Alexander Kochetkov. Love and death are always together. Russian poet Alexander Kochetkov: biography, creativity and interesting facts. Studying at school and getting higher education
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Russian Soviet poet, translator.
In 1917 he graduated from the Losinoostrovskaya gymnasium. Studied at the Faculty of Philology of Moscow State University. Even in his youth he began to write poetry. Author of a play in verse about Copernicus (Moscow Planetarium Theatre). In collaboration with Konstantin Lipskerov and Sergei Shervinsky, he wrote two plays in verse, which were successful
om ("Nadezhda Durova" and "Free Flemings").
Translations include: The Magic Horn of the Youth by Arnim and Brentano (unpublished in full), Bruno Franck's novel about Cervantes; poems by Hafiz, Anvari, Farrukhi, Unsari, Es-khabib Vafa, Antal Gidash, Schiller, Corneille, Racine, Beranger, Georgian, Lithuanian, Estonians
some poets; participated in the translations of "David of Sasun", "Alpamysh", "Kalevipoeg".
The poetic work of Alexander Kochetkov is little known, but the poem "The Ballad of a Smoky Carriage", better known for the line "Do not part with your loved ones," brought him national fame. It is literally
In a sense, it became a popular hit at the end of the 20th century thanks to what sounded in the film by Eldar Ryazanov “The Irony of Fate or Enjoy Your Bath”. A line from the "Ballad" is the name of the play by Alexander Volodin, based on which the film of the same name was made.
Bibliography
The Ballad of the Smoky Carriage was first published
written by Lev Ozerov (with an introductory note about Kochetkov) in the collection Day of Poetry (1966)
Later, "Ballad" was included in the anthology "Song of Love" (1967)
Published in Moskovsky Komsomolets and in various collections and anthologies.
In 1974, the publishing house "Soviet Writer" published a drama in verse
Alexander Kochetkov (Don't part with your loved ones!)
Lev Ozerov
Sometimes the reader and listener learn about the poet from one poem, which - by chance or not by chance - is placed at the head of all creativity. Such a poem for Alexander Kochetkov was "The Ballad of a Smoky Carriage". This is really a wonderful poem. Rare luck. But, fortunately, it is far from the only one. The time is coming, the time has already come when the reader and listener ask, or even demand, to tell them about all the work of the poet, to show his works. Now the first test is being made. There were separate publications. But this is essentially the first book showing the selected works of Alexander Kochetkov: lyrics, epic, drama. I'll start with everyone's favorite "Ballad of a Smoky Carriage", which is sometimes called in one line: "Do not part with your loved ones!"
The poet's wife, Nina Grigorievna Prozriteleva, tells about the history of the appearance of the "Ballad" in the notes left after her death and still not published:
“We spent the summer of 1932 in Stavropol with my father. In the autumn, Alexander Sergeevich left earlier, I had to arrive in Moscow later. we delayed as best we could. On the eve of departure, we decided to sell the ticket and postpone the departure for at least three days.
The delay was over, it was necessary to go. A ticket was bought again, and Alexander Sergeevich left. A letter from him from the Kavkazskaya station illustrates the mood in which he was traveling. (In this letter there is an expression "half sad, half asleep." In the poem - "half crying, half asleep".)
In Moscow, among friends whom he informed about the first day of his arrival, his appearance was accepted as a miracle of resurrection, since he was considered dead in a terrible crash that happened to the Sochi train at the Moscow-tovarnaya station. Friends who were returning from the Sochi sanatorium died. Alexander Sergeevich escaped death because he sold a ticket for this train and stayed in Stavropol.
In the very first letter that I received from Alexander Sergeevich from Moscow, there was a poem "Vagon" ("Ballad of a smoky carriage")..."
Saved by fate from the train wreck that happened the day before, the poet could not help but think about the nature of chance in human life, about the meaning of meeting and parting, about the fate of two creatures that love each other.
So we learn the date of writing - 1932 - and the dramatic history of the poem, which was published thirty-four years later. But even unpublished, it in the oral version, transmitted from one person to another, received great publicity. I heard it during the war, and to me (and to many of my friends) it seemed to be written at the front. This poem became my property - I did not part with it. It has become one of the favorites.
The first person who told me the history of the existence of the "Ballad of a Smoky Carriage" was a friend of A. S. Kochetkov, the late writer Viktor Stanislavovich Vitkovich. In the winter of 1942, a participant in the defense of Sevastopol, writer Leonid Solovyov, the author of an excellent book about Khoja Nasreddin, "Troublemaker", came to Tashkent. At that time, in Tashkent, Yakov Protazanov was filming the film "Nasreddin in Bukhara" - according to the script by Solovyov and Vitkovich. Vitkovich brought Solovyov to Kochetkov, who was then living in Tashkent. It was then that Solovyov heard from the lips of the author of "The Ballad of a Smoky Carriage." She liked him very much. Moreover, he fanatically fell in love with this poem and took the text with him. It looked like it had just been written. This is how everyone around him perceived him (and Solovyov, at that time a correspondent for the Red Fleet, read the poem to everyone he met). And it not only fascinated listeners - it became a necessity for them. It was copied and sent in letters as a message, a consolation, a prayer. In the lists, in various versions (even mutilated), it often went along the fronts without the name of the author, as a folk one.
