* * *
treacherous, gentle, evil,
outbred marsh blood,
under the ravens
what have you done with my life?

What have you done to our home
like Ryazan, ravaged to dust,
with this short-lived and impoverished happiness,
with the first word on the lips of children?

So time is scarier than Herod,
if a woman is in a wild fight,
multiplying the number of orphans,
punches its own way.

I am now at one with the leaf fall,
with this breadth, where ocher and rust,
where it circles over an abandoned garden
my wounded soul.

Where is the last friend - autumn
hurries away from me into the darkness.
And to the sound of Peredelkino pines
it's so easy to fall asleep alone.

* * *
Neither light nor dawn rose.
He drank cold water from the tap.
This autumn, apparently, not in vain
promised dry weather.

They burned fires on the boulevards - and the smoke
discovered the combustion zone.
... Was cruel and was young -
I didn’t want immortality, but recognition.

Meanwhile, the moment was approaching.
Trams crawled out of the park.
A student carried telegrams.
The day trip has begun.

And nothing neither soul nor mind
not embarrassed when without fear
everything was given for nothing, for nothing -
as if by some accidental favor.

* * *
This twelve year relationship
old fence cast-iron ligature,

sneakers clogged with wet sand,
yellow leaves in the city pond.

Who knows? Nobody and nowhere
which is reflected in the evening water.

Maybe someone remembers about it?
Make no mistake: nowhere and no one.

So it doesn't have a name
after twelve years.

Meaning, unfortunately, is indistinguishable
after twelve winters.

Whirling winds, orphanhood of benches
suggest the collapse of families.

Yes, and walks by the old fences
exacerbate only the bitterness of loss.

- What did you hold on to, - you ask, marveling, -
this twelve year relationship

waking dream, obsession, delirium ...
“Honey, that name doesn’t exist.

Maybe they just meant
yellow leaves in the autumn pond,

rain infrequent, circles on the water ...
But, unfortunately: no one and nowhere.

* * *
But look at the faces of the children!
Look at the children's faces!
Neither villain nor adulterer
no one dared to come here.

I don't know what you got -
even though these trends are in fashion again -
that the origins of universal evil
are in our nature.

You've been typing all night.
And subject to familiar sounds,
sleeping your one year old daughter
on the couch that was bought by the local committee.

We may be in hell.
But not without reason this heavenly angel
into a wooden dudu
and soars above the pitch-black abyss.

He is not pathetic and he is small -
He hasn't grown out of diapers yet.
Generalize the human face
and make sure it's a baby.

* * *
My daughters now appeared in a dream:
all three are sad, all three are one.

In the formless desert or dead mountains,
where the wind raises only stone dust,

where the pale sky is like glass,
they stand, their eyes fixed on the darkness.

And there is not a leaf or a fishing line around,
and a black bird above them - longing.

I stretched out my hands in despair to the children.
“You are crying,” one of the sisters said. -

“You are crying,” the younger daughter said, “
but your tears turn into night.

In vain you confused our oblivion.
Go, we don't know your name.

And the second daughter opened her mouth:
“Like this landscape, our memory is empty.

But I see the black astral of your soul.
Alien from the past, you're late.

In the valley of madness, where the dead fall,
our sleep is nourished by a mad mother.

And whoever you are - do not conceal hopes:
only hell fiends - your children!

But like a ray penetrating the night,
the eldest daughter stepped out of the confusion.

In my eyes, as if in a bottomless crack,
looked at the beloved elder daughter.

And a shadow of recognition crossed his face.
And she smiled bitterly at her father.

And silently three shadows leaned towards me.
“O children…” I whispered and died in my sleep.

* * *
Let's chat with you
as long as the sky is clear.
Think about what we risk -
half an hour left.

There is still half an hour left -
half a life in reserve, and there,
maybe the weather on the track
will jump to our happiness.

And you won't leave at four
because the sky is closed,
as it goes over Siberia
unheard of force cyclone.

While he tries to blow
jericho trumpet,
you can totally change your mind
how did it happen to you...

* * *
Having chewed the banal chaff,
having broken a lot of firewood in life,
I will leave as usual
soon this best of all worlds.

And, appearing from behind the gullies,
in aspirations of ownerless goodness
my five children from different marriages
stand at the father's bed.

And into the intergalactic cold
drifting away from the local areas,
I am my only soul
I will break it into several pieces.

Gentle, shy since childhood -
How scared I am to give it away.
But on this meager legacy
hardly anyone will apply.

