And never go back to the old places

Poems

MORNING

I don't believe in god or hell

Not for good, not for Satan

And I believe implicitly

To this stupid country.

The more ridiculous she is, the closer

She is either conscience, or delirium,

But I see, I see, I see

Like a self-portrait.

Do you love Liszt, Mozart, Salieri...

Do you love Liszt, Mozart, Salieri,

Second-hand bookstores, summer cafeteria,

Controversy about Shakespeare and about Calderon

In a city apartment in the Kiev region.

Ah, spring Paris! How to get to you?

Early in the morning you can swim in the Seine.

You will destroy yourself with a Western soul,

Love abroad - oh, not good.

Masters of the palette, you are not to blame

Oh, cosmopolitans are nice guys.

Do you love Brahms

Do you like Vrubel

So give me a ruble

dear brothers.

Anger has self-expression...

Has irritation

Self-expression.

The door - clap,

And a bullet in the forehead.

Oh, how he annoyed everyone!

And lies in a coffin - a suit,

new boots,

Elasticated tie.

Two widows

(Two wifes)

Dressed up for the occasion.

He lies - already nobody

Waiting for speeches.

Guard! Guard!

Here is the guard of honor.

He is well respected

Too bad he stretched out his legs.

I tell him hello

You go there, and I go to the buffet.

SEPTEMBER

What is the owl crying about in the dark?

What are her words?

Ask an owl about it

On "you" or on "you".

On "you" ask - ask again

On "you" - impolite to ask.

Because the woman is an owl

And she has her rights.

I walk the road through the forest

I hold my gun at the ready.

I am hunter. But where is the game?

Where is the partridge or the owl?

Although - are owls edible,

Muscovites don't know about it.

But I'm an unimportant deli

Let's fill the owl with wine!

We'll have a nice drink under the owl

Zubrovki and stumbling!

You are beautiful autumn forest, -

What the hell do I want!

I will cross across

Your autumn swamps.

Comrade gave me boots -

Our sizes match.

Gift from a friendly foot

Now it's lost in the swamp!

But the attraction of the swamps

We will still overcome

Therefore, hope and stronghold,

What willpower we have.

We are me and boots

A gift from a friendly foot.

They walked from a young age

Through swamps and ravines,

And they bought them in a village shop,

For them, asphalt is already parquet.

I love these boots

sealed neatly,

A gift from a friendly foot -

I won't take it back.

It's already brightening. Transition

From shadow to light is incomprehensible,

The number of semitones is growing,

And the air is humid and pleasant.

Are the horns blowing? The horns sound...

April 1964

I raise my head...

I raise my head

I remember the past day.

The street is sloping, the street is foggy,

Old houses with noble columns.

old grinder,

pot tinker,

military school

Slow Patrol.

Take me away, take me away

Put me under arrest

Give me ten days

Order to call the orchestra.

Let the drums beat through the streets

And looking through spyglasses

And hardcore veterans

They don't tell me to spare.

Unfortunately or fortunately, the truth is simple...

Unfortunately or fortunately,

The truth is simple:

never come back

To the old places.

Even if the ashes

Looks quite

Can't find what we're looking for

Neither you nor me.

Journey back

I would forbid

I ask you as a brother

Don't trouble your soul.

Otherwise, I’ll rush along the trail -

Who will bring me back? -

And I'll leave on felt boots

In the forty-fifth year.

In the forty-fifth, I guess

Where - my God! -

There will be a young mother

And my father is alive.

Rio-rita, rio-rita

provincial town,

summer heat,

On the dance floor

Music in the morning.

Rio-rita, rio-rita,

The foxtrot spins

On the dance floor

Forty-first year.

Nothing like the Germans in Poland,

But the country is strong

A month later - and no more -

The war will end.

Rio-rita, rio-rita,

The foxtrot spins

On the dance floor

Forty-first year.

I risk my life

I risk my life

I go out to the tank with a grenade

For the peaceful life of the city,

For everything that I hold dear.

I remember the country's call signs,

They were distributed everywhere -

Go to recruitment points,

Our fatherland is in trouble.

They were asked to return alive.

Not everyone will return alive

Cars go through Russia,

By her herbs, by dew.

And the brother parted with the sister,

Leaving children and wife

I am connected with the war in my youth

And I hate war.

I understand, I know how important

Row at sunset,

Fragrant and moist lilacs

Bring your bride.

Let the bees fly - not bullets,

And children will not be born in vain,

Let there be work in July

And leave at the end of January.

Cannonade thunders behind the forest,

And tomorrow we will walk again.

No need, no need, no need

You don't have to forget me.

I saw both joy and sorrow

And I'll tell the young

How bitter is the smoke from a conflagration

And the smoke of the fatherland is sweet.

Moscow sorted trains...

Moscow sorted trains:

Commodity, military, postal.

We were taken to distant places

So that we stay alive.

For a distant life remained to live,

which was barely marked

Now - eyes in tears, barely close,

For all beginnings, for all beginnings.

YOUTH LANE

The park is lit up with dots of lights,

Again I came to the alley -

Alley of my youth.

Elms leaned over the asphalt,

Shadow hiding the pavement path.

I remember how to a gray-eyed girl

I was in a hurry for the day off.

How, having got wet in the rain cheerful,

Behind the blooming chestnut trees were hiding,

Girl from the forty-third school

And an embarrassed little boy to tears.

I wanted extraordinary tears,

An oath, or something, to give or a vow.

This rain, short and random,

Became close to you.

I know it doesn't mean anything.

But today I regretted it too late

What could have happened differently

If only it would rain more.

The park is lit up with dots of lights,

Again I came to the alley -

Alley of my youth.

In the summer it would be nice without a ticket ...

In the summer it would be nice without a ticket.

Into the summer? Where does he have a ticket?

He has grass - one sign,

And also a river. Bow, hello!

And the river is so golden

And in the spring such a rain in the world,

And the wind flies through the world

And you can't bring back the wind.

And thanks to the river, and thanks to you,

And thank you, the wind over the water,

You are so funny, you are so beautiful

Wind, wind, wind

The wind is young.

The pines make a good noise under the wind...

Under the wind the pines make a good noise,

It dawns early. You don't wake up

Touch me with your hot shoulder,

Your dream is shaken by pines and stored.

I hold you, I carry you in a dream

And I hear - a woodpecker beats a tree,

Today is Sunday in the forest

In the country, on the highway and in the swamp.

Peace of a day not yet begun,

Indistinct outlines of objects.

I think how you entered me

In my affairs, worries and consciousness.

Our celebrations are leaving on weekdays,

But I want to wake up in the morning

Search for words and forget words

Hope, love, obey.

You are bored with me...

You are bored with me

And me with you - no.

As a person - you are piece,

There are no such people in the world.

You are released somewhere

No more than five

How a satellite is launched

In the unknown steppe.

Apple trees and cherries covered with snow

This song is dedicated to the soldier Bulat Okudzhava

and soldier Pyotr Todorovsky on the day of their premiere -

from reserve lieutenant Shpalikov.

Apple trees and cherries covered with snow -

There is my native Kursk village.

How nightingales sing near Kursk!

My fiancee's name is Klava.

You are Russian land!

Kursk girl,

And the whistles of the nightingale,

And a white dress

And blond braids

My dear girl!

I said to Klava: “Klava, don’t grieve!

I'm leaving, Klava, to serve in the army!

And I ask, Klava, to give a direct answer:

Will you wait for me, Klava, or not?

You are Russian land!

Kursk girl,

And the whistles of the nightingale,

And a white dress

And blond braids

My dear girl!

Klava smiled, raised an eyebrow,

White hand tightly hugged

And Klava said: “You are a funny guy!

I will be a faithful wife to a soldier.

You are Russian land!