For the first time, "The Ballad of a Smoky Carriage" was published by me (with an introductory note about the poet) in the collection "Day of Poetry" (1966). Then "Ballad" was included in the anthology "Song of Love" (1967), published in "Moskovsky Komsomolets" and since then more and more willingly included in various collections and anthologies. The stanzas of the "Ballad" are taken by the authors as epigraphs: a line from the "Ballad" became the title of A. Volodin's play "Do not part with your loved ones", the readers include the "Ballad" in their repertoire. She also entered the film by Eldar Ryazanov "The Irony of Fate ..." We can say with confidence: it has become a textbook.
It's about the poem.
Now about the author, about Alexander Sergeevich Kochetkov. In 1974, the publishing house "Soviet Writer" published his largest work - a drama in verse "Nicholas Copernicus" as a separate book. Two of his one-act poetic plays were published: "Homer's Head" - about Rembrandt (in "Change") and "Adelaide Grabbe" - about Beethoven (in "Pamir"). Cycles of lyrical poems were published in the "Day of Poetry", "Pamir", "Literary Georgia". That's all for now. The rest (very valuable) part of the heritage (lyrics, poems, dramas in verse, translations) is still the property of the archive...
Alexander Sergeevich Kochetkov is the same age as our century.
After graduating from the Losinoostrovskaya gymnasium in 1917, he entered the philological faculty of Moscow State University. Soon he was mobilized into the Red Army. The years 1918-1919 are the army years of the poet. Then, at various times, he worked as a librarian in the North Caucasus, then in the MOPR (International Organization for Assistance to the Fighters of the Revolution), then as a literary consultant. And always, under all - the most difficult - circumstances of life, work on the verse continued. Kochetkov began to write early - from the age of fourteen.
His masterful translations are well known. As the author of original works, Alexander Kochetkov is little known to our readers. Meanwhile, his play in verse about Copernicus was shown at the Moscow Planetarium Theater (there was such a very popular theater). Meanwhile, in collaboration with Konstantin Lipskerov and Sergei Shervinsky, he wrote two plays in verse, which were staged and enjoyed success. The first - "Nadezhda Durova", staged by Y. Zavadsky long before A. Gladkov's play "A long time ago" - on the same topic. The second - "Free Flemings". Both plays enrich our understanding of the poetic dramaturgy of the pre-war years. At the mention of the name of Alexander Kochetkov, even among ardent lovers of poetry, one will say:
Oh, he translated The Magic Horn by Arnimo and Brentano?!
Allow me, it was he who gave the classic translation of Bruno Frank's story about Cervantes! - adds another.
Oh, he translated Hafiz, Anvari, Farrukhi, Unsari and other creators of the poetic East! - the third will exclaim.
And the translations of the works of Schiller, Corneille, Racine, Beranger, Georgian, Lithuanian, Estonian poets! - A fourth will notice.
Do not forget Antal Gidash and Es-khabib Vaf, a whole book of his poems, and participation in the translations of large epic paintings - "David of Sasun", "Alpamysh", "Kalevipoeg"! - will not fail to mention the fifth.
Thus, interrupting and supplementing each other, connoisseurs of poetry will remember Kochetkov the translator, who gave so much strength and talent to the high art of poetic translation.
Alexander Kochetkov until his death (1953) enthusiastically worked on poetry. He seemed to me one of the last students of some old school of painting, the keeper of its secrets, ready to pass these secrets on to others. But few people were interested in these secrets, as in the art of inlay, making lionfish, cylinders and phaetons. Stargazer, he adored Copernicus. A music lover, he recreated the image of a deafened Beethoven. A painter in a word, he turned to the experience of the great beggar Rembrandt.
Behind the works of Kochetkov their creator appears - a man of great kindness and honesty. He had the gift of compassion for the misfortune of others. Constantly took care of old women and cats. "Such an eccentric!" others will say. But he was an artist in everything. He did not have any money, and if they did appear, they immediately migrated under the pillows of the sick, into the empty wallets of the needy.
He was helpless in regard to the arrangement of the fate of his writings. I was embarrassed to take them to the editor. And if he did, he was embarrassed to come for an answer. He was afraid of rudeness and tactlessness.
Until now, we are indebted to the memory of Alexander Kochetkov. It has not yet been fully shown to the reading public. It is to be hoped that this will be done in the coming years.
I want to sketch his appearance in the most cursory way. He had long, combed back hair. He was light in his movements, these movements themselves betrayed the character of a person whose actions were guided by internal plasticity. He had a gait that you rarely see now: melodious, helpful, something very ancient was felt in it. He had a cane, and he carried it gallantly, in a secular way, the last century was felt, and the cane itself seemed to be ancient, from the time of Griboyedov.
A successor to the classical traditions of Russian verse, Alexander Kochetkov seemed to some poets and critics of the thirties and forties a kind of archaist. What was solid and solid was mistaken for backward and hardened. But he was neither a copyist nor a restorer. He worked in the shadows and at depth. Congenial people appreciated him. This applies, first of all, to Sergei Shervinsky, Pavel Antokolsky, Arseny Tarkovsky, Vladimir Derzhavin, Viktor Vitkovich, Lev Gornung, Nina Zbrueva, Ksenia Nekrasova and some others. He was noticed and noted by Vyacheslav Ivanov. Moreover: it was the friendship of two Russian poets - the older generation and the younger generation. Anna Akhmatova treated Kochetkov with interest and friendly attention.