They will say in a family way, without falsehood:
“You, dad, are good kind.
Wouldn't you go anywhere else
along with his philanthropy!”

And he will go aside, not offended,
pitiful entrechat,
on a live basting thread
Heaven my immortal soul.

* * *
E.V.

love me the way you are
I am - I will not be otherwise.
I won't atone for my sins
I will forgive my enemies, but I will not forget.

And I won't atone for that guilt
and I won't change a line.
Whom I loved - I will not stop loving,
I will not leave empty hope.

Life flashed like a blitz
it was such a mess
that the appearance of new faces
is of no interest.

About the author:

Igor Leonidovich Volgin was born on March 6, 1942 in the city of Perm, where the family was evacuated from Moscow during the war. His father, L.S. Volgin (1909-2002) - at that time a war correspondent for the Gudok newspaper, mother, R.L. Volgina (1912-2002) - proofreader. He graduated from Moscow School No. 626 and in 1959 entered the Faculty of History of Moscow State University, from which he graduated in 1964 with a diploma with honors. In 1962, Pavel Antokolsky admonished the young poet in Literaturnaya Gazeta. Volgin's first book of poetry, "Excitement," was published in 1965. Then several more poetry collections and books of translations were published. While still a student, he became one of the organizers and participants of the famous readings "at Mayakovka", which were later dispersed by the authorities. In 1968, he founded the Luch Literary Studio of Moscow University, which has been in existence for more than 40 years. He created his own unique genre of historical documentary biographical prose. Author of the books “Dostoevsky as a journalist. "A Writer's Diary" and the Russian Public (1982), "Dostoevsky's Last Year. Historical Notes” (1986, 1990, 1991), “Born in Russia. Dostoevsky and Contemporaries: Life in Documents (1991), Metamorphoses of Power. Assassination attempts on the Russian throne in the 18th–19th centuries. (1994), “Swinging over the abyss. Dostoevsky and the Imperial House (1998), The Lost Conspiracy. Dostoevsky and the Political Trial of 1849 (2000), “Return of the ticket. Paradoxes of National Identity” (2004). “Swinging over the Abyss” and “The Lost Plot” were shortlisted for the Anti-Booker Prize and the State Prize of the Russian Federation, for the entire cycle of works on Dostoevsky Igor Volgin was awarded the Moscow Prize in Literature for 2004. Academician of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences, Doctor of Philology, Candidate of Historical Sciences. Professor of the Faculty of Journalism, Moscow State University. M.V. Lomonosov and the Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky. Member of the Union of Writers, the Union of Journalists, the International Association of Journalists, the International PEN Club and the Russian PEN Center, a member of the public council of the magazine "October" and the editorial boards of the magazines "Chelovek" and "Literary Journal". Member of the scientific council of the Pushkin Institute. Vice President of the International Dostoevsky Society (IDS). Winner of the Russian-Italian literary award "Moscow-Penne" (2011), winner of the Prize of the Government of Moscow and the Prize of the Government of the Russian Federation in the field of culture (2011). Participated in many international conferences and symposiums. Under the leadership of I.L. Volgin, founder and president of the Dostoevsky Foundation, the international symposia "Dostoevsky in the Modern World" (2001) and "Russian Literature in the World Cultural Context" (2004, 2006, 2009, 2012, 2014) were held. The Dostoevsky Foundation also carries out a number of major scientific and cultural programs.

I. L. Volgin was born on March 6, 1942 in Perm, where his parents were evacuated. Father, Leonid Samuilovich Volgin (1909-2002) - journalist. Mother, Rakhil Lvovna Volgina (1912-2002) - proofreader. In 1959 he graduated from Moscow School No. 626, from 1959 to 1964 he was a student at the Faculty of History of Moscow State University. M. V. Lomonosov (diploma with honors).

Literary activity

Even while studying at the university, he became known as a poet. In 1962, Pavel Antokolsky admonished him in Literaturnaya Gazeta. Poems were published in the magazines "October", "New World", "Youth", "Moscow", in "Komsomolskaya Pravda", "Izvestia" and many others. etc. The first collection of his poems "Excitement" was published in 1965. One of the organizers of the readings "at Mayakovka". In 1968, he created (and still permanently heads) the Luch literary studio of Moscow State University, from which such writers as Sergei Gandlevsky, Alexander Soprovsky, Alexei Tsvetkov, Bakhyt Kenzheev, Evgeny Bunimovich, Gennady Krasnikov, Elena Isaeva, Dmitry Bykov, Inna Kabysh, Vera Pavlova, Vadim Stepantsov and many others.