Kursk girl,

And the whistles of the nightingale,

And a white dress

And blond braids

My dear girl!

Ice, ice

Ladoga floats.

Ladoga floats.

Casting aside all doubts

In the middle of a big day

I'll sit, I'll sit on the ice -

The ice floe will take me out!

Ice helps me out.

I'll ask her later:

“Where will it take out, moor?

Which bridge will I pass under?

Ladoga floats.

Ladoga floats.

“Darling, what year are you?

And from which ship? -

No reply, no hello...

And ice is melting on the river.

Ladoga floats…

We sat bored

We sat bored

By the green water

Domestic birds were rocked

Patriarch Ponds.

The day was bright and fresh

People liked to live.

I was cheerful and polite

I wanted to laugh.

I composed for you, without suffering,

About kings, about queens,

About the sad fate

Ringed birds.

The Chinese let them in

So that later - on the spot -

The Senegalese beat the birds

Over the river Senegal.

Do not recognize the Komsomol

That the killers are barefoot

And scientific rings

Pass through the noses.

Wanderers are dying

Far from friends.

Chinese cry loudly

And the British Museum.

The dogs barked quietly

The dogs barked quietly

Into the fading distance.

I came to you in a tailcoat,

Elegant as a piano.

You were lying on the couch

Twenty incomplete years.

Silently I squeezed in my pocket

Ice gun.

Pointed downward,

He could shoot through his pocket.

I kept thinking, thinking, thinking:

Kill? Don't kill?

It was cold and wet

Shadows crept in the corners...

Tears poured down glass

Like heroes of melodramas.

I am from dampness and laziness

I couldn't help myself.

you fell to your knees

My beautiful legs.

Smoke! Fire! Flames flashed!

Nothing to regret now...

I lay with my feet to the door,

Elegant as a piano.

Coming at me

Coming at me

Broken ice on the river.

Navigation on the river

Steamboat on the river.

The steamer is white-white,

Smoke above the red pipe.

We ran across the deck -

Kissed you.

The deck smells like clover,

Well, like in the forest.

And the paper is pasted

On your nose.

Oh you, deck, deck,

You rock me

You are my sorrow, deck,

Split about the pier.

Poets follow sadness...

Poets follow sadness

And life follows separation.

Stroke me on the shoulders

String your friend's hand.

And loneliness will enter

Acceptable, inconsolable,

It is like a regiment of amusing

With me through the city will pass.

Don't talk in the evenings

About something unimportant -

Comrades brag to us

Secluded from the hustle and bustle.

None of us is Karamzin -

Was he, was it

Ponds and girls up close

And supportive poets.

Oh, I'll drown in the Western Dvina

Oh, I'll drown in the Western Dvina

Or I'll die somehow,

The country will not regret me

But my comrades will cry for me.

They will take me to the cemetery

Forgive debts and old grievances.

I cancel the military salute

I don't need a civil memorial service.

There will be no mourning newspapers in the morning,

Subscribers don't cry for me

Farewell, farewell, Central Committee,

Oh, they won't play a hymn over me.

I have never ridden an elephant

Had great failures in love,

The country will not regret me

But my comrades will cry for me.

Nothing worked

V.P. Nekrasov

Nothing worked

I knew about it for sure

That privacy is always available

And the ideal is unknown.

I saw him once...

Not in a dream, but in reality

Appeared at its best

Fell down on the grass.

We were in Vnukovo

The plane was cancelled.

I don't regret anything anymore

It's a pity here

I'm only sorry

It's only a pity

And then, and now,

I don't really know anything

About you and about myself.

What do you dream about every day

V.P. Nekrasov

What do you dream about every day

Why are you disturbing my soul?

My closest person

Whom you can't hug.

Why do you come at night

Wide open, with a cheerful bang,

To wake up and scream

It's like I'm guilty of something.

And without you it will snow

And I will dream about Kyiv.

You come, even if in a dream,

Across borders, across borders.

TROIM

S.K., Yu.I. and P.F.

Today we drink

The three of us again

Yesterday the three of us

Day before yesterday-

All evenings

The fourth was

But he forgot

How to sing and drink.

He doesn't care

Gone yesterday

And we puke

All evenings

Whether the passions subsided ...

Have the passions subsided

Whether there were no passions, -

Lost in this whirlwind

And disappeared without a trace

People of the first stories.

On Sandy - everything is sandy,

Summer, ditches, gas pipeline,

Bella with white shoulders

year fifty ninth

Bella bang goes.

I see clearly and fuzzy

Reach out - at hand -

Summer, ditches and this bangs

Red-red grace.

They walked over the Moscow River,

The evening burned brightly

Selling a refrigerator

They flew over the Urals.

Why, oh friend, offended by me?

Why, oh friend, offended by me?

What is deprived? What boots?

Horse for you? Please, a horse!

Green damask, screeching with pies.

A merchant or Bibigul?

Or the Russian maiden from Podlipki station?

Hut on a distant shore

Or the charms of the Tibetan Aibolitka?

Everything for you is a silent language of passions

And the ring of the golden regicide.

You order - and here is a bag of bones

Your enemies and the body of a bloodsucker.

COMFORT

cheerfulness and horror

Mortal, persecuted by people and fate,

leaving the world,

Forgive the malice of people and fate with my heart

and forget.

Turn your last gaze to the sun, like Rousseau,

and comfort yourself:

Sleeping in thorns here,

in the myrtle they will awake there.

My friend, I am very, very sick

My friend, I am very, very sick,

I know (and you) where this pain came from!

Life is starchy - let's act seditiously

And let's go into alcohol as a medicine!

That's the thing! He is not in us - healing,

On the contrary, we are into it, into it!

And is it ridiculous! - and it's nice,

Dear Pasha, you are like Aleko

And I don't remember who

Who is free with his hands, feet,

Who says goodbye to the Solovki!

And a prisoner turns to you,

Alekseevsky ravelin ...

Oh, Pasha, dear angel

Oh, Pasha, dear angel,

Not enough for soap

The presence of the soul, - Known to all the thug

Your soap was stolen.

Witnesses - hedgehogs,

two policemen,

Eser named Lera,

Another swordsman

And a Polish landscape painter,

Which is in the form of wings

Beer drawing,

Then they opened it, and they really

With a pub, so - witnesses

not left.

Summer road, summer bushes...

Vasily Livanov

summer road,

summer bushes,

Get some rest

You or not you.

look at the cloud

Or on the grass

The rest is on the side

I see for real:

In the middle of the field - a tree,

And on the field - you.

I believe - not sure

In a matter of kindness.

Sasha, I came at night...

Sasha, I came at night

As usual.

I felt bad

As usual.

Sasha, dark window

It didn't get any better.

Sasha, I'm not well

And you're no better.

I didn't learn anything

About you, my love.

I only saw eyes

I need.

OISTRAKH

For years sometime in the concert hall

They will play Brahms for me - I will go out of melancholy.

Parsnip

Amsterdam, Amsterdam

black aorta,

I won't give you a living

Take the dead.

Putting the body in a box

In a certain "Caravelle" -

And on the box nearby

We roared in Moscow.

It's scary in a foreign city

Probably die

Window leaf - and naked -

Falling without measure.

Out of size, out, out

Yawn - carrion, -

White, blue, red snow

Fell in Amsterdam.

October 1974

People are lost only once

People are only lost once

And the trace, losing, is not found,

And the person is visiting you,

Says goodbye and leaves into the night.

And if he leaves during the day,

He still leaves you.

Let's bring it back now

While he crosses the area.

We will return it immediately

Let's talk and set the table

Turn the whole house upside down

And we will arrange a holiday for him.

THREE DEDICATIONS TO PUSHKIN

I love Derzhavin's odes,

A string will flash through a difficult verse,

Like a young maiden is light,

Full of courage and freedom.