For the first time I saw and heard Alexander Sergeevich Kochetkov in the Khoromny dead end in the apartment of Vera Zvyagintseva. I remember that Klara Arseneva, Maria Petrovykh, Vladimir Lyubin were with us then. We heard verses which were read softly and sincerely by an author whom I liked very much. That evening he heard many kind words addressed to him, but he looked as if all this was being said not about him, but about some other poet who deserved praise to a greater extent than himself.
He was welcoming and friendly. No matter how sad or tired he was, his interlocutor did not feel it.
The interlocutor saw in front of him, next to him, a sweet, sincere, sensitive person.
Even in a state of illness, lack of sleep, need, even at the time of legitimate resentment at the inattention of editors and publishing houses, Alexander Sergeevich did everything to ensure that this state was not transmitted to his interlocutor or companion, so that it was easy for him. It was with such lightness coming from the soul that he once turned to me and, softly tapping his cane on the asphalt, said:
I have one composition, imagine - a drama in verse. Wouldn't it be difficult for you to get acquainted - even briefly - with this work? Don't be in a hurry when you say and if you can...
So, in 1950, I got a dramatic poem "Nicholas Copernicus".
Starting with the history of one poem ("The Ballad of the Smoky Carriage"), I turned to its author and his history.
From one poem, a thread stretches to other works, to the personality of the poet, who fell in love with him so much and became his close friend and companion.
This book of selected works of the poet represents different genres of his work: lyrics, dramatic short stories (as A. S. Kochetkov himself called them), poems.
In working on the book, I used the advice and archives of the poet's friends, V. S. Vitkovich and L. V. Gornung, who, among other things, gave me a photograph of Alexander Kochetkov, taken by him, placed in this book. I give them my thanks.
A little light. The hour of the morning. The melting flight of the Moon beyond the Kopetdag, and around it the Piercing light swing of the Swifts. Here - the Mulberry Tree turned fiery green, and the Tap-dance of sparrows began to chirp in it. Like the petal of a Flower, the milky air is steep. Suddenly - A flame soared through the gray silken clouds. Oh, don't forget That we are residents of the most airy of stars Where even the sun's incomparable brilliance Is painted in the purple of your tenderness!
Ballad of a smoky carriage
How painful, my dear, how strange, Being related in the ground, intertwined with branches, - How painful, dear, how strange To fork under the saw. The wound on the heart will not heal, It will shed clean tears, The wound will not heal on the heart - It will shed with fiery resin. - As long as I'm alive, I'll be with you - Soul and blood are inseparable, - As long as I'm alive, I'll be with you - Love and death are always together. You will carry with you everywhere - You will carry with you, beloved - You will carry with you everywhere Your native land, sweet home. - But if I have nothing to hide from pity incurable, But if I have nothing to hide from the cold and darkness? - There will be a meeting after parting, Do not forget me, my love, There will be a meeting after parting, We will both return - you and me. - But if I vanish without a trace - The short light of a daylight ray - But if I vanish without a trace Behind the starry belt, into the milky smoke? - I will pray for you, so that you do not forget the path of the earth, I will pray for you, so that you return unharmed. Shaking in a smoky car, He became homeless and humble, Shaking in a smoky car, He was half crying, half asleep, When the train on the slippery slope Suddenly bent with a terrible roll, When the train on the slippery slope The wheels were torn off the rails. An inhuman force, In one winepress, crippling everyone, An inhuman force has thrown Earthly things off the ground. And no one was protected Away by the promised meeting, And no one was protected by the Hand calling in the distance. Don't part with your loved ones! Don't part with your loved ones! Don't part with your loved ones! With all your blood sprout in them, - And every time say goodbye forever! And every time forever say goodbye! And every time forever say goodbye! When you leave for a moment!
Russian Soviet poetry. Moscow: Fiction, 1990.
* * *
Everything will be silent: passion, longing, loss... Do not regret the languishing day! All later will be silent - the nightingale, All sweeter than the song - at sunset.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
Deep passion is not like youthful torments: She does not know how to moan and wring her hands, But she stands silently, waiting for the last word, Ready for bliss and death with equal humility, To close her eyelids and calmly ascend, if necessary, By the path of the condemned to the cloudy ridge of Leukad .
