Vera inber biography. Vera Inber: biography and creative activity. Kiss for the last time
Your hands smell like orange.
On the screen - far edges.
And on the way, exciting and long,
Everywhere together, everywhere you and I.
For the first time I see the waters of the Nile.
How great he is, wondrous and distant!
You know if you loved me
I would burn like an ember.
Light and noise. Eyes hurt from the light...
I will drink black coffee at home,
Think you're laughing somewhere
And you can't love me.
The days go by like clockwork...
The days will pass quickly, like hours,
The days will pass like hours.
Blue rails will lay down from Moscow to Shanxi,
From Moscow to Shanxi.
And a white-winged scarf will flash over the platform,
The train will fly in a green whirlwind to the east,
Take it to the east...
The rails will double, running forward,
flying forward,
To the Chinese border from the Moscow gates,
From the Nikitsky gates.
He will sing, he will yearn the wheel for the wheel ...
I'll take your image with a kiss,
I'll take it with me.
The roll call of locomotive meetings will rattle,
Steam meeting.
An unusual foreign speech will sound,
Very strange speech
And through the slanting jets I'll change my mind again:
Beyond the cordon Russia, beyond the cordon love,
Love behind the cordon...
Vaska whistle in a binder
1. What happened in the pub
Oddly enough, but the roach was
(And even quite a long time)
A living fish that swam
Down the mother along the Volga.
And peas grew along the steppe villages
And curl each
Drank the rain as it walked
Otherwise, he was dying of thirst.
They have a different life
And you should eat them differently.
And to beer in all pubs
They are served together.
And the vobla listens - they sing
About the Volga, her homeland,
And the peas are watching - people are drinking,
As he himself drank during his lifetime.
Vobla eats and chews peas
Vaska Whistle, well done and grip.
Black leggings, Dobrolet in the buttonhole,
In the mouth of a Dukat cigarette.
Suddenly the pea became lumpy
In the throat of Vaska Svist:
In a cap with a visor,
Card, beauty -
Came in as if to rest
(No one entered with her)
And calmly says so: "Someone,
Wipe this table for me."
"Someone" in a dirty apron wiped the table,
She sat down against the wall.
Vaska Svist looks at her point-blank,
And she at least henna.
A guitar specialist climbed onto the stage,
Jin-jinka so and so.
Carrying crayfish delicacy:
Forty kopecks cancer.
Vaska Whistle looks at the next table
And, entangled in guitar playing,
Takes two crayfish on credit, -
One, by the way, with caviar.
Vaska Whistle, although simple in appearance,
But he understands people.
He takes cancer by the scarlet tail
And, like a rose, he brings it to her.
Rise, guitar, on a subtle note.
Vaska Whistle, melting love:
Why, he says, don't you drink,
You are my citizen.
And now there are two people at the table.
Ah, the pen is a living magnet.
Ah, the cap, why is it so cleverly tailored,
Why is he so tightly sewn.
And vobla, fish eyes narrowed,
Listening for an hour
What does the wool cap say?
And that cigarette Dukat.
Kartuzik whispers: - Make up your mind at once.
You seem to be like that.
Cut glass with a diamond -
A couple of rubbish.
Zashibesh, he says, cool,
Get your wallets ready.
You, he says, will take, he says, for himself, he says, the cashier.
And, he says, my, he says, love.
Ringing, crumbling string fret,
Pea talk.
Out the door of the cigarette Dukat,
And next to it is a visor.
2. What the policeman said to his boss
Leg hurts badly. per chair
Thank you, Comrade Chief.
I stand at my post
And my post is far away.
I'm fine. Whistle in hand.
There are no incidents. The moon is here.
(At this time in the birch forest
How the nightingales sing!
Suddenly I see: coming from the corner
(And I never drank)
The woman in which the mother gave birth.
Capi on the head.
About twenty years old.
Well, I think though...
And she: "Yashenka, don't whistle," -
Hand, comrade chief, shakes,
The girl is first class.
Eh, I think, damn.
I take two steps.
Suddenly, I hear the glass - clinking ...
Threw the girl, grabbed the revolver,
Eh, I think you're stupid.
Rushed for firewood.
Here, somewhere, I think.
He is a shot. I am two.
He's in my foot. I'm in his chest.
His work is weak.
I, though I am whole,
Guilty of being a babu
I didn't foresee.
3. What the doctor on duty said at the hospital
Pulse one hundred and twenty.
The heart sac is affected.
Starts to choke
Inject this.
Too early to bury
It's too late to heal.
Gunshot wound.
The position is serious.
4. What Vaska Svist said before his death
She looked with brown eyes.
"You seem to be:
Cut glass with a diamond -
A couple of rubbish."
As for boxing -
Of course I'm on my way
Why did I lay down
When should you run?
Get out slowly
Don't stumble like me.
Give me a pen for happiness
My golden.
What is her name?
Who is this?.. Stop!..
Eight hryvnia
I have to go to the pub.
Lid. Killed.
The main thing - burns
You are bad, Vasily,
Got a bind...
5. What was written in the newspaper
Warehouse robbery (petit),
Considered in advance.
Product found.
The robber is killed.
The policeman is wounded.
Wave without foam. Sun without fire...
Wave without foam. Sun without fire.
Hares in a wet meadow.
How alien to me, southerner,
How strange for me.
At a loss, I honor the spring of a stranger
I do not understand beauty:
Shameful flowering needles
And the dawns are pale as honeycombs.
But how it torments and gnaws me
Dream of a sky blue blue!
And northern spring in my soul
There is no consonance and there cannot be.
Anniversary of October
Even for the reddest word
I'm not trying to pretend.
Our memory is harsh
Incorruptible organization.
Keeps records without pen and ink
Everything that has ever happened.
She only remembers what happened
Not what you would like.
For example, I would like to remember
How I defended the Revolutionary Committee in October
With a revolver in a shot through leather jacket.
And I, leaning on my elbow on the sofa,
She wrote poems on Ostozhenka.
I wrote with a lyrical-delicate pen.
I breathed calmly and evenly,
L around, fighting off the junkers,
Khamovniki proceeded in battles.
I would like to remember the gunpowder
Smoke on Mokhovaya Street,
Near the university.
Feeling the mortal flight of lead,
Like a fighter and a fighter's wife,
Fight for the power of the Soviets,
Despite the flimsy growth,
Go to reconnaissance on the Crimean bridge.
But the memory keeps saying only one thing:
"You don't remember that, my friend."
History went straight across the country,
Every moment was full of meaning
This will not happen again.
And I learned about it from books
Or according to eyewitnesses.
And I drowned in the days of October
In verbal sewing and cutting.
Well then! The mistake is not only mine,
But my social stratum.
If it were possible, then I
I would redo
Many days of my being
Naturally and planned.
To break through this once and for all
layering of facts,
I would advertise in the paper
If the editor would allow:
“I change cozy, bright, warm,
Harmonious past with a bath -
To a cramped basement with scrofulous glass,
To the neighborhood of a drunken harmonica.
I change. I cry in pain.
But everyone, of course, answered: “I don’t want to.”
Paphos is not peculiar to me by nature.
A storm of gestures. Tousled hair.
I think it comes out
And now in the midst of the song cycle,
Caused by the pathos of celebrations,
Unfortunately, weak, as I used to
But don't be loud, right?
I won't say that maybe
The poet also has achievements,
Which ones are worth talking about?
He (the poet) who reluctantly
Broke away from the former head,
He, who in the days of the revolution
With revolutions was on "you",
He, who, torn out on a grand scale
From their inviolable walls,
Was subject to fear of death, fear
Life, fear of change -
He is now, although he is no longer young
And only a third of life remained,
Feels less life cold
And not so afraid to die.
And he almost doesn't know
Fear of the last boundary.
This is a poetic victory
Above your old soul.