Scientific activity

The sphere of scientific interests of I. L. Volgin is the study of the life and work of F. M. Dostoevsky, the history of Russian literature, the history of Russian journalism of the 19th century, and national history. I. Volgin is the author of more than 250 scientific papers. Candidate's dissertation on the topic “The Writer's Diary” by F. M. Dostoevsky. History of the publication ”he defended at the Faculty of History of Moscow State University in 1974. He received the degree of Doctor of Philology in 1992 at the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University (the topic of the dissertation was “The National Crisis of 1879-1881 in the Context of the Russian Press”), at the same time he was awarded the title of professor. The works of Igor Volgin are widely known not only in Russia but also abroad. His research was shortlisted for the Anti-Booker Prize and the State Prize of the Russian Federation, for the entire cycle of works on Dostoevsky he was awarded the Moscow Prize in Literature for 2004. In 1997, Igor Volgin created the Dostoevsky Foundation, the purpose of which is to promote the study of the life and work of the Russian classic, the implementation of scientific and cultural programs. Igor Volgin is also the author and host of the television programs "Nikolai Zabolotsky" (2 episodes), "The Life and Death of Dostoevsky" (12 episodes), "From the History of Russian Journalism (Chaadaev, Pushkin, Nekrasov)" (4 episodes). Igor Volgin is a member of the Union of Writers, the Union of Journalists, the International Association of Journalists, the International and Russian PEN Club, the Scientific Council of the Pushkin Institute, a member of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences. Member of the editorial boards of the magazines "October", "Chelovek" and "Literary Journal".

At the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University, he teaches the course "History of Russian journalism of the 19th century", conducts special courses and special seminars. At the Literary Institute, he conducts his own poetry seminar.

Awards and prizes

• Prize of the Government of the Russian Federation in the field of culture (December 26, 2011) - for a series of books "Documentary biography of Dostoevsky".

Major writings

Collections of poems:

Books and monographs:

• The last year of Dostoevsky. Historical notes. - M.: Soviet writer, 1986.
• Wandering over the abyss. Dostoevsky and the Russian Revolution. - M.: Progress, 1990.
• Born in Russia. Dostoevsky and contemporaries: life in documents. - M.: Book, 1991.
• Metamorphoses of power. Assassination attempts on the Russian throne in the 18th-19th centuries. - M.: Interpraks, 1994.
• Wandering over the abyss. Dostoevsky and the Imperial House. - M .: Publishing House "Center for Humanitarian Education", 1998.
• The Lost Conspiracy. Dostoevsky and the political process of 1849 - M.: Liberea, 2000.
• Ticket return. Paradoxes of national self-consciousness. - M.: Grant, 2004.

Igor Leonidovich Volgin was born on March 6, 1942 in Perm, where the family was evacuated from Moscow during the war.

He graduated from Moscow School No. 626 and in 1959 entered the Faculty of History of Moscow State University. In the same year, the first publications of his poems appeared. In 1962, Pavel Antokolsky admonished the young poet in Literaturnaya Gazeta. Volgin's first poetic book, Excitement, was published in 1965. Then several more poetry collections and books of translations were published.

He graduated from the Faculty of History in 1964 with a diploma with honors. While still a student, he became one of the organizers and participants of the famous readings "at Mayakovka". In 1968, he created the Luch Literary Studio of Moscow University, which has existed for more than 35 years. This is one of the oldest and most authoritative literary associations, a whole galaxy of now widely known writers came out of it - Sergey Gandlevsky, Alexander Soprovsky, Alexei Tsvetkov, Bakhyt Kenzheev, Evgeny Bunimovich, Gennady Krasnikov, Elena Isaeva, Dmitry Bykov, Inna Kabysh, Vera Pavlova, Vadim Stepantsov and many others.

Igor Volgin is a writer and historian who created his own unique genre of historical documentary biographical prose. His now classic works on Dostoevsky combine the spirit of deep historicism and bold scientific research. Author of the books "Dostoevsky as a Journalist. "A Writer's Diary" and the Russian Public" (1982), "The Last Year of Dostoevsky. Historical Notes" (1986, 1990, 1991), "Born in Russia. Dostoevsky and Contemporaries: Life in Documents" (1991 ), "Metamorphoses of power. Assassination attempts on the Russian throne in the 18th - 19th centuries." (1994), "Swinging over the abyss. Dostoevsky and the Imperial House" (1998), "The Lost Conspiracy. Dostoevsky and the Political Trial of 1849" (2000), "Return of the ticket. Paradoxes of national identity" (2004).