Like the sparkle of a star, like the smoke of a fire,

You entered the Russian verse carelessly,

Joking, playing and forever

O lightness, sister of wisdom.

The autumn beetle flew into the light,

Hit the glass like a bird

Long live the houses where they are waiting for us today,

I'm happy to pack up, hurry up.

There are mushrooms and pies on the table,

Silver glasses and tinctures,

The hour will strike, and sobriety is the enemy

Come here for a friendly drinking party.

The circle of friends is thinning, but - call,

Let's talk like lyceums

About Schiller, about fame, about love,

About women - sublime and pure.

Memories are closed ranks,

They stand ready to attack

And now the Patriarch's Ponds

They come to me in the autumn twilight.

O my bonded interlocutor,

I, like you, today is bonded,

You casually nod your head at me,

And I will be touched and pleased.

Here is the human destiny -

Wake up in an old room

Feel like Arina

The sad nanny is out of work.

To whom the barchuk was entrusted

In the village of Mikhailovsky empty,

And great-grandfather disgraced house

Measured with quick steps.

When he walks in the evening

Not great-grandfather, Annibal the ruler,

And the first Russian writer

And - does not apply to the pen.

November 1963

S. A. Schweitzer

with tenderness and respect

G. Shpalikov

In Kerch - no matter how you shout,

There have been failures.

Among other reasons

It was my arrival - even more so

That my arrival coincided

With affairs - I didn’t want to!

I hit it wrong

I didn't drink, I didn't eat.

And we are not going

In a circle, however narrow,

Scattered through the markets

By squares and slopes.

From the abyss of worries

Where can we hide?

Slip overboard -

Let them blitz us.

Let them expose us

Lazy - go ahead!

For envy, for show

Wipe vices.

Let's pretend we stand up

After noon. The sky is clear.

And give a hand

Everything that is idle in the world.

Among cares and darkness,

Through grief and separation

We stretch

Fun only hand.

We take such an initiative

And the best of truths:

There is friendship for no reason

Without measure and self-interest.

Everything else is vanity

Other - open,

Other - to hell

From witch to hell.

And to live with another - not to live,

Although we live and can

And we try to serve

But what shall we sum up?

From chief to premier

great distance,

And there is an example

Examples and sayings

About what we then

And they were great

But it's a pity, but here's the trouble -

Messed up with fathers.

And our father is space,

Roads are our sisters

Fire above the lake

All this is very simple.

And next to it lies -

You can't get your hand

And if you touch it, it will run away

And stop touching.

And thin ice

And white snow

Back to that road

I didn't want to, but I burned it.

Burn, burn bright

To not go out

Not in vain -

High and red.

A. Khokhlova

I live in the Kuleshov Skvoreshnye,

Hello, sleep well

And a younger brother

Whether rain, sprinkle with snow.

October 1973

Marianne Vertinskaya

Have a drink with me, Mariana,

From my glass.

Let you dream

Bright Nice

And abroad, Mariana.

Cats on soft paws

Your famous dad.

Writers are buried dead...

Writers are buried dead

The living go into the corridor.

Servants brisk brooms

They sweep away needles and rubbish.

I dislike the spirit of memorial services,

I calmly look out the windows

And I think - here's my friend,

Here I am in this room.

Didn't do half

What I have to do

Feet pointing towards the fireplace

Mourned by children and wife.

Writers are buried dead

The living go into the corridor.

Living people prostrate

Take out to the stone yard.

Peers of a friend endure,

Keeping sternness on faces

And this - endure, endure -

Guys take me out!

Goose or not goose

Scratch paper to death

But just don't be sad

And they did not learn to be ill.

But if only we didn't lose

Living dear people,

They didn’t shoot insults at them,

We would love them alive.

Peers, don't die.

MEMORIES OF THE AERODROME

On the bench of the airport, - I'm at home.

Domodedovo is also a house.

And other people's apartments are lyres,

And benches - they are apartments,

Wonderful though.

I love to disappear

To get into other people's houses,

To sit with half-familiar

It is idle to look at their faces.

Benches are sad

Green, snow, sleeping.

Benches are made of leather, -

Leather - they are more expensive.

Benches are made of tin, -

But body and soul will fit.

Domodedovo is beautiful

Domodedov - thank you.

A. Knyazhinsky

You hit me with a wing

I will not be offended - rightly so,

I smile and say nothing

I don't want to be offended.

And you left, put on your coat,

But only that coat - not that.

In my coat under the white snow

A good man is gone.

I look out the window as he walks

And under the feet - melted ice.

And he will come, he will not fall,

And he is like that - he will not disappear.

Y. Faitu

Do you want to trepan nerves

Ode or troparion - You can't see the money,

Hands in trousers and - run.

Or sell your conscience

(Only if they buy)

Here's the moral - don't give in

Together with this gang.

A sentimental journey, or, poor Lisa...

Sentimental Journey

Or, poor Liza,

Or, what do you, the reader,

It will come to mind.

Oh, how long it all was;

Particularly in contrast

When dressed in everything

You are on the second shelf.

When you forgot who you are

Do you remember comrades

Streets, snow (suddenly)

When are you, Lord? - where are you?

Where I am? - In general, in the general car, - I'm going.

I wake up and go

I wake up and go

For the first time this winter

I serve myself, if necessary.

Disappears if suddenly

In the service of that need,

Leni sweet sickness

Illuminates unsociableness.

Interlocutor at hand

Behind the cheek, under the pillow,

Smile not reproachfully

And doze off innocently.

Doesn't listen, but

Dozing without interrupting.

Because behind the maeta

And this does not happen.

Don't take part in me

Don't take part in me

And do not deceive housing

Since the street, in part,

One is my salvation.

I learned its course

Overcoming, stunned,

Possibly the best treatment

And it does not happen on earth.

Empty streets spun

Alone or hand in hand

But I don't remember anything better

Night exit to the river.

When in an abandoned passage

Opened instead of a dead end

Big winter constellations

And an unfrozen river.

Everything was festive and quiet

Both in the sky and on the water.

I've been looking for a similar way out during the day,

And I didn't find it anywhere.

Everything in the world is good, what’s the matter, you won’t immediately understand

Everything is good in the world

What's the matter, you won't understand right away,

And just the summer rain has passed,

Normal summer rain.

A familiar face flashes in the crowd,

funny eyes,

And the Garden Ring runs through them,

And the Garden Ring shines in them,

And a summer storm.

And I'm walking, walking around Moscow,

And I can still get through

Salty Pacific Ocean

Both tundra and taiga.

Over the boat I will unravel the white sail,

Until I know with whom

But if I load around the house,

Under the snow I will find a violet

And remember Moscow.

The horse had angina pectoris

The horse had angina pectoris

But the horse, as you know, is not a sheep,

And the horse came to the parades

And not a word about this to the marshal ...

And the marshal was struck down by scarlet fever,

She blew him away

But the marshal was a hardy man

And the horse didn't say that.

Dogs bark furiously into the fading distance...

(Song from a play)

Dogs bark furiously

Into the fading distance

I came to you in a black tailcoat,

Elegant as a piano.

It was cold and wet

Shadows crept in the corners

Shed tears of glass

Like heroes of melodramas.

You were sitting on the sofa

Like a portrait.

Silently I squeezed in my pocket

Ice gun.

Positioned downward

Through his pocket he could shoot

I kept thinking, thinking, thinking

To kill, not to kill?

And from the dampness of autumn

I couldn't stop shivering

you fell to your knees

My beautiful legs.

Shot, smoke, flame flashed,

Nothing to be sorry about.

I was lying to the door with my feet -

Elegant as a piano.