And, living and brighter and fuller,
The one I'm talking about now
It's the best he has
Gives October today.
It contains everything: rye stripes...
It contains everything: rye stripes,
Mountains, waters, winds, clouds -
On the earth's surface Russia
It occupies half the mainland.
A quarter of the day drives the light of the evening
The sun, to part with it slowly,
Closes in the circle of his provinces
From the Kyrgyz hordes to the Latvian.
Near and far neighbors
They knew how her carts creaked.
Everything was from platinum to copper,
There was everything: from cedar to vines.
Long century and tore and threw,
Expanded the hoops of borders,
Like a tigress's lair - changed
Location of capitals.
And rushing from the Crimea to China
In the paws of a double-headed eagle,
Yellow king ermine
Damn tails tore.
And now the naked flies under the sky,
Twice scorched by a thunderstorm,
Poor in gold and bread,
Poor and cedar and vine,
But full of other meanings
endured some terrible judgment.
And the hour will come - Russia again
The first of the first will be called.
Ready for everything under the stars
His turn.
And the time of melting snow
And the clouds of May on the granite
Shed sorrow.
And the moonbeam will turn silver
And the water will smell
And another splash
And I'll leave, as always,
And we will part, my light,
My love,
And meet you or not
Girl from Nagasaki
He is a cabin boy, his homeland is Marseille,
He loves quarrels, abuse and fights,
He smokes a pipe, drinks the strongest ale
And he loves a girl from Nagasaki.
She has such small breasts
She has tattoos...
But now the cabin boy goes on a long journey,
After breaking up with a girl from Nagasaki...
He arrived. Hurry, barely breathing
And he finds out that the gentleman in a tailcoat
One evening, after eating hashish,
Stabbed a girl from Nagasaki.
The day is over... there is nothing to do...
The day is over... there is nothing to do...
Evening snowy blue...
Nice cozy evening
We are talking to you...
Chizh angrily hammers a perch,
Like the cage is short...
The cat stuck out its muzzle
From under a warm scarf...
“So tomorrow will be a holiday?”
"Holiday, Jeanne, they say!"
"Doesn't matter! Who cares!
Just give me chocolate!”
“Everything will be, my little boy!
There will even be a snowball...
You know, a cook in an old felt boot
I saw a mouse in the morning!
"Mum! You are always a prankster!
I am not a boy! I'm a daughter!"
"It doesn't matter, what's the difference!
Sleep my boy, the night is coming soon...
Home, home!
starling father,
Starling Mother
And young starlings
Sat one evening
And straightened feathers.
Birch heads bowed
Above the mirror of the pond
Air round dance of dragonflies
He was cheerful as always.
And a squirrel with a fiery tail
Flashed in a dense spruce forest.
"Isn't it time for the kids to sleep?"
The starling said to his wife.—
We need to talk
Alone with you."
And the oldest of the chicks
There was an argument:
"We also want in the end
Listen to the conversation."
And the younger ones behind him: “Yes, yes,
That's how it's always been, that's how it's always been."
But the mother replied:
"Wash paws, and - in the nest!"
When everything around was quiet,
The starling asked his wife:
"Did you hear the thunder today?"
The wife said, "Well?" —
"So know that this is not a thunderstorm,
And what - I do not understand.
Burning green forests
The river is in smoke.
Look, over there from behind the branches,
Already fire and smoke.
South to save the children
We're flying tomorrow."
The wife said: “How south?
They are only at school.
They are under the wings, my friend,
Rub your calluses.
They flew, well, five times
And only to the gate.
I just started explaining
Im a left turn.
Don't rush them, wait.
We'll fly south
When the autumn rains
They'll start their knock-knock."
And yet in the morning, come what may,
The starling decided: "It's time!"
The squirrel waved: “Good luck,
Break a leg!"
And here on their wings
The chicks are on their way.
The father encourages them:
“Fly, son, fly.
And nothing that the wind is cool.
And the sea is not a problem.
It is like our favorite pond,
The same water.
Bolder, daughter, wider chest.
“Oh, dad, we should rest!” -
Mother intervened:
"Do not Cry,
We'll rest on the mast.
Get down. Left turn.
Just below us is a steamer,
I recognize him."
But it was a military bot,
He fired in battle.
He hit the enemy ships
Without rest and sleep
Behind him seethed on the heels
hot wave.
"I'm burning, save me!" —
One chick screamed.
He was licked by the tongue of fire,
And that was the end.
"My boy," sobbed the mother
"My son," his father whispered.
And again the flight link,
In fire breaks,
Flies, having lost one,
Saving the rest.
And finally towards them
spread out in an arc,
Beyond the golden coast
Oasis blue.
Birds flew there
From all corners of the earth:
french tits,
Belgian Goldfinches,
norwegian loons,
Dutch dives.
Forty pairs are crackling,
Doves coo.
We managed to catch our breath
From guns and loopholes.
They look - do not look enough
On the local birds of paradise.
One, with a pearl tuft,
On a pink leg
The whole is reflected
In azure water.
The other is floating in the air
Ready to dive
And burns with pure gold
Orange chest.
And the third, light as fluff,
And blue as the night
Mimicked these two
And flew away.
Fruits, their spicy aroma,
An abundance of sweets -
All this is a real treasure.
For northern guests.
But every day it gets quieter
Their twitter is getting weaker.
On a tiled roof
The sparrow is yearning.
Forty cried,
What she can't bear
That the wind is here - sirocco -
Spreads the spirit.
The kingfisher echoes her:
“I'm not used to the heat.
And how bitter
Sugarcane for me."
And killer whales
Flying without landing
Everybody's looking all day
Well and wattle.
And the blessed south became
Look like a prison to everyone.
More and more often heard around:
"We want to go home, go home!"—
“Home, to all predators for evil!”—
The crane proclaimed.—
Who is in favor, please raise the wing.
And as if they were blown by the wind,
Hundreds of wings took off.
And towards the native borders,
On the straight road
A cloud of birds under the clouds
She lay down on the course - home.
And the Moscow region starlings,
familiar family,
What have become good fellows
And daughter and sons.
How easy it is for them to overcome
And wind and wet.
How they honor their father and mother,
Those who have grown old.
“Look, mother, there is a ship,
And dad will rest.”—
“Attention,” ordered the crane,
Scouts, forward!
And they brought the cuckoos
What is the helmsman's oar
And that cannon covers
Head covered.
The enemy is invisible
Silence everywhere.
And, apparently, in the world
The war is over.
And started to sit
For hard cases:
french tits,
Belgian Goldfinches.
happy chirping
And the voices are countless.
Chirping goodbye
Promise to each other
“Let's write. There are feathers!
And the bird's choir scattered
On many roads.
But a long battle battleship
I couldn't forget him.
He listened to everything, straining his ears,
I looked at the clouds
And everything sat down light fluff
On a sailor's jacket.
It was still cold
In all its glory.
More white wires
Mozhayskoye highway.
One Newbie Snowdrop
I thought about getting up
Already lifted the cap
And hid again.
In shaggy hoarfrost
Centennial pine.
And yet somewhere under the ice
Spring is already murmuring.
White caps from the trees
It's about to fall.
“We are at home,” the starlings say,
We won't freeze here."
They fly over the mirror of the pond,
Where the dawn is reflected.
What if the starling house is busy?
And suddenly there is no starling?
But the blue-tailed squirrel
Waved in a dense spruce forest:
“Hello friends, hello!
How did you arrive? How are you?
I saved your apartment
I made repairs there.
Live in it for a hundred years ... "
Washed from head to toe
The old starlings sat down
In the dungeon on the threshold,
They said: "We are no longer singers,
And you sing, son."
Another shy youngster
At first everything was timid,
whistled. And finally
Having tuned in, he sang.
About whichever way
Wherever they lead
But in the whole world not to be found
Miles of native land.