Historical and biographical studies of Volgin are widely known in our country and enjoy worldwide recognition, they have been translated into many foreign languages. "Swinging over the Abyss" and "The Lost Plot" were shortlisted for the Anti-Booker Prize and the State Prize of the Russian Federation, for the entire series of works on Dostoevsky Igor Volgin was awarded the Moscow Prize in Literature for 2004.

Academician of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences, Doctor of Philology, Candidate of Historical Sciences. Professor of the Faculty of Journalism, Moscow State University. M.V. Lomonosov and the Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky. Member of the Union of Writers, the Union of Journalists, the International Association of Journalists, the International PEN Club and the Russian PEN Center, a member of the Public Council of the magazine "October" and the editorial boards of the magazines "Chelovek" and "Literary Journal". Member of the scientific council of the Pushkin Institute. Participated in many international conferences and symposiums.

Under the leadership of I.L. Volgin, founder and president of the Dostoevsky Foundation, the international symposium "Dostoevsky in the modern world" (2001) and the congress "Russian Literature in the World Cultural Context" (2004) were held.

In February 2017, Igor Volgin became a laureate of the Russian Government Prize in the field of culture.

One of the most discussed news of recent days is that the 60-year-old leader of the Just Russia party, Sergei Mironov, got married. For the fourth time. On a journalist who is 29 years old.

The people did not understand such an impulse of the soul. “Gray hair in a beard - a demon in a rib” - this can still be considered a compliment. The mildest scoff: "Sergey Mironov defended family values ​​for the fourth time." Basically, bloggers are much more cynical and categorical, assuring that Mironov's new darling Olga Radievskaya "thus solved all her problems at once - and a single mother has them above her throat." Well, people do not believe in pure love, the trouble is straight.

To be honest, until now I had no idea how many wives Mironov had. I wasn't interested in any way. And now I don’t feel any emotions about it.

But I want to speak about another comrade, who is also actively discussed on the Web. This is a TV presenter and director Alexander Gordon. True, he did not marry, but on the contrary, he divorced. Also once again. And also with the young. And with what a young girl - she is said to be 19 years old. Alexander himself is 49. And the reason for the divorce was allegedly the difference in age. A conflict of generations, so to speak.

What started in social networks, especially in the "elite" Facebook! One well-known writer reposted this news, and every self-respecting reader of her tape considered it his duty to check in with a comment. To quote some - do not respect yourself. And if Sergei Mironov is now simultaneously reminded of all party sins, then Alexander Gordon is creative.

I will not defend him. I myself do not like that he contacted the Politics program on Channel One. And this, alas, is not his first dubious project. But in the 90s, Gordon had a documentary-fiction cycle “Collection of Delusions”, which is still remembered to this day. And the “Closed Screening” is clearly not enough on the air ...
I remember a few years ago Alexander Gordon came to Severodvinsk. Then he talked about the Vision of the Future movement. None of those present at the meeting understood almost anything. About the movement, designed almost to save Russia, is now not heard. But then I asked Alexander if he was still going to make films. And here his eye, as they say, really caught fire ... The movie, which was then only in the idea, Gordon then shot - "The Lights of the Brothel". The picture did not make much of an impression on me. But there is also "The Shepherd of His Cows." And until now, somewhere in the depths of the soul lives that feeling of inescapable longing, desert inevitability, which settled when watching the film. Would like to revisit...

Do you feel how many "buts" in the two previous paragraphs? Everything is correct. I do not want to take out white paint and dress a person in angelic clothes. And I won't get black paint. He is a complex being - a man. And not just Gordon. You look in the mirror.

By the way, there is another relatively recent story. When I saw on the Internet a photo of the writer, philologist, TV presenter Igor Volgin, where he is next to the young bride, I thought: I took my granddaughter down the aisle. Turns out he got married. Maybe Igor Leonidovich is not such a public and controversial figure as Mironov and Gordon, but there was no surge of emotion about this on the Web. Fortunately.

So the history of unequal marriages is as old as the world. As for Volgin, you'd better turn on the Rossiya K (Culture) channel on Tuesday evenings. There, in the program of Igor Leonidovich "The Glass Bead Game", educated and interesting people discuss literary classics. November 19 will be talking about Thomas Mann's novel "Death in Venice". The theme of the novel is delicate - much thinner than just gray hair and a demon. It is very interesting to see how those who are invited to discuss it cope with talking about it. But for sure it will be both more complicated and deeper than Facebook comments.