MOZHAYSK

Evening is hidden in yellow lindens,

Twilight is calm blue

The city is quiet and discolored

The city freezes.

Sidewalks, sidewalks

Rustling dry leaves,

The city is old, very old

Near Moscow.

Wooden, red-roofed,

With endless fences

The bell ringing is heard

All cathedrals.

The penumbra darkened

The shadows blurred,

The lanes are tanned

Lanterns.

Here shorn, beardless,

In the tarantass wept deafly

Very cute, very sad

Pierre Bezukhov.

Oh the streets, the only shelter

Oh the streets, the only shelter

Not for the homeless - For those who live in the city.

The streets do not give me rest,

They are my comrades and enemies.

It seems to me that I'm not following them,

And I obey, I move my feet,

And the streets lead me, lead me

According to a given program.

The program of lanes dear,

Cheerful and good intentions.

December 1963

BATUUM

The work is not hard

And I've been awarded

Drink local, cheap

Georgian wine.

I drink it tirelessly

I look at the glass,

With beardless sailors

I wander around the city.

With beardless sailors

I wander until the morning

Behind the girls with beads

From Czech glass.

Sailors tomorrow night

Sailing to the Bosphorus

They are in a hurry, there are four of them,

I'm fifth - I don't care.

I have to stay in the city

Where is the sea and the market,

Where are the ugly girls

They go out to the boulevard.

GARDEN RING ROAD

I see you, I remember you

And this street at night

When all the lights went out

And I wander around the city.

Farewell, Garden Ring,

I'm going down, going down

And on the high porch

I rise from someone else's house.

Strangers will open

Foreign doors with mistrust

And we cut and measure

And every breath, and an alien look.

Farewell, Garden Ring,

Comrade native shoulders,

I see a stern face

I hear the right words.

And we're not to blame

We knocked at your door at night

Like all homeless soldiers

That they ask for shelter in the yards.

From frost - prose grows cold so

From frost - prose

It gets so cold

pink mug,

Throwed-up penny.

Even not even

And maybe, hell, - Maybe everything is possible,

If the street is flowing

You have a foot.

If streets, bridges,

Alleys, stairs,

Forever included

Everything will fit in me.

Everything fits in me

Everything fits in me

Numb - numb

Alleys, stairs.

I walk around Moscow, as one walks on a plank.

I'm walking around Moscow

How they walk on the board.

What is the square to the right

And to the left is also a square.

Pushkin once lived here,

Pushkin was friends with Vyazemsky,

Grieved, lay in bed,

Said he had a cold.

Who is he, I don't know who,

And most likely no one

At the entrance, on the bench

The man is sitting in a coat.

He is an old man

On the Arbat, a residential house, -

Summer food in the house

And outside it's Wednesday

Moves to Monday

Without any labor.

My head is empty

Like desert places

I'm flying somewhere

Like a tree from a leaf.

BEFORE THE SNOW

Such fog, and the bridge disappeared.

By the hand of a passer-by you will recognize through the rain,

When over an unfamiliar river

By unfamiliar street you go.

Everything is unknown, everything has changed,

And an hour ago, before the first lights,

Everything was sad

All bad weather

The slush languished, -

And the darkness called, and yet it became

And in the soul and in heaven - more gloomy.

December 1973

In the dark, someone beats with a crowbar

In the dark, someone beats with a crowbar

And a shovel knocks on the ice,

And winter comes through in the flesh

And the tram goes past the market.

Of course, everything that is conditional.

This morning is yours, dumbness,

Thank God that life is verbose,

So live, do not feel sorry for the stomach.

I pity you in this life

I beg you, don't be sad.

In poplars, in June, in the alley,

On which to trudge and trudge.

I would reach out to summer with my hand,

And with the other hand - to you,

And then come back this winter

Alone, without grieving for anyone.

Here I pass the Danilovsky market,

I want to - I'll get off near the market,

Past the jars, baskets and pictures,

The girl in the cabbage row

I'll ask for a tomato for a snack

I walk through the snow to the pub.

It's sad, I think it's delicious

I don't dream of another life.

Yesterday went out, and the current one has not begun ...

Yesterday is gone

And the current one has not started,

And the morning, without embellishment,

The actress will pay.

No makeup, naked

That the morning comes

And the day is not marked

And you are unshaven and gloomy.

Brightens. The day has not started

But he walks.

He stood split -

Tourist walking around

But the Tsar-bell stole

Known swindler.

Took him to Stoleshnikov

For a few minutes,

And they said politely

They don't take bronze.

He dragged him along,

Standing with him on the corner

Then he sold the Tsar Bell

British ambassador.

And now in the West

Big celebration -

And bronze cufflinks

Stamped out of it.

And abroad fun

The papers say

That hanged himself in horror

Kremlin commandant.

A swindler chained

Was exiled to Taishet,

And repeated the bell

From paper-mache.

We are not afraid of God

And hide your shame

Walked around touched

Rabindranath Tagore.

Walked around and around

Checked with teeth

But nothing about the bell

Didn't say bad.

Dedicated to Fellini

The dead man played the pipe

Walked around the city

And an unknown fool

He offered his hand.

A fool like Cinderella

Looks into his eyes,

He talks about gold

He talks about glory.

Dead man, singer and smart girl,

His words are simple -

Empty night streets

And the squares are empty.

"I'm in pain, I'm sad,

I'm cold in winter

Take me as your bride

Take me with you".

P.K.F.

What a life with pyrotechnics -

Fireworks, not life

It's a hell of a technique

disruptive realism.

He is cheerful and prominent

He lives beautifully

He's the only one, obviously.

Will die very soon.

At the folk festival

Illuminated the sky

Pyrotechnically wounded,

He will turn around.

I will sell our cottage

Selling my wardrobe

I will spend this money

On a birch coffin.

And across the market square

Past the sign "stop"

Two fire horses

They will take his coffin.

They will tell the girls in GUM

Pioneer and bandit -

The pyrotechnician is not dead

The pyrotechnician is dead.

SUMMER

Flying summer swing

In fact,-

The child screamed in the cradle

And the summer day floated somewhere.

And the grass turned into hay

Not immediately, let's say - gradually -

Everything was, it was gradually

What a gradual summer day.

PEREDELKINO

People change addresses

Moving, breaking up

But only autumn forests

They remain in the white world.

There will be no conversation

And not resentment - out of habit,

And the fields of compressed space,

The road through the forest to the train.

Between empty dachas she led, -

Prosperity, fame, privileges,

The cart overtook us

And a guy rode in a cart.

Will stay - for sure -

White river in the mist

The fog covered her

Decorated with a bonfire on the shore,

He put a buoy on the water -

Secured the movement.

I risk my life, with a grenade I go out to the tank

I risk my life

I go out to the tank with a grenade

For the peaceful life of the city,

For everything that I hold dear.

I remember the country's call signs,

They were distributed everywhere -

Go to recruitment points,

Our fatherland is in trouble.

They were asked to return alive.

Not everyone will return alive

Cars go through Russia,

By her herbs, by dew.

And the brother parted with the sister,

Leaving children and wife

I am associated with the war in my youth,

And I hate war.

I understand, I know how important

Row at sunset,

Fragrant and moist lilacs

Bring your bride.

Let the bees fly - not bullets,

And children will not be born in vain,

Let there be work in July

And leave at the end of January.

Cannonade thunders behind the forest,

And tomorrow we will walk again.

No need, no need, no need

You don't have to forget me.

I saw both joy and sorrow

And I'll tell the young

How bitter is the smoke from a conflagration

And the smoke of the Fatherland is sweet.

SONG

With locomotives and fogs

Into the rolling fields

On dates with distant countries

We're leaving, you and me.

Leaving the wet streets

The indifference of someone's eyes

The sails of wanderings puffed out

We have handkerchiefs.