It flowed like a stream
Like it was April
Like a little bow
Making a trill.
She's from the bottom of my heart
Easily flowed into the air.
How good are these songs?
And what a beautiful world!
Soul tired of passion
From solar storms and bliss,
Expensive easy happiness
Happiness is the quietest snow.
Happiness that is barely
Throws starlight;
Easy happiness, harder
Which is not.
Another parting
Above the forest banks
There is no night and no.
Like water with wine, on the Kama
Northern dawn.
And on deep gold -
How easy are
Like the blood of a pigeon
Light strokes.
And in Moscow about this time,
Between the square walls
They talk on the phone
Listen to Carmen.
And they don't know, they're busy
Sitting outside the doors
What golden nights
Found in Perm.
I'll sit in the green Pullman:
"Don't be sad buddy."
Suddenly, like a bullet
The horn will fly.
Eagerly looking at one point,
I'll stick to the window.
I am a cambric handkerchief
I wave from the window.
And the wheels (here's the work)
Mumble to the beat:
"Something, something, something, something,
Something's not right here."
Well, goodbye! It's past and will be.
What do we care about wheels.
We are not the same people
To be sad to tears.
You and I know both
(That's the whole point)
What is special for everyone
Your own separate path.
Well, goodbye! I wave a handkerchief
Quiet heartbeat.
Everything is more foggy, less dot.
Dot. And the end.
Yellower leaves. The days are shorter
(It's already dark by six o'clock)
And so fresh raw nights
That you need to close the window.
Schoolchildren have long lessons
The rains are floating like an oblique wall,
Only sometimes in the sun
Still cozy like spring.
The hostesses zealously prepare for the future
Mushrooms and cucumbers,
And apples are fresh-ruddy,
How cute are your cheeks.
Smile before sleep
But still full of love, like an ear
But I'm still leaning. passing by
Go away, go away, don't come back again:
Still strong in me, still irresistible
1919, Odessa
Volleys of Victory
Streets, fences, parapets,
Crowds... Crowds... Spire overhead
Northern Lights of Victory
The sky over the Neva lit up.
The thunder of guns, but not the roar of battle.
Faces... Faces... Eye expression.
Happiness... Joy... Experience this
The heart can only be used once.
Glory to you who are in battle
Defended the banks of the Neva.
Leningrad, unaware of defeat,
You have lit up with new light.
Glory to you, great city,
Merged front and rear.
In unprecedented difficulties
Survived. Fought. Won.
1944, Leningrad
about war
How sweet it is to live a happy life...
How sweet, having lived a happy life,
Having experienced work and rest, heat and shadow,
Fall into dust like a ripe olive
On an autumn day.
Mix with the leaves... Dissolve forever
In the autumn clarity of lands and waters.
And only a memory, like a bird,
Let him sing about me.
The book smells...
The book smells like perfume
Or the words themselves smell.
I would love to be with you.
I'm alone. Headache.
From light touches of migraine
In the ears and whisper, and ringing.
And the evening is quite autumn.
And the evening is in love with me.
He has musical fingers.
He plays on the glass of the window.
He plays and drops fall
Like tears, on old fingers.
Where are you? What do you? Are you a knight? Is it a slave?
I'm in love again today.
He was powdered and in makeup.
He told me, standing at the backstage:
I recently heard your name
One of our actresses
Biting your red hair
I asked: - Yes? So what?
You don't look like yourself at all.
Workers, interfering with us,
They dragged cardboard rocks.
I thought you were big
And you are a small child.
And he went to the stage, waiting for a sign,
And I didn't know
Laugh me or cry.
The rays of noon are burning heavily.
I enter the sea, and in the sea wave
My knees are turning brown,
Like apples in the grass
I breathe and dissolve in the watery bosom,
I lie at the bottom, like a ball of sunshine,
And shells of scarlet palms
They grow into unyielding sand.
Trembling and melting, boats float by.
How sweet is the life of the sea!
Like hard and slow waves
They pump my light body!
Thus passes the marvelous hour of bathing,
And turned cold as the moon
Warm touches are pleasant on the shoulder
Heated midday canvas.
Months separated us
I don't even know where you are
What snow or dust
They cover your tracks.
Big city or just a house
Close your being
And do you remember or don't you remember
My very name?
There are many ways close and far...
There are many ways near and far,
You reject all paths.
And to you from my sad eyes
I don't spoil you with a smile
Rarely-rarely I will give a kiss,
But you won't love another
You know yourself.
Through your days and nights too
I pass like a fiery thread.
You say: "It's hard, oh my God,
So love."
I'm ready to burn every hour,
To be on fire from morning until dark
If only to love, albeit in vain,
Moscow in Norway
Cloud coloring
He talks about winter.
It smells of moisture and pine needles,
Like we have near Moscow.
Moss lies under the pine
Like we have near Moscow.
Everything is like at home
And very familiar.
Only the air is not the same
The atmosphere is not
And because of this, people are different,
Only people are not the same as ours,
Not the same, my dears.
Dear friends, I wrote more than once,
That separation is a big burden.
That separation is a snake.
And indeed I
Should not leave the Union.
Abroad, only the first days are easy,
The shop counter is dressed up.
(How good
These pencils
These pens and these notebooks!)
And what cities are there! For example,
Old Bergen, which is not without reason
(Every decent guide will tell you this)
Famous
Your fish market.
Blue mackerel, golden cod
In the cold crimson dawn.
I looked at the fish
And in the heart of longing
Suddenly glared at me with a fishing hook.
I remembered clearly: in a basket, in a bucket,
Spreading the fins of the tip,
The same white mackerel with blue stripes,
They just called her "mackerel".
And what a wonderful youth it was
In those hours on the sand under the mountain!
And what a great life lay
Between this and that mackerel!
And sadness about the vanished beauty of days
Slashed me like a knife.
And I thought: “There is nothing sadder
Loneliness abroad.
I just see: it’s standing by the fish row,
Putting your mitten on your thigh,
In boots and canvas, back visor,
Well, exactly the same boy
From the subway.
I involuntarily exclaimed: “Oh, you,
What mine did he come out of?
He speaks to me in Norwegian (and I don't goog),
In a different way, I see, not too much.
Do you really think I can't
Talk to this guy?
And, having taken out a notebook, so that he could see.
On the counter under the fish canopy
I draw an oval of the native sea
And I write in Latin "Odessa".
And then the boy on a foreign shore
Smiling at me like a fisherman to a fisherman.
The boy smiles at me from the heart,
He takes the pencil from me.
(How good
These pencils
If someone of ours is holding them!)
It prints out the familiar word "Moskwa".
And from this word - rays.
(How good it is that other words
Even in distant lands it's hot!)
He welcomes the Union at this moment,
He looks good and serious.
And, tearing off his mitten and throwing off his cap,
He shakes my hand to tears.
It's good that we lose rights to sadness
And that, no matter how far away,
Man with amazing word "Moscow"
Nowhere is alone.
To the motive of a folk song
I traveled all over the universe
I admired the brilliance of all the luminaries.
And the clouds were not a hindrance to me,
The thunder didn't bother me either.
Lightning once between the fingers
I slipped randomly.
And comets, eternal wanderers,
They shouted to me: "Hello and goodbye!"
I visited the rainbow under the roof,
I approached the sun borders.
I saw how in a downy cloud
The newborn lay for a month.
From end to end, along stellar milestones,
I even went around the Milky Way...
I traveled all over the universe
But he did not find a second Russia.
Over me, love hung in a cloud,
Darkened the days
Do not torment me with your tenderness,
Do not caress.
Go away, let the tear get in the way
Look after.
Go away, let the soul not know
Whether you were or not.
Parting, kiss, cry,
Clear eyes.
The dust will curl in a column, not otherwise
Like a thunderstorm
Rye in the field.
You won't understand.