IGOR VOLGIN

Igor Volgin - poet, historian, TV presenter. From a family of Moscow journalists, he was born in 1942 in Perm, where the family was evacuated. Graduated from the Faculty of History of Moscow State University named after M. V. Lomonosov.
In 1962, Pavel Antokolsky admonished the young poet in a "literary newspaper". Igor Volgin was published in many periodicals, the author of several books
poems and translations, including the book "Personal Data" (2015), which was published after a long break.
One of the world's leading experts on the life and work of Dostoevsky. President of the Russian Dostoevsky Foundation, Vice President of the International Dostoevsky Society. Author of the books "Dostoevsky as a Journalist. A Writer's Diary and the Russian Public" (1982), "Dostoevsky's Last Year. Historical Notes" (1986, 1990, 1991, 2010), "Born in Russia. Dostoevsky and Contemporaries: Life in Documents" (1991), "Metamorphoses of Power. Attempts on the Russian Throne in the 18th–19th Centuries." (1994), "Swinging over the abyss. Dostoevsky and the Imperial House" (1998), "The Lost Conspiracy. Dostoevsky and the Political Trial of 1849" (2000), "Return of the ticket. Paradoxes of national self-consciousness" (2004), "Get away from everyone. Leo Tolstoy as a Russian wanderer" (2010), "Relatives and friends" (2013).
Under the direction of Igor Volgin, the documentary Chronicle of the Dostoevsky Family was published (2013). Igor Volgin - Professor of the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University
M. V. Lomonosov and the A. M. Gorky Literary Institute. Candidate of History, Doctor of Philology, Academician of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences, member of the Moscow Writers' Union, member of the executive committee of the Russian PEN Center.
Member of the Russian Language Council under the President of the Russian Federation.
Founder (1968) and permanent head of the legendary literary studio of Moscow State University "LUCH", whose graduates have made and are making a significant contribution to modern Russian poetry (Sergey Gandlevsky, Alexander Soprovsky, Evgeny Vitkovsky,
Bakhyt Kenzheev, Alexey Tsvetkov, Gennady Krasnikov, Natalya Vankhanen, Evgeny Bunimovich, Inna Kabysh, Dmitry Bykov, Vladimir Vishnevsky, Vadim Stepantsov, Victoria Inozemtseva, Sergey Shestakov, German Vlasov, Anna Arkatova, Maria Vatutina and many others. etc.).
Laureate of the Oktyabr magazine award (1998, 2010), the Moscow Government Prize in Literature (2004), the Moscow-Penne Russian-Italian Literary Prize (2011), the Russian Federation Government Prize (2011), the Lomonosov Prize (2014), Russian National Television Award "TEFI" (2016), International Tyutchev Prize "Thinking Reed" (2016).
Author and presenter of the intellectual program
"The Glass Bead Game with Igor Volgin" on the TV channel "Russia K".
Author of the television series "Nikolai Zabolotsky", "From the History of Russian Journalism", "The Life and Death of Dostoevsky" (12 episodes).

Poetry as a case

Can we do without poetry? Easy. After all, even the prettiest Yevgeny Bazarov said, as he printed: "A decent chemist is twenty times more useful than any poet."
In general, all art can look like a kind of redundancy in relation to "normal" life. You can eat, drink, dress, defend yourself from enemies, you can survive both without rock paintings and without Raphael's paintings. And in general, material prosperity does not at all imply the presence of Beethovens and Leo Tolstoy.
Meanwhile, it is difficult to dispute the opinion that it was Homer who created Hellas.
Indeed, the ancient Greeks, and the Romans, and the Germans, and the Scandinavians realized themselves as a single people, only relying on "legends and myths", on a common poetic sound, on an epic that captured the origin, existence, or, speaking in a scientist, self-identification tribes that erected this grandiose poetic world.
Let's try to "subtract" Pushkin, Tyutchev, Mayakovsky, Mandelstam and others from Russia: it will be a completely different country. Let's say that she is physically powerful (which, however, is doubtful), but does not cause much affection either among her own citizens or among the inhabitants of neighboring lands. In it, this imaginary country, it would be extremely boring to live and, despite the hypothetical well-being, the percentage of unmotivated suicides would probably go off scale.
Poetry is redemption. For the two truths - "in the beginning was the Word" and "God is love" - ​​it unites in the most faithful and most incomprehensible way.
"And the secret of unraveling life is equivalent to the charms of yours ..." - this is about the inexpressibility of female beauty. The same can be said for poetry. However, wouldn't life itself stop if, let's say, it could be unraveled to the end?
Of course, we know: "the best words in the best order." But you need to play with all the meanings of being in order to achieve this seemingly not so burdensome goal. Poetry is the shortest distance between any points in space, between any world values, between the closest and the most distant objects. It instantly overcomes a distance that would take centuries for other types of human curiosity to cover. And in this sense, it is indecomposable into genres: philosophical lyrics, love, civil, male, female, etc. Obviously, I. Brodsky is right: "Poetry has no epithet."
Wieland once remarked that if he "lived and worked" on a desert island - with no hope that he would ever be read - he finished his own poems with the same care as if he intended them for lovers of literature. This testifies to the selflessness of creation. God "also" created alone.
But everything that I have tried to state here is nothing more than an imperfect attempt by an imperfect mind to embrace the immensity. Left alone with a sheet of paper, the poet may not remember anything that could help him in his "usual" business.

