive fold

Yurkin's forehead crossed that night.

He didn't sleep all night, tossing and turning in his bed.

In the morning I didn't go to the blackboard in class.

And so that the mother does not know about the deuce,

tore out two pages in the diary.

The door to the entrance swung open strictly,

slammed shut again...

And stands at the school threshold

Yurkina is a tearful mother.

He will reach the house, untie the scarf,

look around slowly.

And where will he go? Who will tell?

Yurka gets out of hand...

I still, not believing, not blinking

I still, not believing, not blinking,

I look at that platform unexpectedly.

There is still time. Shout: - Dear ...

Do not say: - Thank you for everything!

Is that what they call strength?

to, like a candle, blow at dawn,

break the wing of the native word "cute",

living love say:

Thank you

Sorry. I don't blame. I don't swear.

I'm still looking at that platform.

I still don't believe you, honey.

I don't regret it

I don't regret it

and then I won't regret

that I came first to the pond,

that I believed you.

Thin, thin

flexibly-flexibly

the willows will droop over the ponds...

Even the first mistake

forgotten over the years.

I didn't regret it

that yesterday I met you,

without noticing anything

I looked into your eyes

long long time,

shoulders will hide in the wet grass.

Both yours and mine

and other poems

get confused in the head.

I sing about flowers

because you too

in some distant meadow

you walk, ringing a song.

And in vain me

waiting on that

on the other side!

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