We'll be back when we're bored

Life with bears, without people

The city is wet and the best,

In the city of autumn and rain.

How far, how close are the old years...

Is it far, close

previous years,

girls notes,

Dreams of rubbish.

Something I can't sleep

Alone in the night

Drunk something in the capital!

Donate, Muscovites.

Thoughts hastily

Randomly rush about:

Someone's eyes... Willow...

Drunk people.

Everything is mixed up

Fog in my head...

Maybe he drank a little?

No, not drunk at all.

Darkness, vanishingly,

Can't see a damn thing.

Do you want to kiss -

Just help.

Help me faithful

Choose a path in the night

I'll probably get

It's somehow.

Thoughts hastily

Squeeze - do not scream!

Someone's eyes... Willow...

Horror in the dead of night.

This street is good

This street is good

Amazing this winter -

Regardless and slowly

The street returns to the sea.

I'll turn the corner - and then

I see this blue water.

And then? And then - soup with a cat,

I don't know what will happen next

But I know, I understood, I survived.

ISLANDS IN THE OCEAN

I lagged behind you, islands,

And unexpectedly, and inadvertently, -

The head did not fly there -

Tired and sad.

She flew across the bridge

In the lanes, sorrows and streets, -

Where not grief rose to growth,

Don't slouch and don't slouch.

There flew, idle, foliage,

The house stood, overloaded from trouble,

I got up on this street,

Thank God you awakened me.

October 1974

Early in the morning the wave will wash over

Early in the morning the wave will wash over

With its snow-white water,

And a boat will appear in the sky

Remarkably young.

Past the piers and cherries,

separated by river water,

Goblin appears in the sky

Remarkably young.

Sailors are scrubbing the deck there,

The captain's name is "you"

And on the girls there is a teenager

Throws apples and flowers.

Oh, how happy Marina and Katya are

In September or there - in February,

That a boat flies across the sky,

On a cheerful, round earth.

We don’t fly ourselves, we’re not Dutch,

And calmly, in broad daylight,

He flies Russian rookie,

He touched me with his hand.

Flying through grass or smoke

Manages to yell a pipe -

To live young, young -

Young - do not die.

Oh, you're a boat, you're my buddy

Over joy and misfortune,

Spring boat in the white sky

Remarkably young.

Why and in everything without fail

I want to explain myself

And autumn water change,

And sedge iron thread?

On the other side of the river, above the forest,

Appeared in me and herself

Resurrected with her little things

Unforgettable this winter.

On the frozen river

Footprints, smokes and sounds

And a mitten in my hand

A feeling of separation.

And the sun in January -

Because of the same forest

And I looked at the ice -

I'm interested.

Trees, bushes will give us a drink...

Trees, bushes will sing for us,

People, those that do not notice in a dream,

The district bridges will sing,

Or Kyiv, or the wind.

And the steppe will sing, sing,

And comrades who are smarter

Bass, tenor - all the same to me,

Well steamboat inveterate

Fall into the light

Dressed in burlap.

I then put on burlap,

So that after, at a distance,

Quietly float on the evening water

And hear your funeral.

December 1973

MEMORY OF LENINGRAD 1965

Everything is sober. On Ohta.

And the tablecloth is white.

But elbows, but elbows

They fly off the table.

Everything is sober. On the Arrow.

And the tablecloth is white.

Plates, plates

They fly off the table.

Everything is sober. On the Moika.

There is a bridge and a canal.

But there's a dead man

Finished me off.

Oh Black River

end of february

And the song, of course

About a piano.

There was also a song

About that ship

Which is from Presnya,

Floats from Sasha.

I won't embellish

None of those years.

Still Natasha

And Pasha - there.

Through, through, and on the lips of the innocent

Through, through

And on the lips of the innocent

Through the frost

Oh this surf

Barely but distinct

What can I do with you

If it's incurable...

January 1974

I will grow grass for you

I will grow grass for you,

I'll try to reach you

How does a bud reach for a leaf?

All waiting to wake up.

Bloom one morning

As long as no one sees her

And the dew glistens on it

And dry when the sun comes out.

It rises every time

And warms our earth

And reaches your eyes

And I won't listen to him anymore.

It won't open for me

Heavily drooping eyelids

And it's funny to be sad about me,

Like a real person.

And I am the autumn grass

Leaves flying in the wind

But the idea is not new

Belongs to the category of truths.

Eternal desire oppresses

She will sprout in the spring

And join life.

NIGHT

Blow on the window - it will work

Kiss or sigh or trail

Your mood won't improve

Kiss that for so many years.

These windows, winter, blue,

Kissed before you -

They are beautiful at night anyway.

Until they're blind in the dark.

In a communal room where flowers dried up in jars ...

in the communal area,

Where the flowers dried up in jars,

You came like a wonderful vision

And like a genius of pure beauty.

Then she left...

Why sob!

Why praise an unnecessary choir!

The old suffering remains

And a bachelor corridor.

Woman burning leaves

The woman burned the leaves

Pointlessly, easily.

Hand on clean slate -

Silently, unhappily.

For gold, for September -

Leaves burned.

I speak Avar

Stop.

Native, only language,

He is untranslatable

What should I complain in a cry,

She is unsociable.

October 1974

We drove out of town

We drove out of town

And it's raining outside the city.

And outside the city fences

Behind the fences are the leaders.

There is grass untouched,

Breathe easily.

There are mint candies

Bird's milk.

Behind seven fences

For seven constipation

There are mint candies

Bird's milk.

ABOUT DOGS

I talked to the dog at night

Explaining, - in private, -

My life is not going well

She doesn't quite succeed.

Well, but still, but still, and yet, -

I asked a random dog

I'm not better, but I'm not worse either

Like you - among the dogs - not beauty.

You're not the best, the only one, right

You look at me sadly

I'm looking at you superstitiously

Explaining dog life.

I talked to the dog at night

Talked - alone, -

And it turns out that dogs do not have a very good life,

She doesn't quite succeed.

Two days before the end of a leap year

This kind of weather is coming

And such silence around

Two days before the end of a leap year

Everyone's fate is decided.

This is what they told me. I have seen

Crescent moon. Sineva. Silence.

Soothsayers - not offended -

I want to fly to the moon.

What did I not fly in a dream?

On "Blerio", "Farman",

And even rolled girls

I am on a catamaran.

And I smile in my sleep

I scream in my sleep like a company

And I need to wake up

And reluctance.

POEMS ABOUT PHONES

I know how old

Poems about phones.

From Mary station

And to Mount Athos

Phone out.

(And if they don't last,

That means they are pulling it.)

I took the distance

A lot - on purpose:

The provincial is calling

The provincial is tired.

Already provincial

Drank, danced

And finds no place

And the bride is waiting at home.

I envy him.

Where is my bride?

In Moscow or in the Crimea -

I don't know.

Reader, forgive me

When a writer is sad

Him to lead the plot

Everything seems out of place.

G–2, G–2, G–2 -

I'm dialing your number

HALF PAST EIGHT

The whole world is splashed by the sun,

The street sparkles festively.

morning darkness

People are standing

and squint.

Move, try

not enough strength

And at the entrances

awake,

The city is big for a moment

squinting,

like a kitten.

It's warm in January

It's warm in January

And let the frost, but the sun

Sends God's strontium

On window glass.

I press my forehead against the glass

I rejoice in warmth!

On the path we walk

On the path we walk

Along, to Sheremetyevo, -

We do not look, we are already coming,

The plane was spotted.

He sparkled, but

It wasn't at all

And the snow is not grass, -

Yes, it was snowing.

Where is she, I did not ask, -

And the soul sat next to

I turned off the lamp

And the soul said: it is necessary.

What about spring?

Can't sleep.