I love the appearance of the fabric
When after two or three
And then four breaths
A straightening breath will come ...

O. Mandelstam

That is, the possession, let's say, of all the secrets of craftsmanship does not always lead to the "appearance of fabric." A poem is always an accident ("Chance lies in wait for us all"). But, as it was said (albeit on a different occasion), a brick just won’t fall on your head like that.

Igor Volgin

I'll get off at the station randomly.
Dried buy a sandwich.
In a greasy jacket, the boss
waving his hand sadly.
And, like an unanswered voice,
calling out into the night, at random,
copper tragic bell
hit three times in a row.
Isn't it just for the hell of it?
in an old play
talked about a terrible denouement,
appointed by a higher court?
... But the night chill will blow,
the night star will light up.
I'll move on from here
and I won't come back here again.
I do not feel sorry for life, nor money,
but I feel sorry for those left here
these short moments
those poignant minutes.
As if this light is pale
I will remember more than once.
... And a bell, a copper bell.
And the night on the empty platform.

The rain hit the dark glass
a fire flashed - and my garden lit up.
And I thought, "If I die,
Why did I come into the world?"
... Noisy my garden - heavy fruits
attracted from the trees, and as if to the origins
jets of dark water rushed,
strangled wheezing, along the gutters.
I didn't know this when I was born!
But the past, presented firsthand,
inspired the idea that someone, angry,
I decided to clean up this night.
Under the groan of oaks that bent in the wind,
under the thunder of heaven, calling for retribution,
I thought: "If I die,
then it will be very useful ... "
... But the brilliance faded, a hoarse voice rang out,
said the rooster - the spirit of peace,
and turned away embarrassment from us,
and stopped the gyration of the elements.
Fog slipped from awakened birches,
drops flowed from the leaves of the euonymus,
and the smell of roses, having mastered the smell of thunderstorms,
it seemed that the world promised us this summer.
- Breathe, - the fir trees rustled, - and say,
that, in general, there is no cause for concern
and what a state of mind
affect atmospheric disturbances!
- All this is so, - I repeated, - it is so -
again the open firmaments are firm!
But this night, but lightning, but darkness,
but these thoughts are strange - about death ...

Time keeps getting thinner thread,
no matter how you whine.
I should write something
before separation.
Maybe in prose pour out your bile -
in hell, in God or -
and, having written, immediately burn,
crying like Gogol.
And my wondrous talent will be wasted
in the grip of the Russian
and the redneck graduate student will not honor me
polite footnote.
And tenderness is my quiet dump
will cause in children,
because I didn’t get them too much,
sunk in the net, 8 youth 2016
Poetry
where are the inescapable sins of my army
Mom only sees...
How can I choose my life
tolerable epithet?
Maybe really zabatsat rhyme
with a rhyme-sublime,
maybe have a drink
with a young friend?
Look at the end of the autumn day
in the Mother See
other poets will remember me
with decent sadness.
And wags the stump of his tail
my dog ​​sucks.
And, having a hangover, will open his mouth
poor Lisa.

treacherous, gentle, evil,
outbred marsh blood,
under the crow's hay
what have you done with my life?
What have you done to our home
like Ryazan, ravaged to dust,
with this short-lived and impoverished happiness,
with the first word on the lips of children?
So time is scarier than Herod,
if a woman is in a wild fight,
multiplying the number of orphans,
punches its own way.
I am now at one with the leaf fall,
with this breadth, where ocher and rust,
where it circles over an abandoned garden
my wounded soul.
Where is the last girlfriend - autumn
hurries away from me into the darkness.
And to the sound of Peredelkino pines
it's so easy to fall asleep alone.