An hour later on a bucket of gold
The neighbor will look out
And trample with a rough foot
Sweet trail.
Our biography
My good horse
named Pegasus,
You are right here, just a little
I'll give you an order.
If it were not for this, trouble -
I would like to walk.
And only rarely, sometimes,
You say to me silently:
"Mistress, wait a little,
Let me take a break.
Unbearable belts
My chest was pounded.
I didn't know the paths.
I got stuck.
Climbing the slopes,
I'm a poacher."
Pegashka, my faithful horse,
friend of my heart,
So that you couldn’t do anything.—
It can't be.
Your tested agility
An example for other horses.
Come on ... we must repeat
And take that barrier over there...
But you have to think, somehow
There will come a day like this
When you succeed, my poor man,
Let us rest.
Leaving poor shelter
unpretentious belongings,
Let's take the last ditch with you,
Our last scarp.
Let's jump over the plateau
And there is a stream and a meadow,
Where will we drink
Calm, my friend.
ancient knight landscape,
Shelter for weary souls;
Who will come to such a whim -
Look for such wilderness!
We live, not rushing days,
Calm soul.
I rarely worry about you
The walk is small.
But chu! .. Because of the ring of forests
Came to our shelter
Some sound, some call
And you are right here.
"Mistress, hurry up!
It's getting dark. The path is far.
Let's try the lynx first,
And then we'll go into a gallop."
And again, young, as of old,
We fly, taking the barrier.
Burning above us like amber
Sunset dawn...
And so, until it goes out
This evening light
We are inseparable, my Pegasus,
And we have no rest.
All the same way, all the same shelter,
For joy stingy.
And so - while the grave ditch
We will not be taken with you.
winner
Snow, off-road, hot dust, dry wind.
Minefield, attack, lead blizzard -
I experienced everything, in my marching overcoat,
You are a fighting friend.
You left with your factory to the Urals.
She left her house, never crying about it.
Women's hands were surprised by the hot metal,
But obeyed, however.
We are winners. The cannon roar subsided.
The time of heavy military care has passed.
You remembered that, in addition to male professions,
First of all, you are a woman.
March sunny day. blue drops
Sharpens an icy loophole under the roof.
The room is quiet and light. Against the wall - a cradle
Under the snow-white muslin.
A sleepy baby hugged a soft pillow.
The gentle sun shines through the golden hair.
Raising your hand, you whisper: "Please ... shhh,
Don't wake the baby."
Kiss one last...
Kiss for the last time
Hands and mouth.
You will leave, I will leave -
To different places.
And between us (the bluer,
How far are you)
Spread like snakes
Mountain ranges.
And beyond the Russian border
Breaking the run
Pigtails are scattered
White rivers.
And from northern life
Rushing down
You will not eat our life,
And someone else's maize.
And when, and a bit sleepy,
You fall asleep in the dark
There will be a difference of half a day
On my watch.
Evil mosquitoes will fly
The storm will blow
Kiss you oblique
Black eyes.
And at least hugged thousands
Girls, loving
You won't find another like this
couples for themselves.
And sailing to other lands
By sea water
You are the second such Russia
You won't find it anywhere.
Monument project
We will give Krasnaya Presnya the floor,
We will extend the regulations for the Lenin Hills,
Where does all of Moscow come from, in beauty and glory,
Open to the sun, stars and winds.
Stations are indignant: what is the reason?
Requests the area: how should it be,
To honor with monumental marble?
In Sokolniki there is one cherished clearing,
Where Lenin was at the children's Christmas tree,
For a long time he has been asking for a monument,
The trees are all rustling about it.
But there is another opinion...
Perhaps not in Sokolniki, but here,
In front of the Bolshoi Theater, where in the spring
So touching apple trees bloom.
So that the past is resurrected before us
(It will never die anyway)
Let, sitting on a chair or on an armchair,
Ilyich leafs through a bronze notebook.
Not up there, not in the distance,
Against the background of clouds and bird wings,
And next to us. Here ... During Lenin's lifetime,
We know, he did not like to rise.
Let there be a monument of such growth,
To have a child of five years old
Without mom, I could just reach
And put flowers at his feet.
Cooler would be blood and fins would be a couple,
And my path would be straight.
I would swim around the whole globe
Along rivers and seas.
The browless eye of a deep-sea fish,
Both tail and scales...
No one in the world, even you would,
Didn't guess it was me.
In a stone pierced by water and salt
I would wait out the underwater darkness,
And through the wave the moon would seem to me
Similar to a lighthouse.
I would be just as weak there,
Like here from the hustle and bustle.
But crabs would be kinder to me,
Than you.
And may God save, worrying the seas,
you in your ways,
And would let me end my earthly life
in your networks.
Five nights and days
(on the death of Lenin)
And before you hide in the grave
Forever from living people
In the Hall of Columns they put
Him for five nights and days...
And the crowds of people flowed
Carrying the banners ahead
To look at the yellow profile
And a red order on his chest.
Tekli. And the frost over the earth
She was so fierce
As if he took with him
Part of our warmth.
And five nights in Moscow did not sleep
Because he fell asleep.
And was solemnly sad
Moon honor guard.
Parting, kissing, crying...
Parting, kiss, cry,
Clear eyes.
The dust will curl in a column, not otherwise,
Like a thunderstorm
Thunder booms. Whisper like a living
Rye in the field.
Where is the tear, where is the raindrop -
You won't understand.
An hour later on a bucket of gold
The neighbor will look out
And trample with a rough foot
Sweet trail.
Holy war
From Russian villages to the Czech railway station,
From the Crimean mountains to the Libyan deserts,
So that the spider's paw does not crawl
On the marble of human shrines,
Rid the world, the planet from the plague -
That's humanism! And we are humanists.
And if you, Germany, the country
Philosophers, abode of musicians,
Your titans, geniuses, talents
Having betrayed the names,
Prolong bloody Hitler's nonsense -
Then you have no forgiveness.
Apartment is listed for rent
Once I advertised
“Apartment for rent with separate
Gate.
Peace, silence. Garden
Water. Lighting.
First floor".
Barely appeared in the forest
Announcement,
Immediately around began
Animation.
Many responded.
From your tower
In a work suit
The ant came down.
Elegant, in feathers, appeared
amphibious (this is
Came with a tadpole
(Nimble kid!)
Then flew in
Bat.
And there is a firefly -
The hour was not early
Crawled to the apartment
This assembly
And even brought, so as not to stray
green light bulb in a quarter
Sit in a circle. in the middle
And then the real began
What, they say, and the room
Only one.
And how is it like this:
Why no window?
"And where is the water?" —
The frog was surprised.
"Where is the nursery?" —
The cuckoo asked.
"Where's the lighting?"
A firefly flared up.—
I walk at night
I need a lighthouse."
Bat
She shook her head.
"I need an attic,
On the ground I feel uncomfortable.”—
We need a basement
The ant retorted,
Basement or cellar
With ten doors.
And everyone returning
To your own home,
I thought: "The second such
You won't find it!"
And even a snail
She felt fresh
She exclaimed:
"How good I am!"
And only a cuckoo
homeless bird,
Still in the nests of strangers
It's knocking.
She will knock on you
At your door
“Need, they say, an apartment!”
But you don't believe her.
Setter Jack
A dog's heart is arranged like this:
Loved - so forever!
Was a nice fellow and not a fool
Irish Setter Jack.
As expected, he was red,
On the paws overgrown with fringe,
Cats and cats of the surrounding roofs
They called it the plague.
Oilcloth nose rummaged in the grass,
He sniffed out wet soil;
Ears hung like suede
And each weighed a pound.
About all the dog stuff
Conscience was clear.
Jack loved and pitied the owner,
That he doesn't have a tail.
First time at the airport
He came in winter, in the snow.
The owner said: "Not now, later
You will fly too, Jack!