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
Two colored engravings
1. Gray courtyard The gray courtyard is littered with junk. Cloudy pale blue day. The gutter hangs from the porch. A goose and a goose stand over a tub of leftovers: their necks are poured out of silver, their wings are patterned niello. From the pyramid of birch trunks, a satin, softly dispersed light pours onto the mossy fence. Tes turned black and resounded: a rowan tree stretched out a rusty brush into the gap, a lilac sprouted with a bronze cap. And above the fence rises Catherine's magnificent, Dressed in shabby crimson, slender church lighthouse. It overshadows a miserable life - and pierces the sky On a three-yard needle, a black, weathered cross. 2. Shepherd boy A shepherd boy with a staff looks up into the misty sky, Where a black flock of rooks has spread its wing. The tender mouth is ajar, thin eyebrows are alarmed, In the gray-radiant eyes sleeps, bewitched, sadness. The pigs huddle all around, in ledges of smooth-rounded pink-gray stones in the faded green grass. A boar buried its snout in a wormhole. A white bunch of piglets hangs from the uterine fat nipples. Ozim opened her spring cloak in the distance. But gloomy Over the tin river brown haystacks doze. And on the outskirts - a forest in a pattern of pawed firs Weaved, like a brocade thread, the yellow flame of birches.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
Twelve elegies
I The choir of larks in the blue sky Flutters its wings. My heart - Everything is more joyful, carefree, heavenly - The fluttering song intoxicates with a song. Singers are ringing in the airy blue - Let everyone have a nest in the grass, Let, shading them with his wings, A soaring hawk circles over them. Oh, if I could, in my native mountains, Throw away weakness, passion, desire, fear And the bitter thought of daily bread!.. Oh, if I could sing, bathing in the bright sky! II Masses of mountains, dressed in forests, Have fallen asleep. Under the slope - the strip. The moon trembles in the fast-running Mtkvari. Midnight strikes. At the twelfth blow Silence descended on the cemetery hill. Only the music of crickets is heard all around. The string will sigh and subside, fading, But the second one will immediately respond to it - As if a thousand airy hands Weave a quivering, lingering-fused sound. Here, forgetting the human tract, The Earth froze in slumber and peace, Here the chest rests, half-breathing ... But where are you now, my soul, Unrestrained, young, blind? How you sang, stepping over the abyss! How I longed to love or die! You are no more, you will not return in the future... You are no more, but to the fleeting shadow I am still drawn by the incorporeal memory. And the night, touching the tired eyelids, Lovingly whispers to me that life is gone forever. III A bouquet of jasmine on my table Blesses a lonely house: Let the soul not be warmed by bliss, He brings her all the ardor, all the riot of summer. I don’t know whose sympathetic hand Lit the jasmine wax holiday, - A pledge, perhaps, of hidden tenderness ... But it was not presented by a beloved hand! Surrounded by light fragrance, I breathe in the world like a cloud, like a dream. In you, blessed joy, There is no admixture of destructive poison, Rebellious longing is alien to you ... Oh, in this cloud you would stay forever! IV The immortally young crystal of the key Breaks through the stone, murmuring: When the sun burns in the universe, It crushes seven flowers in instant dust, And I, in order to put out the fire in my heart, I catch a living rainbow in my palm. How I longed for an impossible paradise! And, "over the stream of thirst dying", Leaning against the stones, as I prayed to them Restful caress... even for a moment! And now the healing power of the key has quenched all passionate languor, And a fresh haze enveloped my heart One all-satisfying sip. V Overcoming... I'm climbing Along the bed of a dry stream. Let the heavenly heat scorch my forehead, Let me stumble on a steep path, Let my heart suffocate in my chest, - I'm going ... Why? What beckons ahead? Vertex. On the roots of a hundred-year-old pine Lie down here. How hot is the summer air! How sweetly merged - resin incense And freshness from a valley full of darkness! The shadow of the clouds glides caressing the mountains. .. And once again boundless expanses are attracted, And God's light is again desired by the heart ... But there is no way down and no way up. VI In the cemetery, in the living shade of oaks, I catch the sacred call of Non-existence, But it sounds to me differently now. Immersed in the insensible slumber Rows of cool burial mounds - Under the eternal caress of the sun or stars. Deprived of everything blessed, Without joy, with a devastated soul, I was betrothed to death for a long time - And passionately rushed into a sound sleep. And so what! Now, on a sunny graveyard, Where bones smolder thoughtlessly underground, I breathe in again the hundred-sounding thrill of the day - And it sweetly lulls me to sleep. But isn't the rustle and movement of the leaves the same silence of non-existence, Which my chest called, yearning? VII A cloud floats in the sea of air. What drives them? Where is the flight going? Where is his heavenly dwelling? Everything earthly is more joyful and purer - It is like, in a quiet height, A wave that has broken away from the sky. His living shadow glides in the valley, Easily swimming from hill to hill, Now gently hugging the crests of the mountains, Now sinking into the expanse of meadows. To any heart and any garden Equally gives loving coolness Messenger of impassive height... Isn't it the same, my verse, you caress the earth? VIII Two butterflies couple in love Meekly busy with a winged dance. Air! What is human longing to them! They do not get tired, closing circles, Embracing each other with flutters. Here they fly apart, here they meet again, Here they sat side by side on a white rosehip... I follow them with a serene look, And the blood, sometimes indomitable, Is lulled by the divine game. But if what is disastrous and sweet, My heart once again dawned with thoughtlessness, - How selflessly I would again surrender to the Delight and anguish of my native existence! IX I did not reach the sea. But in the distance, On the cloudy outskirts of the earth, A mirror flickered. And the expanse of the sea, Caressing my hot forehead with a wafting touch, suddenly exposed In my soul the nesting malady. And memories burned my heart ... Oh, how much happiness and suffering in the past! But the joy that I met along the way, I destroyed, not allowing it to bloom. I stand in thought, secret and deep ... And this verse, bowing before fate, I dedicate to the sea - and to you, The last reflection of the day in my nightly fate! X Nature sings. Everything is noisy all around, A fragrant wind flies into the house: In front of the balcony, an age-old linden, Casting drowsy dreams, Swinging in solemn bloom. Her pollen smokes on the fly, Mighty foliage rings lingeringly, And the branches wave slowly and importantly... Well! Should the linden complain about the fact that its spring will burn out? Blossoms ... Why does she need bitter science, That only separation is omnipotent on earth? Not! In this unique hour of hers, She magically conquers us, And after... The skeleton under loose snow Will stick with memory to the long-extinguished bliss. XI Get off the ground! It's time for me to become a star - One of those that in a light succession Sweep through a ghostly circle And shine, through the universe, to each other. They are alien to worries, passion did not burn Their cloudy ethereal bodies, Their souls are seraphically calm, They are worthy of a heavenly fate... I want to fall into the abyss to them, To wrest passion from my heart together with blood, To part with life, mercilessly knowing, That the soul does not need a different vale, That there is no more torment and no more fear, When the light pierces the darkness of the eyes of the beloved. XII Forgive me, Muse! At the end of days I dared to appeal to your mercy. I believed: the mournful sound of the last songs Will destroy the world that has become cramped for the heart. You listen to this verse with a smile... No, I didn't dare to touch your strings: Former delight in their anxious trembling, And again the soul languishes with the impossible: From cloudy semi-forgetfulness I summoned Her to a forgotten life - With the unknown power of the song word. And a gentle image appeared to me again. But, clothed in the magic of the melody, He became closer, meeker, more serene...