Perm - former Molotov, now Perm.
From the encyclopedia

I was born in the city of Perm.
I don't remember Perm, damn it.
Railway hospital.
obstetric part.
Life is still a dream to me
from non-existence does not depart.
Year military, naked, frank.
Life and death staring straight ahead
imply irrevocable
their verdict.
The enemy stands from the Volga to the English Channel,
and father the road is far away.
What will comfort mom, debutante,
military corps with a crust of "Beep"?
And abandoned by evacuation
on the Ural belly with tanks,
I am premature in the world -
Germans laugh, damn them!
I come into the world - nameless,
overshadowed by a death blizzard.
Not really, in general, and desirable,
but kept by a secret hand -
in a city where everything is unfamiliar to me,
where the ballet hotel is packed,
named after drug addict
like an anti-tank cocktail.
And at the edge of unfinished life
survive with other children
I am a Muscovite, conceived under bombs
and born in the city of Perm,
where I sleep blissfully, one of the judges
that country that did not surrender in battle,
whose fronts from all their guns
me play bayushki-bayu.

Everyone thought that there was a war with Hitler
will last not for years, but for weeks.
And, sitting at the darkened window,
looked hopefully into the loudspeakers.
As if Levitan could announce
that, having accumulated his troops at a distance,
we made a furious ramming
and broke through to the Vistula and the Oder.
And that the hours of the Nazis are numbered
and in the Ruhr the proletarians revolted...
But we've already left Romny
and retreated to Kharkov with battles.
And my mother, pregnant with me,
not waiting for the help of Europe,
digging near Moscow on weekends
steep trenches full of profiles.

I wake up from sleep
I'll take off the blanket.
The war is over
and I have little to do!
And only about one
I regret those moments
that were silent outside the window
victory fireworks.
And, aligning the bayonets,
go non-stop
hero regiments
along Olkhovka street.
Ah, mother, orders
what a tanker has!
Why is there a war
ended so quickly?

I'll pull the coat as soon as possible -
and to where the fighting lads
selflessly plays in the war,
machine guns by themselves closing.
How snow covered our yards!
How quiet our front doors are!
We are devotees of this game -
adult games we have not yet comprehended.
I will fall on the snow, not dark,
so that, saving from a certain grave,
carried me out of the fire
Tanka Bushina from the third apartment.
How effectively we fall prostrate,
assuming heroic poses!
... But they drain from Tanya's eyelashes
real bitter tears.
And like a mother leaning through the smoke
to their own weather guys,
she cries for us - young,
single unlucky soldiers.
Tanka Bushina is crying for us!
But, casting aside empty doubts,
from vegetable secret bases
we are going on the offensive to Balchug.
We will reach, as to the Elbe itself,
to the Ditch in the chipped fence ...
This is apparently the forty-eighth
or maybe forty-nine.
He strives to pass by,
but in some vague anxiety,
straining, screaming steam engine
on the Kazan railway.
White Square on Ordynka is undressed,
and the trees are transparent and blue.
…We don't read newspapers yet.
There are no TVs at all.

WINTER 1953

Dawn seeps through the pale windows.
Dreams fade away - and come to naught.
Are covered with gray snow
post-war long dreams.
As if falling into oblivion for the last time,
see fellow citizens: each - his own.
The violinist Kopelevich sees in the morning
daughter buried in Babi Yar.
He sees Vakhitov, our house manager,
husband, killed in forty-two.
Sees Saburov, a blind citizen,
the battle for Proskurov and the battle for Berlin.
... The first car gnashes along the rails.
Late dreams fly away in pursuit.
Walking yards are drowning in the snow -
as gateways to other worlds.
O my communal youth!
Everything will return to normal.
The smell of whitewash and the smell of borscht.
And not trinkets - at the heart of things.
What will shake and what will fall?
The case does not endure and time does not wait.
... The smoke rises straight to the sky.
Seven gloomy families rise.
Seven kerosene gas burns in the kitchen,
doors slam and faucets wheeze.
Doors slam - and, sleep requisitions,
seven mouthpieces are shouting in unison.
Cheerful speech inspires us
put your hips at shoulder level.
Teacher Gordeev is not in vain
wakes up Russia neither light nor dawn.