The biplane kicked up snow dust,
Jack has legs apart:
"If it's a car,
How did it get up?"
But then Jack's spirit froze:
The owner soared over the people.
Jack said, "One of the two -
Stay or take!"
But his master climbed higher and higher,
Chirping like a dragonfly.
Jack watched and the water of heaven
Filled his eyes.
People not caring about the dog
They fumbled around the cars.
Jack thought: "Why all
If you need one?
It's been an endless number of years
(On the clock fifteen minutes),
A flying object sat in the snow,
The owner was back...
They came in the spring. air jetty
It was sunless gray.
The owner put on a helmet and said:
"Sit down too, sir!"
Jack sighed, scratched his side,
Sat down, licked his lips, and go!
I looked down and could no longer, -
Such horror struck.
"The earth runs away from me like this,
Like I'm going to eat it.
Humans are not bigger than dogs
And you can't see the dogs at all."
The owner laughs. Jack is confused
And thinks: “I am a pig:
If he can
So I can too."
After that it became calmer
And, squealing slightly,
Only frantically yawned
And barked at the clouds.
The sun still hidden
Warmed one wing.
But why did the engine choke?
But what happened?
But why is the earth again
Got so close?
But why did she start to tremble
Leather hand?
The wind whistled, howled, sec
With tear-filled eyes.
The owner shouted: "Jump, Jack,
Because... you see for yourself!”
But Jack, leaning his head against him
And I'm trembling all over,
I managed to say: "My lord,
I'll stay here..."
On the ground already half dead nose
Put Jack on the corpse
And the people said: "There was a dog,
And he died like a man.
Stingy in the last quarter of the moon.
It rises unkindly, the dawn is persecuted,
But with no moon can be compared
Autumn starry night depth.
The wind doesn't blow. Leaves do not rustle.
Silence stands like heat.
The Milky Way makes me dizzy
As if from the abyss under the foot.
Not heard by anyone, a star rushes by,
Crossing the path of earthly sight.
And the sound from the dark depths of the garden is terrible,
Broadcasting the fall of the fruit.
My life goes by too fast...
My life goes by too fast
Thinning forest edge,
And I - this is the same me -
I'll be a white old woman soon.
And in the living room of my daughter Jeanne,
Dressed in old fashion
I will speak slowly and at length
About nine hundred and seventeen.
Noisy young tribe
Will whisper with my son-in-law:
Grandmother ... in due time
She wrote poetry ... even with yat.
Down a quiet, quiet lane
At sunset, when the sky is golden,
I will go for a walk
In a warm scarf and foxes.
You will guide me lovingly and courteously
And you say: - It's damp again. Here is grief!
And for a long time we will look from the cliff
On red leaves and blue sea.
Centipedes
At the centipede
The crumbs were born.
What an admiration
Joy without end!
These children are right
Poured Mom:
Same expression
Sweet face.
And it's worth it
centipede house,
diapers dry,
The pie is fried
And they're fine
Thirty-three beds
In each for a child,
Each has forty legs.
Dad is friends with them.
All day at work
And when will he return
In a warm corner
Everyone plays hide and seek
Dolls and horses
laughing merrily
The centipede himself
Everything grows in the world -
The children also grew up.
A mob is worn
In the morning.
mother centipede,
Digging a little,
Says: "It's time for you
Back to school, kids."
But go to school
Impossible to be naked
agreed with this
Dad - so what?
Mom said:
"Count first.
How many of our children
We need galoshes."
For such work
Dad took out the abacus.
“Hush, children, hush!
Dad took off his coat.
If each leg
Need a goblet
That's for all the kids
How many pieces are these?
"Three times forty-eight,
We carry nine
It will be two hundred
Yes, one in the mind ... "
The stove has gone
Burned out candle
Mom and dad together
The score is kept in the dark.
And when is the sun
Looked in the window
I wanted tea
But the mother said:
"Too many legs
In centipedes.
I'm exhausted."
And she went for a walk.
He sees - it's quiet in a puddle
The stork is dozing,
Nearby - a stork
On one leg.
Mother said crying:
"Storks luck -
What a child
I would need!
Too many legs
Down on the lip.
And yet, never
Without stepping foot
Sleep, my gray-eyed boy,
Dear bunny...
Sticking colored stamps
Letters on the side
Son me pictures and gifts
Flying from afar.
Looked into the native harbor
And swam away again.
The boy was made to swim
Mom - to wait.
Many years will pass again...
Head in the snow;
The heart will say: "I'm tired,
I can not anymore".
Calm down forever
And even then
The news will rush across the rivers,
Through the cities.
And, turning pale as paper,
vague as a seal
The boy will cry bitterly
Mom will sleep.
And while in fact
It's the other way around:
The boy is sleeping in his bed.
Mom is singing.
And flannel pants
their first,
Holding boy hands
My fingers.
Such a fog fell yesterday
So the sea began to worry
Like it's time for autumn
It really has arrived.
Now there is light and silence
Leaves are slowly turning yellow
And the sun is gentle as the moon
It shines over the garden, but does not warm.
So sometimes for, the poor, us
In a disease, apparently dangerous,
Suddenly it's quiet time
Irresistibly beautiful.
Comrade grape
The orange has a peel
Redder than crow's feet.
It was hot at home
And now he is cold.
Such an icy wind here,
That even pines get cold.
And he, think, in one
Cigarette wrapper.
For the first time snow stars
He saw the flight
Frozen to the bone
And turned to ice.
All covered with pimples
Poor orange.
It freezes fiercely here
Yes, and he is not alone.
Here is a peach. He is warmly dressed
It has a fluffy pile on it,
He's wearing a flannel vest
And yet he was cold.
And golden grapes
Arriving at night in Leningrad,
I saw the Summer Garden in the morning
And rushed towards him.
He saw the statues standing.
And he thought: “I am in the Crimea.
A few more days will pass
The tan will cover them..."
Undressed marble people
He took for the living.
But soon the poor southern guest
Lying in sawdust, all trembling,
And the cold cut without a knife,
He tormented a bunch after a bunch.
But in this weather
On the same tray
Antonov apples
They lay lightly.
Their naked skin
The frost did not interfere
And it didn't look like
For someone to tremble.
And the biggest
And the strongest of all
Told the oranges
And grapes: “Oh!
Cover you tight
From our snows
Yes, you won't be afraid
On you down jackets.
But here's what I'll tell you
Comrade Vinograd,
A scientist lived in the south
And he had a garden
Where did he study manners
Pistachios and quince,
Where, most importantly, cared
It's about people like you.
For you to grow and mature
Under the icy wind
To the harsh north
It seemed to you relatives.
So that you are like apples,
Nothing is scary.
His name is Michurin -
That scientist.
He erected a monument
In Moscow, my friends.
He holds an apple in his hand
The same as me."
At that very moment,
Hearing this speech
Like oranges
A weight rolled off my shoulders.
And immediately jumped
And he was happy and glad
And smiled sweetly
Comrade Vinograd.
The tram goes to the front
Cold, the color of steel
Harsh horizon -
The tram goes to the outpost,
The tram goes to the front.
Plywood instead of glass
But it's nothing
And the citizens flow
They pour into it.
The young worker
He goes to the factory
Which days and nights
The weapon forges.
The old woman was lulled to sleep
Rhythmic wheel noise:
She is the grandson of a tanker
Got a cigarette.
Talking with my sister
And the regimental doctor,
Druzhinnitsy - there are three of them -
They sit side by side.
At the pomegranate belt
At the belt revolver,
Tall, bearded
Looks like a partisan
Came to take a bath
Stay with your family
Brought to son Sanka
German trophy helmet
And again on the road,
In dense snow
Hunt down the lair
cruel enemy,
With the fire of your rifle
schistam account...
Stops flicker
The tram is going to the front.
Carried by housewives
Your ungenerous ration,
Baby - in a bike
Folded corner -
Looks (everything is new to him).