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
Earth! When the chest suffocates with Despair, as caustic as smoke, - Breathe from the native well Into it with the rustling night Rain. Flying lightning Throw me a diamond pen, And fill my house with a roar, And through the darkness, and through the wind! Rooted in a hidden spring, Into the invisible stars of the face - Push the ceiling sooty Lilac violent bush! Demand unheard songs, Involve me to bliss - With eyes in which all the sky, Hands in which all pain!
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
And the snowflakes that have flown into the pillar of someone else's fire bring me back to human tenderness. And in the stream, always splashing incomprehensibly where, Human tenderness split the star. And in the mist to the fleeing young voices With human tenderness I respond myself. Isn't it a dream that fades away with each fading day, We recklessly call Human tenderness?
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
From whirlwind, cold and light You created my life, Lord! But in order for the song to be sung, You gave me suffering flesh. And I will lift with bitter anger Three burdens: pity, tenderness, passion, - So that with an all-forgiving melody At your feet sometimes fall. And the hearts of mortal fatigue You torment with torment for many years - Then, so that tenderness, passion and pity Once again become - cold, whirlwind and light!
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
From Sanoi
So live, so that by death you yourself will be delivered from the living, And do not live so that by death you will deliver them from yourself.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
From Hafiz (You whose heart is granite...)
You, whose heart is granite, whose ears are silver - witch casting, You took away my mind, took away my peace and my patience! Playful peri, Turkish woman in a satin cape, You, whose appearance is the moon, whose breath is a rush, whose tongue is a blade! From love grief, from the passion of love for you Forever I bubble, as fire drink bubbles in a cauldron. I must, that cabo, embrace and embrace you all, I must, at least for a moment, become your shirt to taste oblivion. Let my bones rot, covered with cold earth, - With the eternal heat of love I will overcome death, I will hold on to being. My life and faith, my life and faith were taken away - Her chest and shoulders, her chest and shoulders, her chest and shoulders. Only in sweet lips, only in sweet lips, O Hafiz, - Your healing, your healing, your healing!
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
Swallows under a tiled roof Slightly murmur, chirp poplars. Businesslike on the axis of the familiar Turns the earth. And, submissive to the slow circle, Slowly, flowing half asleep - Waters to the sea, swallows to each other, Heart to death, poplars to the moon.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
There is no moment, there is memory. Midnight hearing Through a sigh of blood and a flowery blaze Suddenly he discerns a dreary sound of Invisible orbits (so the cockchafer sings under the apple tree). Human soul, With what a singing cry flowing, Into what lifelessness of darkness On the wings of memory do you fly?..
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
Inscription on the tomb of Tristan and Iseult
When, in the troubled hour of sunset, Fate handed us two A tender and cursed drink, Destined for others, - Strangled by a sapphire cloud, Lifting tackle with lightning arrows, The resilient ship became obedient to Your commands, Feeder-Passion. And on the same night, like a mighty thorn, the blood bloomed sullenly in us, A tourniquet of purple and black Twisting our submissive bodies. Inclining its intoxicating color to the lips, Punching needles into our hearts, Around us that vortex-twisting tourniquet Narrowed its greedy embraces, - Until, having brought down the heavy ringing of swept jets into the stuffy pool, The first kiss struck our souls more furious than thunder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oh spring, terrible partings! O starless waking dream! For a long time we stretched out our hands Into the unshakable blue. And for a long time orphaned in agony, Forgotten by heaven and fate, One - in green Tintagel, The other - in blue Brittany. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And our passion hungered for the coffin, And in the cell of spring silence We both died for a long time, Separated by a wall of spaces. Thus, descending into the native womb, We found our destiny, One - in a coffin of chalcedony, The other - in a beryl coffin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And now we know the joy of the blind human mercy. We were lowered into the ground side by side In the chapel of the Blessed Virgin. So that the fatal passions are silenced, So that the heat of sin in the hearts goes out, The altar of healing Mary In the coffins separates us. ... But through the coffin with a blooming tourniquet The branch of thorns sprouted wildly, Weaving forever - as a reproach to the living - Sleeping bodies in the graves.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
I do not believe the prophecies, Sounded to me more than once: What will be loneliness My death hour is bitter. When that dream would take possession of mortal eyes, - With inconspicuous friends I am forever surrounded. If there is a clean morning - The fiery feather of the Dawn star will stretch me forever. Will my hour strike in the vigilant Daytime silence - Under the laughter behind the bulkhead I will carelessly fall asleep. Will the appointed time come In the evening ringing haze, - Rocked by the murmur of nests, I will crouch to the ground. If the night is gloomy - Cricket will not sleep with me, And I will forget myself, thinking That the day will come again. And the terrible, beloved, All the bitter ardor of the earth Will go into the irretrievable Long before me.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