My father has not been up for three years.
Relatives, as usual, faded away.
And mother, dragging herself like a logging site,
I changed his diapers with effort.
They were ninety. Three wars.
God had mercy on sitting on the bunk.
Trip to the Crimea. Agony of the country.
Brad perestroika. Cottage in Catuary.
And mother spun this thread for so long
just so as not to be a bitch -
to bury her father.
But it turned out that she was called first.
And, going to that unspeakable land,
where there are no benefits, no time, no rules,
she whispered: "Lenya, catch up!" -
and my father did not make me wait.
They left in two thousand two.
And I live. And nothing like that.
And the world didn't collapse. And the thunder did not roar -
only Skolkovo was called Vostryakovo.

What was rattling behind the Elk station
at night tonight?
Apparently it didn't work again.
summer of the Lord.
Looks like the time is up
extreme like.
What's on your mind man
also in nature.
... There, across the river, burdocks are smoking,
Stozhary fades.
Soon the capital for our sins
burn out fires.
To whom is this fiery age betrothed,
who is this chosen one
either Nero, or the prophetic Oleg,
or a peat bog.
What are we to do to save
apart and dumped,
if the earth burns under your feet,
that is, literally.
If even gas does not help out
from the underworld
for it has departed from us again
summer of the Lord.

Soldiers of amusing regiments
play funny games.
They fly from iron horseshoes
colored funny sparks.
funny little boat board
and goblets with amusing brandy.
And waving bravely Lefort
with his funny sword.
Thunder, drum - and keep it up
will not subside in the ears of the autocrat
all the old music, - cut!
cheer the sovereign's heart.
As long as at the junction of the eyelid
bloody milestones are driven outside,
soldiers of the amusing regiments
dashing indulge in fun.
Funny guns fire.
And, as is already being done in Russia, -
nobody knows yet
how it all plays out for her.

JEWISH MELODY

Bagritsky (nee Dzyubin), Samoilov (nee Kaufman),
Kushner and Levitansky, Slutsky and Brodsky, not to mention Pasternak and Mandelstam:
people with ambiguous surnames clung to Russian poetry,
characteristic, however, for people from poor Jewish towns -
shoemakers (usually Talmudists), watchmakers, tailors,
as well as for their kids who have become people -
merchants, lawyers, jewelers, dentists.
Such surnames, no matter how dark, immediately expose the origin,
without giving their owners a chance to hide from a fair human court.
Say, David Samoilov, printing poetry,
always put a beautiful letter D in place of his full name.
David - would look immodest, almost defiant.
And so - maybe someone will think that this is Danila. (God forbid Daniel.)
Or, let's say, Dmitry.
And at worst Dormidont.
Slutsky Boris Abramovich was greatly compromised by his uncomfortable middle name
(unlike Boris Leonidovich, who is more prosperous in this respect).
But he did not hide it at all and even wrote the famous "Jews do not sow bread ...",
which, however, he never managed to print during his lifetime.
Osip Emilievich with such a patronymic name
and there was nowhere to go:
write poetry - do not write, but you can see right away: not Ivanov.
But the unfortunate man, it seems, was not particularly worried about this.
And even inadvertently made it clear
that a street in the very heart of Russia would someday be called his odious name.
Cunning Brodsky his name is Joseph
could, of course, explain not by some biblical allusions,
but the fervent love of parents for the father of all Soviet peoples,
But for some reason he did not need arguments of this nature.
So, Russian poets of Jewish origin
(or, as some like to clarify, Russian-language poets)
doing their job without caring
what will other vigilant fellow citizens think of this,
for whom the fifth paragraph
(language does not dare to call it obsolete, because there is nothing more eternal)
is a stumbling block (at the same time - a stone in the bosom),
which should be immediately thrown into those
who is certainly not without sin.
Meanwhile, the great Russian poets of Russian origin
(that is, as you might guess, also Russian-speaking)
I was not particularly worried about the personal data of foreigners - their rivals and colleagues.
But they were very jealous of their rhymes, metaphors, not to mention enjambements -
As, in fact, poets of all times and peoples do.
For if your stanza is crooked and miserable,
nothing will help you - even if you are the son of Pharaoh Amenhotep according to your passport.
So, great Russian poets of Jewish origin,
As well as great Russian poets of non-Jewish origin,
To their shame, they forgot about this important difference.
However, those and others - whether they wanted it or not -
ended up being the pride of the Russian people.
Whatever Stanislav Kunyaev says about this.