You open the window.

This is a dream.

You are a tit. You are a bird. You are a cat. You are a bastard.

You clever. You sleep by yourself.

I sleep and you sleep.

ON THE FIRST SUN

I'm out, big, clumsy

Under the sun, which is at its zenith,

And I step into the blue puddles

I tell them: you're sorry!

Excuse me, blue puddles, -

I'm clumsy and clumsy.

APRIL EVENING

Green with wit

Exhausted by gaiety,

There were two.

Between them is a mummy

Beautiful and young.

SPRING IN MOSCOW

Mimosa is sold at the store,

Pigeons in the sky -

I don't know whose

And they shine brightly

from gasoline

Moscow

April 1956

GENOCHKA

Moscow, July bakes in full swing,

The heat stuck to the buildings like a shirt.

I'm at the fountain, on Tverskoy Boulevard

I sit under the thin shade of lindens.

The girls next to the screaming baby,

The baby roars, dragged around,

And the girls are content and happy

Such a fertile role of young mothers.

And, wiping tears from wet faces,

Give him toys and balls:

“Well, Genochka, come on, good,

Just a minute, darling, shut up."

You shut up, the girls will be happy

They do not know that, filled with joy,

Your namesake is on the bench nearby

With you, little boy, he sits.

And even if a long time ago he was not a child,

But it's so nice, there's nothing to hide

That at least you through the mouth of those girls

They managed to call him cute, Genochka ...

On the windowsill the wife sat in the early summer,

Wife on the windowsill

Sitting in the early summer

And the room is lit up

Was the evening light

Yes, summer has just begun

A guest came to us yesterday.

Today he left

And left us an echo.

That echo - roach three kilos -

There is no louder echo!

It's still light outside

And it's a shame he left.

IMPOSSIBLE DELICIOUS PIES

Mood

"Pies

and hot

Best in the world…"

Licked saliva from lips -

You can talk about it

And in verse

Cakes for the Impossible

The sun beats from all the crevices

I never thought that such

Maybe longing in the world.

K. Simonov

The sun beats from all the crevices,

Interrupting a sad story

About what's in the middle of the week

Suddenly sadness comes.

Dissolve involuntarily nurses,

There is nothing to cover the mood,

Bunin's lines are very clear,

What should you drink in this case?

But about vodka, understand

I am a total hater.

Still, as on a mountain, the spring months,

Mandatory fermentation in the blood.

And what if you take and ... hang yourself,

Yes, in the mood.

Or, remembering the girl in the capital,

Funny eye sparks

Fall in love according to spring and April

In it for the second time?

It's bad to be alone in the winter cold,

Disgustingly boring in the molten heat,

But it turned out to be much worse.

There is sadness in the spring.

RECOVERY POEMS

Healing forest herbs,

And herbal infusion is healing, -

Let them enter your dreams

Eagle and black swan.

I didn't tell you

But I am involved in secrets, -

Eagle wingspan

Cover from misfortune.

Oh mysteries halo

And the eagle will protect

And the swan will calm down.

Adversity can not be counted

But if something happens -

Remember what is

Another bird:

Neither swan nor eagle

Not even the swamp spirit, -

But his password is simple -

He is a wanderer.

Is it bullshit

Will climb to your roof

You whistle, then I -

You whistle - I will hear.

I spoke my teeth, but now I forgot

spoke teeth,

And now I forgot

I am the secrets of the brew

Divination herbs.

I say road

Better by January

What touched the eyes

I will repeat that.

What the lips touched

Touched hand -

It didn't seem

And for sure.

I say: in the flesh

I see a creature

And it beats in me

Life is magic.

teeth to speak

grind nonsense,

So that the cinder path

Flesh escaped.

To near the market,

In the gathering of people

Swim invisible

In the city sky.

There, across the river

There behind the blue

Maybe for the Eye

The tree is pockmarked.

And the water is rippling

yellow water,

I barely rake

I swim on it

pockmarked tree

On that shore.

white water -

You are not the sea

Grief is not a problem

Just grief.

INSOMNIA

Insomnia, you are a river

Swamp, lake and punishment from above,

And sometimes you are none

Nobody, nothing - without a family and a name.

You take it by the collar mockingly,

You will condemn, at midnight you will plant one,

Mockingly you will turn the whole world upside down

And you plant spurs.

Insomnia… What kind of girl are you?

Or maybe you are a fish? Say, ide?

Or maybe you're a naked girl

Who comes without asking?

She didn't listen to me

And only ate porridge

And I thought: I would clean up, or maybe wash,

Or maybe play something like a wedding?

Something, like, around, -

Spinning around in my head

It jumped like a swamp,

Right, then left.

I say don't go

The night is busy.

Night ahead and behind

Lie down and toil.

And to her, Lord, where?

Frost, powder.

Trouble with insomnia, trouble -

With me too.

OPPOSITE OPINIONS

Wide bend in the river

Take me into your arms

Take me away from this life

River, girlfriend and friend.

hand and fast river -

What similar concepts.

Hugs, but for sure

A woman's hand will deceive

Will take away the fast river.

But why surely

Will a woman's hand deceive?

And why me a river

So suddenly take away?

And if so, the river will embrace,

The beloved hand embraces

And he won't give up for sure!

Lived with a crazy poet

Lived with a crazy poet

Drunk long and drunk.

And that didn't concern anyone.

That the girl seemed grief.

Oh tender that hopelessness,

When everything is so simple and complicated

When for the very simplicity -

Misfortune verst after verst.

Misfortune? What misfortunes -

It was ordinary happiness

But happiness is even more unusual

Which looks very common.

And torn and half-starved,

And sunny or cold

When it was torn apart

That glorious happiness.

That glorious time

When we are not with those - but with those

When on the road loss

We don't believe in getting lost.

And who is lost - it's easier for them,

They are all far, far away.

January 1974

You are a dog, a dog

You are a dog, a dog

You are red, I am gray.

We are similar, however,

I am always your neighbor.

We look like faces

And also because-

It's hard for you, dog -

You are still "Moo-mu".

It's easier for goons in the world,

Dog, you're not a goon

And the rain will wash you

And wakes up through the asshole.

It doesn't make me worse

Not better - nothing

Dog life will help

Heals everything.

October 1973

Oh my red, straw, tattered tongue

Oh my red, straw,

broken tongue,

When you swim like straw -

I'm used to it.

Dog life, dog life

On this shore.

But I can't do otherwise

I probably can't.

April 1974

I'm empty like a leaf

I'm empty like a leaf

Like the emptiness of a sheet.

Don't be afraid, don't be afraid -

My grief is simple.

Once upon a time,

Autumn has spoken

And it's all in me

And we'll drop the rest.

Let it float

All this - even in the summer,

Crazy flight -

But this, this, this...

Oh someday, when?

Oh someday, when?

I'll sit down and forget myself

For a short time - forever

Everywhere and everywhere.

I will forget everything, I will unlearn

And undress and undress

Separate myself from myself

I'm going somewhere from myself.

December 1973

Farewell my treasure

Farewell, my treasure, -

Ridiculous words

But how do you hide from them -

The head is spinning.

And the March thaw

Throws and vomits.

I have to finish

Last turn.

Not pretending, but pretending

Not pretending, but pretending

without pretending anything,

I leave you and I leave

My dears, everything!

All goodbyes are alone

Finally - do not squeal.

I bequeath to you only a daughter -

There is nothing more to bequeath.

I lived as I lived

I lived as I lived

Hurry, laugh

I even served in the army

And I'm not at all proud of it

That I'm not fit to be a lieutenant.

Didn't work lieutenant

Didn't come out. I didn't make it

But they say I have talent

Another quality opened:

I compose - I write.