Oh, how bitter is the melancholy of moments, Like the eternal torment of salt - My last desires From the abyss, a wave has arisen! Burdened with unearthly heat, Greedy with unknown depths, She burned my whiskey not in vain Burned with icy passion. In the gaps of inevitable death, In the gorges of pernicious evil - She found her melodious sigh, She found her sweet voice.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
Where is the music from? - I do not know. I was twilight here in a corner and thought: What a sweet life, that (after all) love is Stronger than death, that flowers are beautiful (And even bells), that labor Crystallizes the soul, but a living heart beats in stone. A neighbor meanwhile tuned the guitar. Then I casually dozed off. I woke up... And I didn't hear the music.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
Memories of my cat
In the friendly family of cats, you were numbered among the villains. And you lived and died otherwise, Than God's law requires. We lived together. In a different body, But in the deafness of one prison. We both didn't want to cry, We didn't know how to purr. One burned us anxiety. They fled in their dumbness, The poet - from his neighbor and God, And the cat - from cats and people. And, finding no support in the world, You wished to pray to me, As I prayed to the one I did not comprehend in earthly fire. We've been separated. Evil resentment Was each doomed in a different way. And you hated people, As I am the divine law. And, thrown out by a rough hand In the desert, in the cold, in the void, You climbed into the place where the pipes freeze, Where the terrible stars bloom... And there, huddled under the rafters, You waited - hours, years, centuries - To hug, so the master's hand sheltered you. And, with the rebellious body of the beast, Burning in a slow delirium, You couldn't believe until the end, That I won't remember, I won't come... I didn't come. But trust me, dear: I will die the same death. I, too, will hide under the rafters, I will hide in the attic hole. I recognize the horror of long trembling And bitter delirium of anticipation. And my death hour will also be No one's love will warm.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
I understand the world with its spring, I understand People with their holiday (my window Shines like everyone else), I understand the death of My tulips (it moved into them, As soon as they were cut off, even though they ripened bloodily on the table, opening Towards death, which is now in the night She drank their stems, Charred their petals, broke their leaves), - But why the burnt stamens Still raise a cloud of love And embrace the Withered pistil with black dust of death, - but where does the song come from?
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
Poem about a young sickle
Nose in the collar, face under the hat (so a hanger would Wander), over the shoulder A purse of groceries, - on a February evening, A little warmer and with a hint of Steel purple, a Not too young citizen walked along the boulevard. Rooks bawled in spreading lashes of Trees. Something solid from there (Ice or bough) suddenly gave a slap on the back of the head to a passer-by, - and the hat, Moving on the axis, opened His eyes. A newborn sickle, Mirror-sophisticated, got lost In rook nests - and one of the most splintered rooks, letting in all its claws Into its chiseled edge, all feathers Ruffled, rolling his eyes, wheezing From admiration, hovered in the blue On a golden swing. The world is young And lonely, it is not threatened by either the swelling of the veins, or the senile stupor of loss. Diving in the blue ether, He will run countless circles With a glass bead. Then, having broken into a million fragments, it will cease to exist. And with an audible ringing, the universe will sigh about him ...
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
Poet
Among the bare walls, eaten by bugs, Neither in death nor in passion, not believing for a long time, The poet sits, and stares out the window, And wearily asks the memory. Below - the avenue with lights and crowds, Here - the ridges of the roofs, deserted and dark. Wine flared up in the empty glass. The stars rise in timid steps. With a pen he waves in the vial, To break up the thickened moisture, - And a light line, sliding to the line, A blot pattern falls on the paper. Russian poetry is alive, While words are born from blots.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
1 Objects of organic nature Silent. And only a man Shouts: I love! - caressing his beloved (As if he had lost her), and in a cry Such pain, such death that the stars Fall from the withered zenith And leaves from the demagnetized branches. 2 The world prays for affection (losing a soul is more terrible than life). Love your people (Like clothes), according to the laws of the fugue Grow your thought, skate, - And the terrible judgment will have to be postponed.
Alexander Kochetkov. Don't part with your loved ones! Poems and poems. Moscow: Soviet Writer, 1985.
* * *
The day passes on its own way, And the sun does not close the eyelids. Like a heavy-horned white tour, Kazbek stood over the mountain distance. And the Orphic lyre Rings for me, rings from afar: She, like the last day of the world, And luminous, and bitter!
"Don't part with your loved ones..."
Boris ROSENFELD
Representing: Kislovodsk. The wide canvas of Shirokaya Street. An imposing, large, handsome man, fashionably dressed, in a hat and with a cane, approaches the gate of a beautiful mansion. He knocks on the gate leading to a two-story mansion owned by Inna Grigoryevna Prozriteleva. This address is well known both to the residents of Kislovodsk and to the visiting celebrities of the reading room located here with magazines, books, newspapers. Poems are read here, music is played ...
Who's there?
- Count Alexei Nikolaevich Tolstoy ...
This is not a mistake or an exaggeration. In the 30-40s, Maximilian Voloshin, Vyacheslav Ivanov, and representatives of the local poetic "beau monde" - Mikhail Dolinsky, Tatyana Chugay, Alexei Slavyansky, as well as guests from Vladikavkaz - Vera Merkurieva, Evgeny Arkhipov, were welcome guests in this mansion. Sergey Argashev, Mikhail Slobodskoy.