Look don't forget
The first fly is dizzy
From long sleep:
She lay the winter motionless, -
Now it's spring.
I say: - Madam, oh heaven,
How pale you are!
Shall I give you jam, or bread,
Or water?
Thanks, I don't need anything
She answered.-
I'm not sick, I'm just very happy
that I see the light.
How hard it is to live in the winter in the world of orphan,
How hard it is to dream
That white flies rule the world
And we are defeated.
But are you laughing at me? No need.-
And I answer!
I'm not laughing, I'm just very happy
that I see the light.
A friend left. Still in the window sunset ...
A friend left. Still in the window sunset
What burned for us did not dim in the least,
And in the empty air they are already ringing
Memories are slow stings.
The departed room is full
His movements and silence
That I'm not in love and not loved
That I'm not afraid to be burned by the sun,
And become darker than a coffee bean.
That I can sit down easily on a bale,
Inhale the elusive smell of tea,
Not answering a single question
No one's gently shaking hands.
That before going to bed I can sing softly,
Then I will close my eyes like a virgin,
And in the morning simple clothes
No one will stop me from wearing.
Reader
My reader, there is no need to be afraid,
That I will burden your bookcase
Posthumous volumes (fifteen pieces),
Dressed in embossed armor.
No. Published not magnificently, not richly,
In a simple blue-gray cover,
It will be a small book
So that you can take it with you.
To make her heart tremble
In a business jacket pocket
To take it out of the bag
Housewives warm hand.
So that a girl in nylon frills
Because of her, I would not go to the ball,
So that a student, forgetting about fives,
I read it during a lecture...
“Comrade Inber,” the teachers will say, “
Incredible! You will not understand.
You are violating the strict rules,
You are confusing our youth."
I know it's not pedagogical
But I also know that the power of lines
Can sometimes replace (partially)
A fun ball and a thoughtful lesson.
The flow of the day is often disrupted
(When I myself go into oblivion)—
Don't die, little book
Live longer, my child!
casket
I hide letters from women I know...
Their light laughter, their ballroom melancholy
In the box that I got from my grandfather,
At the bottom of it - naked Leda, the little finger is smaller, on silk.
The box smells of old perfume
She hides all my whims
My failures, finishes and prizes,
How I loved and how I was loved.
When the window is drowning in a transparent haze,
The concert is over, the noise of the wings froze
I read letters from a quilted box
From two sisters living in Smyrna in a narrow lane
From two sick actresses.
When my phone is silent among the curtains,
The servant is gone and the cat is hunting
All letters of women in gilding
Charming lie ... and I'm alone, alone.
But two letters are the only, insane
I put in a morocco Quran.
There are days: I'm sick, happy, drunk,
I languish like captive water,
But I never read them.
Enskaya skyscraper
Near the stop
The grasses rustle.
Tank tracks
The dead lie.
black car
fierce enemy
crushed to death
Russian hand.
Courage and ingenuity
Who saved you
Enskaya skyscraper,
Small bump?
fiery love
loving homeland,
Who with his blood
Protected you?
Just a summary about you
Say between the lines
Enskaya skyscraper.
Small tubercle.
Slightly noticeable mound...
But in the spring
Will remind you
Aroma of the forest.
About you grasshopper
Between tall grasses
knocks far away
Exactly the telegraph.
beauty girl
Sing about you
Enskaya skyscraper,
Small episode.
Songs, flowers
Century motherland
Everything won't stop
Remember the son.
September 1942, Leningrad
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Vera Inber briefly attended the Faculty of History and Philology at the Odessa Higher Courses for Women. The first publication appeared in the Odessa newspapers in the year ("Seville ladies"). Together with her first husband, Nathan Inber, she lived in Paris and Switzerland for four years (-). B moved to Moscow. In the early twenties, like many other poets, she belonged to a literary group, in her case, to the Constructivist Literary Center. In the 1920s she worked as a journalist, wrote prose and essays, traveled around the country and abroad. She was married to the electrochemist A.N. Frumkin.
The harsh epigram written by the poet Vladimir Mayakovsky, with whom they did not agree in some literary assessments, has come down to the present day: "Ah, Inber, oh, Inber, what eyes, what a forehead!// So all my life I would have admired, admired her b." It must be said that the epigram did not lead to any serious break, everyone who could habitually exchanged barbs, they even competed in them. Only later, with the establishment of totalitarian Soviet power, did this art form almost completely disappear.
Notes
Addresses in Leningrad
08.1941 - 1946 - Tolstoy street, 6.
Selected collections and works
- Collection of poems "Sad wine" (1914)
- Collection of poems "Bitter Delight" (1917)
- Collection of poems "Perishable words" (1922)
- Collection of poems "The Purpose and the Way" (1925)
- Stories "An equation with one unknown" (1926)
- Collection of poems "The Boy with Freckles" (1926)
- Tales "Comet Catcher" (1927)
- Collection of poems "To the son who does not exist" (1927)
- "This is how the day begins"
- Collection of poems "Selected Poems" (1933)
- Travel notes "America in Paris" (1928)
- Autobiography "A Place in the Sun" (1928)
- Collection of poems "In an undertone" (1932)
- Comedy in verse "The Union of Mothers" (1938)
- Poem "Travel Diary" (1939)
- Poem "Ovid" (1939)
- Poem "Spring in Samarkand" (1940)
- Collection of poems "The Soul of Leningrad" (1942)
- Poem "Pulkovo Meridian" (1943)
- Diary "Almost three years" (1946)
- Essays "Three weeks in Iran" (1946)
- Collection of poems "The Way of Water" (1951)
- The book "How I Was Little" (1954)
- Articles "Inspiration and Mastery" (1957)
- "April" (1960)
- Collection of poems "The book and the heart" (1961)
- The book "Pages of days turning over" (1967)
- Collection of poems "Questionnaire of time" (1971)
Links
- Vera Inber poems in the Anthology of Russian Poetry
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See what "Inber, Vera" is in other dictionaries:
Inber Vera Mikhailovna Birth name: Vera Moiseevna Shpentzer Date of birth ... Wikipedia
- [R. June 28 (July 10), 1890, Odessa], Russian Soviet writer. Member of the CPSU since 1943. Began publishing in 1910. In I.'s early poems, cheerfulness and elegant, sober irony are already noticeable, which later become characteristic of her mature poetry. ... ... Great Soviet Encyclopedia
- (1890 1972) Russian poetess. Lyrics (collections to the Son Who Does Not Exist, 1927, In an Undertone, 1932, Questionnaire of Time, 1971), poems (Pulkovo Meridian, 1943, about the feat of besieged Leningrad; State Prize of the USSR, 1946), prose. Artwork for… … Big Encyclopedic Dictionary
Modern poetess, novelist, journalist. He is a member of the cast group of constructivists (LCC). Genus. in Odessa, in a bourgeois family. Before the revolution, she spent several years abroad. In Paris, she published her first book of poems "Sad ... ... Big biographical encyclopedia
- (1890 1972), Russian poetess. Lyrics (collections "To the Son Who Is Not", 1927; "In an Undertone", 1932; "Questionnaire of Time", 1971), poems ("Pulkovo Meridian", 1943, about the feat of besieged Leningrad; State Prize of the USSR, 1946), prose. Works ... ... encyclopedic Dictionary
Vera Mikhailovna Inber (nee Shpentzer; June 28 (July 10), 1890, Odessa November 11, 1972, Moscow) Russian Soviet poetess and prose writer. Contents 1 Biography 2 Notes 3 Addresses in Leningrad ... Wikipedia
Inber Vera Mikh.- INBER Vera Mikh. (1890 1972) poetess, prose writer. Mother is a teacher, father is the owner of Mathesis publishing house. After graduating from Gzia, she studied at the Higher Wives. courses in Odessa. Several spent years abroad. First Sat. poems Sad wine (1914, Paris), then Bitter ... ... Russian humanitarian encyclopedic dictionary
INBER Vera Mikhailovna- (1890-1972), Russian Soviet poetess. Member CPSU since 1943. Sat. poems "Sad wine" (1914), "Frail words" (1922), "Purpose and path" (1925), "To the son who does not exist" (1927), "Travel diary" (1939), "Soul of Leningrad" (1942 ), "The Way of Water" (1948), ... ... Literary Encyclopedic Dictionary
Inber, Vera Mikhailovna Vera Inber Birth name: Vera Moiseevna Shpentzer Date of birth: June 28 (July 10) 1890 (18900710) Place of birth ... Wikipedia
Vera Mikhailovna was born on July 10, 1890 in Odessa. Her father, Moses Shpentzer, was the owner of a printing house and one of the leaders of the scientific publishing house Matesis (1904-1925). Contrary to popular belief, not the mother, but the father was the cousin of Leon Trotsky. In the book “My Life”, Trotsky warmly recalls M. Shpentzer, in whose house he lived while studying in Odessa, “mother’s nephew, Moses Filippovich Shpentzer, an intelligent and good person.” Mother Fanny Solomonovna was a teacher of the Russian language and head of the state Jewish girls' school. The family lived in Pokrovsky Lane, 5.