Didn't really say goodbye

Didn't really say goodbye

And so, for a while,

Forgotten things

The summer yard is littered.

To whom and what owes -

The grass will know the way.

I won't figure it out right away

I'll figure it out later.

So endless summer

Over our heads

And it would be nice

Overgrown with grass.

Yesterday's insults

Reproaches in a hurry

Forgotten in nettles

And drown in mugs.

All inaudible and all stupid

All inaudible and all stupid

My days are stretched out now.

Calm down, I'm calm

I will not stick to you like a burdock.

This death grip is not for me,

Interesting, but what about me?

What, Moscow Leningradka,

Any smarter advice?

I forget you, I forget

I don't want to forget you

And I'm scoring the window for you

And you don't have to score.

Everything has been going on for a long time besides,

Is it really then

A series of daily commemorations

Years turn around?

Ten years

Tanned, weathered and barefoot

He jumped out into the rain.

From modernity - only cowards,

And so - the African leader.

Looked disdainfully at us

Wiped his nose with his hand

And set off through the puddles in the wildest dance

With pleasure and sincerely.

Don't look down on the future

Don't look gloomy at the future

Shaking his head sadly...

I became literature today

The most average, very ordinary.

Let my line be blocked by another

But I thank my fate

I am for the right of creative insomnia

And for the happiness of the privates in the ranks.

There, across the river, the horses roam.

There, across the river, the horses roam.

They are on that one, and I am on this shore.

How slowly they move

And the autumn day fades slowly.

And I'm slowly flipping through the old book.

There the horses wander, crossing,

And the day goes out. And the day goes out...

I walk through the city, the thought in me whistles

I'll find a bride, maybe a widow,

And let her call me Seryozha,

But with such a face, who will take me?

Is that the police, and on foot to court -

For such persons just take.

I reached the handle, yes, now Khan.

The day after payday - money is not a damn thing.

What today? Friday? Or Thursday?

Drunkard, you, drunkard, lost man.

I walk through the city, the thought in me whistles

Let me go beard, stop drinking.

I'll find a bride, maybe a widow,

Maybe not local, I'll call Klava.

There is a small supply left in the flask,

Stays in the jar

small stock,

And autumn flags

Lit not about us.

Free - free will,

I'm not sad about anything

Wind in the open field

I will let myself go.

But where in the heart

Suddenly such sadness

Life slips through your fingers

Yellow handful of sand.

Bad weather all summer

Bad weather all summer

this waltz sounds from the ship

over the beach, over the gateway, over the house

and Tushino airfield.

And in Tushino summer is like summer,

and you can watch without a ticket,

how skydivers jump

air parade artists.

Then they disappear into the field,

then they fall into the river,

then the boat appears

With good name- "Buddy".

Boats ride all summer

lifeguards in yellow vests,

rescuers of foolish dukshas,

undressed and even undressed.

Tatarovo, I'm not jealous

that my inflatable boat,

that summer, that autumn, those years,

those barges and those steamboats.

Tatarovo, I'm not jealous

your torrential weather

and even autumn beaches,

my favorite landscapes.

Anonymous said...

I can’t help but tell you once again many thanks for your topics! This time I am delighted with the paintings! Especially after visiting the Museum of Modern Art, which, apart from surprise and even disgust from the exhibited there on 5 floors, "works" did not cause ! And the day before I read Tatyana Tolstaya's story about Malevich's "black square" and once again realized that I'm not the only "fool" who does not love him and all those whom he "spawned" or who is trying to portray something similar than the worse, the more fashionable?! You can’t get any aesthetic pleasure from such “art”. I came to your blog for another portion of joy from the PRESENT and ETERNAL!
All the same Irina.

Sorry for such a lengthy post.
All the same Irina.

Hello, Irinushka.
Well, what are you! On the contrary - I am very glad for such a lengthy message (well, finally, I waited)

I can not help but say to you once again many thanks for your topics! This time I am delighted with the paintings!

And thank you .. thank you! Painting yes - incomparable! True, it’s great that she “lay down” in gentle sad song thoughts?

This time I am delighted with the paintings! Especially after visiting the Museum of Modern Art, which, apart from surprise and even disgust from the "works" exhibited there on 5 floors, did not cause!

Yes? How curious. Didn't it hurt at all? In general, I am also not enthusiastic about modern modern art.

And the day before, I read Tatyana Tolstaya's story about Malevich's "black square" and once again realized that I'm not the only "fool" who does not love him and all those whom he "spawned" or who are trying to portray something like that - the worse , the more fashionable?! No aesthetic pleasure can be obtained from such "art".

By the way, in T. Tolstoy's essay, I remember most of all I liked the ironic remark that they say this square could be painted over by a child (but there would not be enough strength) or a mentally ill person - yes, anyone. But he painted over and K. Malevich concluded a deal with the Demon.

But Malevich (I am not delighted - I repeat - from painting - in general Malevich) has many other interesting works. Lots of fun figurative stuff.
But after all, his main thing is furturizm?

It always amazes me: how beautiful are poetic futuristic (beloved forever player with words / word-maker - I. Severyanin!) opuses of poets of my beloved Silver Age and why does picturesque futurism bother me so much?

Maybe because the founders are still Italians, and ours are only followers? And somehow everything is absurd and hysterical / ugly?
But I'm not - an expert, so - I argue - a simple amateur ..

And further. I have a very ... ahem .. I have a difficult attitude towards the figure of T. Tolstoy.

Once I read avidly what she wrote (and in this essay she put everything in a bunch: here is Kazimir and Lev, here is the foundation / sufferers and Anna Karenina .... family bonds and the Count's call to sew boots for himself and sew them without fail crooked ... Gloom ... And that's all - Demons with Demons ...) and then abruptly stopped.

Moreover, I managed to see a couple of programs to see where they are with Dunka (or Dunyasha?) slander. (c)

I came to your blog for another portion of joy from the PRESENT and ETERNAL

Thanks.
Check back often, Ir. Rather, I know that you are a permanent member of my blog. But - more often - in the sense - so voluminous. I really enjoy talking with you.

It's so great when there are points of contact. Not squares, of course, but just points...

Once again convinced of the correctness of the lines "The truth is simple: never return to your former places ...", accidentally came across a consonant with mine state of mind topic on your blog! With some trepidation, I felt that you are my like-minded person. Everything that you told and showed is close to my heart!!! And paintings Andrey Vystropov was simply fascinated - she felt the breath of the breeze and the smell of frost and the rustle of leaf fall and the sounds of rain and moonlight and the magic of the night - and all this really sounded like magnificent music in unison with the wonderful verses of Gennady Shpalikov. Thank you for the opportunity to listen once again to your favorite song by Igor Talkov, which NOBODY will sing like that!!! And not only to listen, but also to feel and see!!! Olga

About Gennady Shpalikov's verse August 28th, 2011

Unfortunately or fortunately,
The truth is simple:
never come back
To the old places.

Even if the ashes
Looks quite
Can't find what we're looking for
Neither you nor me.

Journey back
I would forbid
I ask you as a brother
Don't trouble your soul.

Otherwise, I’ll rush along the trail -
Who will bring me back? -
And I'll leave on felt boots
In the forty-fifth year.