The hospitality of the hosts knew no bounds. The charming Inna Grigoryevna, who was not called otherwise, like Inusya, and her husband Alexander Sergeyevich Kochetkov constituted that amazing center of attraction for the artistic intelligentsia, whose address was also known in metropolitan circles.
So I touched on this name: Alexander Kochetkov, poet, translator, playwright, enthusiastic heart.
I am grateful to the occasion and the generous gift of a kind heart: the precious collection "Kislovodsk Notebook" by Alexander Kochetkov was brought to the Museum of Musical and Theatrical Culture. The oldest singer of the Kislovodsk Philharmonic, Nonna Evdokimovna Vatutina, parted with an expensive rarity, enriching the museum's funds: "Let more people know about this wonderful poet!"
The Kislovodsk Notebook contains 100 typewritten pages, 20 of which were published in the Golden Zurna. Three poems were published by me in the Riga magazine "Daugava" (No. 5, 2000).
In 1985, Kochetkov's first collection of poetry, “Don't part with your loved ones! (M., Soviet Writer, 1985), compiled by Lev Ozerov. In the preface, he wrote: “Until now, we are in great debt to the memory of Alexander Kochetkov. It has not yet been fully shown to the reading public... Behind Kochetkov's works their creator emerges - a man of great kindness and honesty. He has the gift of compassion for someone else's misfortune ... He was an artist in everything. He didn’t have any money, and if they did, they immediately migrated under the pillow of the sick and into the empty wallets of the needy ... ”
The fact that such a collection has appeared is wonderful!.. But it's still not enough. And I really want to remind you of the poet - modest, not chasing fame and popularity, not sticking out his own "I", not claiming to be a poetic celebrity.
And the fame and popularity of Kochetkov were undeniable. They only hid in the shadow of his modesty. Glory turned out to be somehow anonymous, but truly nationwide.
I am sure that 90 percent of the polled lovers and connoisseurs of poetry will not name the author of the famous poem "The Ballad of a Smoky Car", better known for the line "Do not part with your loved ones ...". The author's name is Alexander Kochetkov!
During the war, these poems were copied in letters to relatives by soldiers on the front line. They are set to music. They sounded in the film by Eldar Ryazanov "The Irony of Fate ...".
... Let's scoop up the spring water of Kochetkov's poetry with the palm of our hand, refresh the soul with transparent and gentle verses:
I do not believe the prophecies, Sounding to me more than once: What will be loneliness, the hour of death is bitter for me. If that dream did not take possession of mortal eyes, - I am forever surrounded by inconspicuous friends. If there is a clean morning - The dawn star will stretch out forever To me a fiery feather.
Friends called Alexander Sergeevich "our Pushkin." The companies were cheerful, noisy, with tea parties and pies, with the enduring benevolence and hospitality of Inushi ... And, of course, with poems born “on the occasion” or simply at the behest of the soul. Count A.N. Tolstoy did not know that there was no need to knock on the gate on Shirokaya Street in Kislovodsk. She has always been open.
With pain in my heart I state: that mansion no longer exists, it was demolished by state-owned and indifferent hands. And what a museum of our intelligentsia could be!..
Kochetkov was born on May 12, 1900. Died at the age of 53. Lived a shame a little. Wrote, translated, composed a lot. He loved and was loved by the most beautiful of women. He was married to her. She, his charming muse, is Inna Grigorievna Prozriteleva, the daughter of a local historian and founder of the Stavropol Museum of Local Lore - Grigory Nikolaevich Prozritelev. His name is immortalized on the memorial plaque of the museum: “named after G.N. Prozritelev and G.K. Prave”.
In Stavropol, sometimes "young" also lived in Prozritelev's house. But both Alexander Sergeevich and Inusya were always attracted by Kislovodsk, which they loved, loved their famous house, to the light of which, like butterflies to the light, people of a sensitive soul and ardent imagination flocked.
Favorite holidays here were birthdays, which were celebrated by everyone and always: friends were invited, the “birthday cake” was obligatory. Alexander Sergeevich did not like to celebrate his dates, but he willingly dedicated poems to his friends. This was the main gift to the hero of the occasion. And especially if the birthday girl was his wife:
Oh, why in those days, in those nights, I did not come to your call?
Poems flowed, they were free and comfortable to live in the big heart of the poet. And how painful were the trips to the editorial offices of newspapers and magazines for him! .. “He was helpless in arranging the fate of his works,” says Lev Ozerov. - He was afraid of rudeness and tactlessness ... He was affable and friendly ... He had a gait that you rarely see: melodic, helpful ... ".
I do not want the reader to get the impression that the Kochetkovs have been associated all their lives only with the Caucasus, for which they have never hidden their great love. There was also Moscow, where they lived, where they met with friends, where they "fueled" with the mood of the seething literary life, visited libraries, publishing houses, editorial offices, archives. They mostly returned to Moscow, because Alexander Sergeevich himself was “bloodly” connected with her - he was born on Losiny Ostrov, Moscow Region, where he graduated from high school, at the age of 17 he entered the philological faculty of Moscow State University. From Moscow he was mobilized into the Red Army - until 1919. Then I had to work as a librarian and literary consultant. And all the years, starting to write at the age of 14, he worked on poetry.