Vera studied at the Sholp gymnasium, then at the Pashkovskaya gymnasium. Later she attended the Faculty of History and Philology at the Odessa Higher Courses for Women. Her first publication appeared in the Odessa newspaper in 1910 - "Ladies of Seville".
Vera marries Odessa journalist Nathan Inber. In 1912, her poems were published in the magazine The Sun of Russia. In the same year, her daughter Zhanna (future writer Zhanna Gauzner) was born. From 1912 to 1914 Vera and Nathan live in Paris. She spent about a year in Switzerland for treatment. Odessa News regularly features articles about Parisian fashion signed “Vera Inbert”, another of her pseudonyms at the time, “Vera Litti” (a playful allusion to the author’s small stature).
Vera Inber comes to Odessa several times. On April 19, 1913, in the hall of the Union Theater, she gave a lecture “Flowers on Asphalt. Women's fashions in their past and present”.
In 1914, her first book of poems "Sad Wine" was published in Paris. There are commendable reviews by R. Ivanov-Razumnik and A. Blok, who wrote that in poetry there is bitterness of wormwood, sometimes real.
A month before the start of the First World War, Vera Inber returned to Russia. She lived in Moscow, then in Odessa. In 1917, the second book of poems, "Bitter Delight", was published in Petrograd. Songs on verses by V. Inber were performed by the popular singer Iza Kremer. At the beginning of 1918, Vera Inber returned to Odessa.
During the Civil War, Odessa and Moscow writers gathered in the house of the Inbers (from 1914 to 1922 she lived in Sturdzovsky lane, 3; in 1918 - on Kanatnaya street, 33). V. Inber made presentations on Parisian and Belgian poets at the Literary and Artistic Club. In 1919, she, probably with her husband, ended up in Istanbul, then returned to Odessa again. Nathan Inber emigrated (according to other sources, he lived in Paris from 1916).
Life with a little daughter in 1920 is described in the autobiographical story “A Place in the Sun”. At that time, V. Inber wrote plays for the theater “MOLE” (“Confrerie of the Knights of the Sharp Theatre”). About one of these plays - "Hell in Paradise" - Rina Zelenaya, who made her debut in "MOLE", recalled. Vera Inber was not only a playwright, but she herself played roles and sang songs based on her poems.
In 1920, she became the wife of A.N. Frumkin (later one of the founders of the Soviet electrochemical school).
In 1922, the third book of poems, “Perishable Words”, was published in Odessa, in the same year the poetess moved to Moscow. In Moscow, Inber writes not only poetry, but also essays, published in newspapers and magazines. Odessa fame was brought to her by poems on the death of V.I. Lenin "Five Nights and Days"
Inber herself said that her true writing biography began with the release of the collection “The Purpose and the Way”, published in 1925. It included not only “Five Nights and Days”, but also poems dedicated to L.D. Trotsky. However, modern literary criticism does not introduce V.M. Inber, starting from the Moscow period, into great Russian literature.
In 1924-1926. she lived in Paris, Brussels and Berlin as a correspondent for Moscow newspapers. In 1926, her first collection of short stories, The Freckled Boy, was published. In the mid-1920s, V. Inber, like E. Bagritsky, became close to the constructivists. Almost every year her books are published - poems, essays, travel notes. In 1928, the already mentioned autobiographical story “A Place in the Sun” was published. The name of the collection of poems of 1933 is symbolic - “The Lane of My Name”. In 1939 she was awarded the Order of the Badge of Honor.
During the Great Patriotic War V.M. Inber and her third husband, professor of medicine Ilya Davidovich Strashun, who worked at the 1st Medical Institute, spent almost three years in besieged Leningrad. In 1943, V. Inber joined the party. During these years she wrote the poem "Pulkovo Meridian" (1943), a collection of poems "The Soul of Leningrad" (1942). In 1946, the book “Almost Three Years” was published. In the same year, V. Inber received the Stalin Prize of the 2nd degree for the poem “Pulkovo Meridian” and the book “Almost Three Years”.
In 1954, Vera Inber writes an autobiographical story for children, “How I Was Little”. A collection of her articles on literary work "Inspiration and Mastery" was published in 1957, a book of memoirs "Paging through the Pages of Days" - in 1967. The last lifetime collection of poems, Questionnaire of Time, was published in 1971.
Vera Inber at the House of Scientists. Odessa, 1959
V. Inber translated T. Shevchenko, M. Rylsky, P. Eluard, S. Petofi, J. Rainis.
Awarded with three orders and medals.
Vera Mikhailovna Inber died on November 11, 1972, and was buried at the Vvedensky cemetery in Moscow. In 1973 Kupalny (formerly Sturdzovsky) Lane was renamed Vera Inber Lane.
The World Club of Odessans and the Odessa Literary Museum in 2000 published a book by V.M. Inber “Flowers on Asphalt”, which included the best collection of her poetry, published in Odessa in 1922, “Perishable Words”, articles by the writer on Parisian fashion, reviews of her work.
Alena Yavorskaya, Deputy scientific director
Odessa Literary Museum
She was born on June 28 (July 10, NS) 1890 in Odessa in the family of the owner of a scientific publishing house. She has been writing poetry since childhood.
After graduating from the gymnasium, she entered the Odessa Higher Women's Courses at the Faculty of History and Philology, but soon left for Western Europe, where she spent, occasionally returning home, about four years (a year in Switzerland, the rest of the time in Paris).
In 1912, her first poetry collection, Sad Wine, was printed in a Russian printing house in Paris. In 1914 she returned to Russia, deciding to settle in Moscow. Two more collections of poems were published - Bitter Delight (1917) and Frail Words (1922). In 1923, the collection "The Purpose and the Path" was published in Moscow, from which, according to Inber, her true writing biography began.
In the mid-1920s, he became close to the constructivists, in the same years he began to write prose, essays and articles. As a journalist, she traveled a lot around the country, traveled abroad. In 1927-29, essay books "This is how the day begins" and travel notes "America in Paris" were written. In 1928, the autobiographical chronicle A Place in the Sun was published.
Published poems in the 1930s "Travel Diary", "Ovid", acts as a prose writer and essayist.
During the Patriotic War, Inber was in the besieged Leningrad (1941-44). The heroic defense of the city is captured by her in the poems of the collection "The Soul of Leningrad" (1942), a poem "Pulkovo Meridian"(1943), in the Leningrad diary "Almost three years" (1946).