In the forty-fifth, I guess
Where - my God! -
There will be a young mother
And the father is alive
Yes, you can return there, but the place will no longer be the same as it was in childhood or at the time when people lived there many years ago. So Shpalikov is right in his poem. You can't go back exactly where you left. You will arrive anyway to another place that will somehow remind you of the one you left. (Forgive me if I remembered the poet incorrectly. He was not so much a poet as a playwright, screenwriter, and then almost homeless, and passed away, like everyone who lived his life very quickly, burned out his life - at 37 - a fatal number for geniuses)
Yes, I checked, it's definitely Gennady Shpalikov. Landberg made a big program about him on our Russian radio, where I heard these lines "by misfortune or fortunately ..." But dlma found them and read what she had time to. About him, his poems "I never rode an elephant, I had great failures in love, The country will not regret me, But comrades will cry for me. A very subtle nature, a person born at the wrong time, with a different way of thinking and perception of the world, like in the parable of the water that I just read.
there will be time, read his subtle-philosophical spring, kind observations of life, which constantly beat him backhand, which he could not stand, having such a vulnerable-thin constitution of the soul. Valechka, thank you for reminding me of him, a free poet who left very early. Maybe in some new born human his soul will sprout beautifully and give out everything that was rich.
I will grow grass for you,
I'll try to reach you
How does a bud reach for a leaf?
All waiting to wake up.

Bloom one morning
Until no one sees her
And the dew glistens on it
And dry when the sun comes out.

It rises every time
And warms our earth
And reaches your eyes
And I won't listen to him anymore.

It won't open for me
Heavily drooping eyelids
And it's funny to be sad about me,
Like a real person.

And I am the autumn grass
Leaves flying in the wind
But the idea is not new
Belongs to the category of truths.

Eternal desire oppresses
Grass at least survive -
It will sprout in the spring
And join life.

“At the moment, hops fly off me at the number 37.
And now - how cold it blew:
Under this figure, Pushkin guessed a duel
And Mayakovsky lay down with his temple on the muzzle.
Let's dwell on the number 37! Insidious God -
He posed the question point-blank: either-or!
Byron and Rimbaud also lay down on this line,
And the current ones somehow slipped through, "-
sang Vladimir Vysotsky in 1971.

Not all slipped - not all.
Shpalikov ran through life like a boy through spring puddles,
leaving behind his scripts, poems and songs, like the pure ringing of rainbow drops, never exceeding the number 37. Freezing for centuries.
it all started with the fact that I like to listen to the radio when I go somewhere. No one goes anywhere here, they just drive around. There was a program about Gennady Shpalikov, who passed away of his own free will at 37. Like all talents. Either the heart does not stand up and bursts like a string, or the nerves do not stand up and the person does not melt.
On the go, I scribbled a line of his poems and later found it - I read it. And here you can listen.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0qH524NmNU
"Never return anything,
How to avoid stains in the sun.
And, on the way back,
You will never come back.
This truth is very simple.
And she, like death, is immutable.
You can return to the same places
But it's impossible to go back."
and these are poems by Novikov, they also once had a status for me on Odnoklassniki. Different, but the theme is the same - sadness for what is gone.
One time Shpalikov wrote songs for films.
The song from the film "Colleagues" is considered a student song, everyone forgot about the author. About Shpalikov.
“Oh, deck, deck, / You rock me, / You are my longing, deck, / - Split on the pier.”
A song from the movie "I'm walking around Moscow" roared all over the country. “Everything in the world is good, / You won’t immediately understand what’s the matter ...” Hearing the song, Nikita Mikhalkov appears rather, but not the writer who remained in the shadows. He wrote a sunny-voiced, joyful song, without age, which became legendary, included in the anthology of modern songs!
Shpalikov lived and lived in the same way as the others, walked the same streets, but he saw what others did not notice, more precisely, what they did not attach importance to. With his poetic soul, he saw and felt what others did not pay attention to. A walk around Moscow gives birth to poems:
“Pushkin once lived here,
Pushkin was friends with Vyazemsky,
Grieved, lay in bed,
He said that he caught a cold ... ".
Shpalikov was looking for a way out of the current impasse:
“... Everything was festive and quiet
Both in the sky and on the water
I was looking for a similar way out during the day
And I couldn't find it anywhere."
And below are the words of Todorovsky, who did not perceive the voiceless Shpalikov in any way.
“At first, I didn’t really listen to his poems. And his melodies were the same, unpretentious ... So at first in our company they didn’t perceive him as some kind of serious bard, like, say, Bulat. It seemed, well yes, he writes some songs, writes for himself, and then, when I read it, when I listened, I realized what a serious wonderful poet he was.
I must say that when I suddenly came across these lines from him - "Rio Rita", "Rio Rita", a foxtrot is spinning, on the dance floor forty-first year "- I just trembled, I realized that my film (I shot "Military Field Romance") without these words will lose something very much or not find something ... It's amazing that this song, such a light stylization, it seems, in the end became not just a song became part of the dramaturgy of our film. I performed it myself. They sometimes say to me: this is your song, it seems that Todorovsky wrote this song. The most amazing thing is that Genka Shpalikov was four years old in the forty-first year! .. I don’t know how he remembered this summer day many years later - I remember this crazy time, how we ran around these squares, gardens, with guitars , pulled the girls by the braids, not at all feeling that these terrible four years of war were advancing on us ... And this four-year-old boy remembered in these stanzas - “a provincial town, summer heat” - accurately described this atmosphere, this carelessness, this irresponsibility, this lack of understanding of what is about to happen...
Farewell, Garden Ring!
I'm going down, I'm going down...
And on the high porch
I rise from someone else's house.
Strangers will open
Foreign doors with mistrust
And we'll measure, we'll celebrate
And every breath and every look.
Farewell, Garden Ring!
The last minute has come.
Already I pulled the ring
From the reserve parachute.
... And fear nothing
Floating in searchlight smoke.
I'm going down, going down
And I can't get down...
Farewell, Garden Ring!
A scarf draped over the shoulders...
I see a sad face
I hear fiery speeches.
And we're not to blame
We just dropped by...
Like those homeless soldiers
Who are looking for shelter in the yards.
So, having said goodbye to poetry for a long time, he went into the loop on November 1, 1974, independently stopping his life at the number 37.
People are only lost once
And if they lose, they don't find it.
And the person is visiting you,
Says goodbye - and leaves into the night.
And if he leaves during the day,
He still leaves you.
Let's bring it back
As long as he crosses the square!
Let's bring it back now
Let's talk and set the table
Turn the whole house upside down
And we will arrange a holiday for him.
Nobody returned it. Homeless.
***
"I don't believe in God or hell
Not for good, not for Satan
And I believe implicitly
To this stupid country.

The more ridiculous she is, the closer
She is either conscience, or delirium,
But I see, I see, I see
It's like a self-portrait."
The generation that was born in the war knew and saw everyone, at the present time, legendary poets, bards, just wonderful people who left their mark on the culture of a vast and powerful country in terms of potential. They were clamped down, and they sang, created, burned. Once I read or listened to Huberman's memoirs about one of his friends, at whose lecture a student said
-Well, all of you! - sixties - sixties what was the use of them?
- And the good thing is that you can now be so young and arrogant, you can say whatever you want to say with impunity. (I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the phrases, but the meaning is exactly the same. That they were pioneers, rebels, that they did not want to obey the oppressive party-government colossus, and paid with their lives, family well-being, career, so that the next generation would live easier.
Valechka, thank you for remembering him with the line "by misfortune or fortunately ..." So much is stored in the memory, you just need to pull it out into the light of day and shake it out, knock out the dust, examine it carefully. And you remembered just before his birthday in September ... Maybe he knocked from there into our memory, sprouted so that we - people who did not know him - remembered and remembered?
The monument to Gennady Shpalikov stands at the entrance to VGIK. Even cast in bronze, he is so charming, with his soul wide open ...
Judging by the photographs, he Beautiful face- open and slightly unprotected. And as I wrote in your status, it seems to me that, like many orphans of the war, they did not like him, did not caress him, his soul became bored, never getting stronger. Therefore, he could not stand it and considered the noose his salvation. He was also given to Suvorov School, where the same wounded children were collected after the war. He was expelled due to a leg wound that he received during the exercises. There are many reasons that led him to this outcome. It's a pity