In addition to his own poems, Kochetkov masterfully translated into Russian the Hungarian A. Gidash, the Georgian poets A. Tsereteli, T. Tsbieri and V. Gaprindashvili, the poets of the East - Khafiz, Anvari, Farrukhi, Unsari, Es-khabib Vafa. Is it possible to forget his translations of Schiller, Corneille, Racine, Beranger?..
And this is very difficult work. No wonder A. S. Pushkin argued that "translators are the postal horses of enlightenment."
Kochetkov was interested in dramaturgy. In collaboration with K. Lipskerov and S. Shervinsky, he wrote plays in verse - "Nadezhda Durova" and "Free Flemings". They were staged, enjoyed the same success as his own play about Nicolaus Copernicus. By the way, the play "Nadezhda Durova" saw the stage light much earlier than "a long time ago" by A. Gladkov on the same topic. "Nadezhda Durov" directed by Yuri Zavadsky.
... Throughout the war, Kochetkov lived in Tashkent, where he barely made ends meet with literary translations, but he found great joy in communicating with Maria Petrova and Anna Akhmatova, other writers, whom the war brought to this "city of bread" during the evacuation.
Poetry warmed the souls of people in the fierce years of general misfortune ...
Now, in the 21st century, there is a clear decline in "poetic love" ... And yet! I think, "inspecting" the 20th century, we should not forget a single name of the "poetic century". Big and well-known names are always heard, but it happens that they do not stand the test of time. After all, it is no secret that the poets who were "at the helm" first of all published themselves, and for decency - a few others. And they “flicked through” the name of Alexander Kochetkov!.. Only in 1966 did his most common poem “The Ballad of a Smoky Carriage” appear in the almanac “Day of Poetry” ...
Don't part with your loved ones! Don't part with your loved ones! Don't part with your loved ones! With all your blood sprout in them - And every time say goodbye forever! And every time forever say goodbye, And every time forever say goodbye. When you leave for a moment!
The very fact of the birth of this poem is very important for us: it is connected with our land.
... Summer 1932. As always, Inna Grigorievna and Alexander Sergeevich spent these blessed months in the Caucasus. They lived in Stavropol, from there, together with friends, they decided to return to Moscow: the vacation was ending, tickets for the Stavropol-Moscow train had already been bought.
Why did Inna Grigorievna beg her husband to stay for another couple of days? She probably wouldn't have answered this question herself. But they changed the tickets... And the train that left on Saturday crashed! The train in which their friends left without the Kochetkovs. Many of them died ... "We were saved by love," Inna Grigoryevna would later write from Moscow.
Reading each poem, I am sure that each of them has its own story, its own truth, its own reason.
Poems are written when the heart beats in unison with feelings, verses are written in the rhythm of the heart ... All the verses of Alexander Kochetkov are written in this way. He was not a member of the Writers' Union, had no ranks and awards, had no titles. But he had the main thing: he was a real person.
* * * The gravel is pierced with lunar whiteness, Carved tobacco flows good poisons. May the night be merciless with me! Let there be night! I don't want mercy! Oh, how tragically bright she is At the hour of the full moon, in the month of withering! Let there be night - the sacred ignorance of the Day plexus of goodness and evil! Horseshoe of happiness About what, two-faced find, You so blissfully sing to me, - Like a tambourine, joyfully and clearly calling out Your lie? Until now, betrayed by belief, I listen, and a clear arc Seems to me a longed-for door On the shore's youthful passion. But, exhausted by the breath of myrrh And wrapping happiness in my hands, I see a light outline of the lyre In its curved sides ... Isn't that why you sang to me lofty lies About happiness - So chaste and bold, How can you not sing to lovers? * * * Oh, the light joy of half-closed eyelids! I don't need, I don't need neither happiness nor hope. Defeated idols, Porphyry fell from their shoulders. No need for an angry lyre - Let the speech be gentle! Before inevitable death, Before fatal life I swear: I will not offend your rebellious hearing with a prayer! Blissfully devoted to the miracle of your Appearance, I swear: I will remain forever His humble guardian! No pity, no anger, I'm not afraid of laughter. At your feet, O Virgin, I will remain forever. I swear! I don't need, I don't need No helmet, no shield. Oh, easy joy, Oh, sweet vanity! * * * In a light helmet and visor A stately man-at-arms on a horse... So at first. So at first I dreamed about a dream. The air is drunk, the azure is bottomless, The eyes are a flame, the heart is a sigh. Here is the old Madonna At the crossroads of three roads ... So her clothes are white, So fragile is her hand! Eyebrows are thin - like arrows of the Ultimate shooter. Blue lights will flash - And an arrow will fly up, ringing. All covenants, all vows Will resolve the darkness of the night. The moon will raise a white shield Against spears of black needles. Who will remove the bandage from the heart, Quietly clinking a bowstring? And the one who sees will cry And sing an unwise verse. What does it mean?.. What does it mean?.. Shield and sword are at your feet. * * * I joked yesterday, I'm joking today, I burned for centuries - and I'm burning again! And again I talk about the secrets of the underworld In transparent iambs. And to you, friends, I go willingly, I love your calm comfort, When tea is carefree The hours are short. That evening it will be very nice, I will be asked to read ... And suddenly from the soul - "by force from outside" Will tear off the "spell seal"! And to zealous skeptics of all kinds, Giving food for wit, On a hundred stinging fragments My verse, like a bomb, will break! ..