In the post-war years, Inber wrote works for children, published her poetry collections - The Way of Water (1951), The Book and the Heart (1961), Questionnaire of Time (1971), etc. In 1957, a collection of her articles on literary work was published. - "Inspiration and skill", in 1967 - a book of memoirs "Paging the pages of days."
She continued to travel a lot around the Union, visited Iran, Czechoslovakia and Romania as part of delegations of Soviet cultural figures. In 1972 V. Inber died.
[Russian writers and poets. Brief biographical dictionary. Moscow, 2000]
INBER, Vera Mikhailovna [b. 28.VI (10.VII).1890, Odessa] - Russian Soviet writer. Member of the Communist Party since 1943. Inber's father was the owner of a scientific publishing house, his mother was a teacher. She studied at the Higher Women's Courses in Odessa. In 1910 she began to publish in Odessa newspapers. Inber's early collections of poems ("Sad Wine", 1914; "Bitter Delight", 1917; "Perishable Words", 1922) are full of literary reminiscences, but through the decadent splendor of the images, cheerfulness, elegant and sober irony are already breaking through. The collection "The Purpose and the Path" (1925) and "To the Son Who Is Not" (1927) reflect the turning point in the mind of the poet, who from now on wants to serve the rational, creative forces of the new society. In a poem (1924), which tells about the people's grief during the hours of farewell to V. I. Lenin, Inber managed to convey with great sincerity a feeling of powerful national unity. In the mid 20s. Inber approaches the constructivists. In the same years, she tries her hand as a journalist and prose writer. In 1927-29, a book of essays, “This is how the day begins,” and travel notes, “America in Paris,” were written, which show the offensive of American utilitarianism on the life and culture of bourgeois France. In the stories of the 1920s, full of details of the life of those years, Inber sometimes introduces serious socio-psychological conflicts. Many of these stories focus on children, child psychology and language. The autobiographical chronicle "A Place in the Sun" (1928) tells with courageous frankness about the tossings of the intelligentsia, who have broken with the old way of life and are painfully looking for a way to a new life. In the 30s. “a poetic victory over his old soul” is finally accomplished (, 1932). Inber strives to capture the formation of socialist morality, to convey the warmth of new human relations, explores the “region of the heart” (poems “I want to go to Moscow!”, “Old age”, "The Lane of My Name", , "Book and heart", "Nature", etc.). Her predilection for warm and light colors, some idyllic ideas about life stand out clearly. In 1939 a poem was published "Travel Diary" dedicated to the impressions of a trip to Georgia. With the poem "Ovid" (1939), heroism enters Inber's work even before the war. During the Patriotic War, Inber was in the besieged Leningrad (1941-44). The heroic defense of the city is captured in the poems of this time (collection "The Soul of Leningrad", 1942), in a cycle of stories about children, in the Leningrad diary "Almost Three Years" (1946) and the poem "Pulkovo Meridian"(1943, State Prize of the USSR, 1946). In the post-war years, Inber created a cycle of poems "The Way of Water" (1946-51). In 1954 he wrote an autobiographical story for children "How I Was Little" (1954). In Inspiration and Mastery (1957), Inber shares his literary experience. The book of poems "April" (1960) is devoted to the Leninist theme. Inber is a poet of calm thoughtfulness and reflection. She is characterized by a somewhat rational clarity, deliberation, orderliness of style, the ability to settle in and "warm" the big world in a home-like way. Smiling simplicity, unobtrusive pedagogy make Inber a poet, interesting for children too (poems:,,,, etc.). Inber is the author of the comedy in verse The Union of Mothers (1938), as well as new texts of the opera La Traviata and the operetta The Bells of Corneville. She owns articles about Soviet and foreign writers. Inber's works have been translated into German, Finnish, Serbian, Czech, Hungarian and other languages.
Cit.: Selected. [Intro. Art. F. Levin], M., 1947; Fav. works. [Intro. Art. I. Grinberg], vol. 1-3, M., 1958; April. Poems about Lenin, M., 1960; Book and heart. Poems, M., 1961; When I was little, 2 extra. ed., M., 1961; Inspiration and skill, 2 extra. ed., M., 1961; For many years, M., 1964.
Lit .: Zelinsky K., European woman, “On lit. Post”, 1928, No. 11-12; his own, Vera Inber (on the 30th anniversary of literary activity), October, 1946, No. 5; Usievich E., Books and Life, M., 1949, p. 95-110; Tarasenkov A., Vera Inber, in his book: Poets, M., 1956; Fadeev A., About the book by V. Inber “How I was little”, “New World”, 1956, No. 12; Ognev V., Inspiration and skill, Friendship of Peoples, 1958, No. 6; Litvinov V., Poems about Lenin, "October", 1961, No. 4; Grinberg I., Vera Inber. Critical biographical. essay, M., 1961.
I. B. Rodnyanskaya
Brief literary encyclopedia: In 9 volumes - V. 3. - M .: Soviet encyclopedia, 1966
INBER Vera Mikhailovna is a modern poetess, fiction writer, journalist. He is a member of the literary group of constructivists (LCC). Born in Odessa, in a bourgeois family. Before the revolution, she spent several years abroad. In Paris, she published her first book of poems, The Sad Wine. The second collection was published in 1917 ("Bitter Delight"). After the revolution, Inber published three more books of poems (“Perishable words”, Odessa, 1922, “Purpose and path”, M., 1925, “To the son who does not exist”, M., 1927), several collections of stories (“Equation with one unknown”, M., 1926, “Comet Catcher”, M., 1927, etc.) and a book of essays about Paris (“America in Paris”, M., 1928).
Inber's work is rooted in pre-revolutionary bourgeois culture. As a poetess, Inber was born at the turning point from symbolism to acmeism and futurism and absorbed the influence of a wide variety of poets of that time - from Gumilyov and Viktor Hoffmann Igor Severyanin. Inber does not belong to the category of poets who actively reveal their attitude to the things described, persistently preaching their worldview; it is characterized by a neutral attitude to the material. This can explain the amazing diversity of its themes, none of which is truly close or dear to the poet. Inber has come a long way: the lyrics that prevailed in her first books begin to give way to narrative or descriptive poetry (here is the junction of Inber with constructivism); the ironic stream becomes more and more tangible, sometimes turning into pure humor; the range of topics is expanding due to modern, Soviet ones. However, the revolution is included in the work of Inber not so much as a political side, but as an external everyday one. Unlike other constructivists who try to pose acute social problems in their works, Inber limits his entry into modernity to superficial optimism ( "Soviet land", "Events in the Red Sea"). The chamber, "home" angle of view, characteristic of Inber's early poems, has hardly expanded. The revolution looks in Inber's verses externally and decoratively. Inber's prose, into which she transfers her poetic devices (local image, pun, irony of intonation), adds nothing to her ideological image. The ideological views of constructivism acquire their own special imprint from her: she is more firmly connected with pre-revolutionary culture than other constructivists. So, for example, the motives of technicalism, Americanism, typical for the "leader" of constructivists - Selvinsky, brought up not so much on the symbolists, but on Mayakovsky, are not typical for Inber. Inber draws the socialist future as "idyllic" and "cozy".
Bibliography: II. Zelinsky K., Vera Inber, "The Life of Art", 1924, XXI; Him, Sat. "State Planning Committee of Literature", M., 1925; Lezhnev A., "Projector", 1926, XVIII; Adonts Hayk, Vera Inber, The Life of Art, 1926, XXXIX; Zelinsky K., European woman, "At a literary post", 1928, XI-XII.
III. Vladislavlev I.V., Literature of the Great Decade, vol. I, Guise, M., 1928; Writers of the Modern Age, vol. I, ed. B. P. Kozmina, ed. GAKhN, M., 1928; Mandelstam R. S., Fiction in the assessment of Russian Marxist criticism, ed. 4th, Guise, M., 1928.
E. Mustangova
Literary Encyclopedia: In 11 volumes - [M.], 1929-1939