The poet Nikolay Tryapkin is a family tragedy. Tryapkin, Nikolai Ivanovich. He sighed, did not grieve, did not wander
Tryapkin Nikolai Ivanovich was born in 1918 in the family of a peasant carpenter; in 1930, the family moved to the suburban village. Lotoshino. There Tryapkin graduated from high school and in 1939 entered the Moscow Institute of History and Archives.
The outbreak of war dramatically changed the course of his life; not getting to the front for health reasons, Tryapkin, among the evacuees, finds himself in a small village near Solvychegodsk, where, working as an accountant, for the first time he seriously turns to poetry.
The nature and history of the Russian North contributed to the awakening of Tryapkin's talent, gave rich food for feeling and imagination. Since then, the poet's connection with the land, with the rural way of life, with the habitable comfort of the hut, farmstead, outskirts has been steadily growing stronger, and even the poet's subsequent move to Moscow does not weaken it.
In autumn 1943 Tryapkin returned home to his parents. He experienced the public upsurge of the post-war "recovery" period as a "holiday of his poetic youth", which was reflected in his poems "Life" (1945), "Sunday", (1946). In 1945 there was a meeting with P. G. Antokolsky, who approved Tryapkin's first experiments and contributed to their publication in the October magazine (1946. No. 11). F.I. Panferov, the then editor of October, treated the beginning poet very favorably, which Tryapkin later recalled with gratitude more than once ( "Poems about Fedor Panferov", 1979).
Tryapkin knows how to poetically settle down different eras, get along with them; even in difficult times to distinguish light tones, sonorous and peppy sounds. This is how the first post-war decade echoed in his poems, this is how he creates “Rooks, streams and wires / Pre-sowing lyrics”, where not only pictures of field work, rural life find their place, but also the language of collective farm reports, newspaper reports - the same “district weekdays”, about which essay prose soon spoke. At the same time, Tryapkin noticeably moderated the “megaphone” loudness of the verse, which was not uncommon in the poetry of those years, and introduced human-warm notes into major themes.
Having discovered the North for himself in the 1940s, the land of the “old man Zimogor”, Tryapkin deeply felt its beauty, as if he conveyed it darkened from antiquity, from the forest dusk, from the oven smoke of the paint in the Tansy cycle (1946). Hence a number of images, lyrical plots diverge in other verses, enriched there with new details and shades (, "Desire",). In such things, a lot goes back to creativity. N. Klyueva, from whom Tryapkin learned to see the indigenous Northern Russia, learned to speak about it in a tightly knitted, multi-colored word. And later, “that secret man from Olonets” remained close to Tryapkin, who lay down, “mossy, like a boulder, near the track of the iron Yegorye” - so allegorically named Klyuev in the poem "Tradition" (1973).
Since 1953, Tryapkin's poetry collections have been published - The First Furrow (1953), White Night (1956), Chantings (1958). In the last book, the most important property of Tryapkin's verse, melodiousness, came out especially clearly. She does not so much reproduce ready-made song and musical forms of folklore (although Tryapkin is skilled in this, knowing, however, the measure), but directly expresses the melodious warehouse of the poet's soul and speech. In this property, Tryapkin inherits, together with M. Isakovsky, A. Prokofiev"song share" of the Russian word, both folk and literary. Song voices, different in timbre, intonations, permeate Tryapkin's work - sometimes sincere, lingering (, 1955;, 1969), then lively, daring ( “Like today over the Donetsk steppe…”, 1966).
With the song word, Tryapkin also gets along well with the skaz, also folk speech in its essence - in the “zabubenny tale” about Stepan (“Stepan”, 1966), in such verses as "The Song of Walking in the Land of Palestine"(1959, 1973). Over time, Tryapkin begins to gravitate towards the convergence of his lyrical narrative with the literary tradition of the poetic story in its version, which is widely represented in Tvardovsky. This is evidenced by a large two-part cycle "From the family chronicle" (1982).
Even in Tansy, Tryapkin's ability to connect distant eras, concepts, feelings in integral images was discovered. The present day is intertwined with "dense antiquity", legendary figures coexist with the poet's relatives, mythological creatures are as tangible as the inhabitants of the forest, like domestic animals. And naturally, in Tryapkin’s verse, the old bookish word (“tablets”) fits into the folk spoken (“young-bed beds”), with the local northern one (“kimarit margasik”), with a new word of Soviet use. It is not for nothing that the word “collective farm”, which seems to be alien here, obeying the general integrity, takes on a form and meaning that does not contradict the “dense dialect”: the collective farm calendar looks here like pagan calendars that “Domovoi reads” “on stucco stoves, the same age as Kashchei”. Tryapkin is fond of foundations, near which, as around the axis of the universe, time slowly rotates, and does not run vainly and without a trace; he cherishes an indestructible life, where “Christ Himself does not argue with novelty” and “where great-grandfather Svyatogor does not grow old in the tablets.”
From an ancestor who worships the forces of nature, almost merging with it, the poet comes to us through "forgotten milestones, the stalled distances of the long lived." In the poem, which begins with the above lines (1965), an excellent image of the legendary historical memory of the people is given: “From new ears, from ancient sorrow / A word will be tied” - and all the links of the past are resurrected: from “my glorious antiquity”, from Grishka Otrepiev and Stepan Razin until that bitter time, when "it was not Rurik who hit on the cheekbones, but his own Kuzka-Overmot" ( "Behind the dust of the Khan's raid...", 1965), to "Vanka-odnolishnik", until the last war.
Sometimes some kind of self-willed element can break into the historical order of events and destinies in Tryapkin - then “ages and dates” mix up, the poet becomes “a tenant of God knows what times”, as if immersed in prehistoric existence. And there, in the primordial darkness of the "invisible well", the subterranean currents of time meet, poetry is born there and is born in the "newborn" word (as V. Kozhinov accurately said in the preface to Tryapkin's "Chosen One", 1980): "The spirit perked up, the poet has risen / From heavy slumbers, from dead mud” (, 1958) - in this breakthrough to being, both the poet’s will to create and the pressure of people’s life, seeking expression for itself, act. Tryapkin realizes himself as the spokesman for the latter; He repeatedly declares his connection with her. Sharply playing on the common formula of democratic origin, he declares: “No, I did not come from the people. / Oh, black-boned breed! / From your cool family / I didn’t go anywhere” (, 1982). In this vein, Tryapkin creates a kind of poetic “philosophy of a common cause”, stemming from the moral ideals of the people, from the traditions of Russian thought and literature, which almost programmatically affected the 1966 poem: / Who is with us? Who is with us and to the clear sun? / Who is with us? /…/ Who is with us for a free song? / Who is with us? / Who is with us for the Russian word? / Who is with us? The whole poem responds to this cheerful, broad cry with a many-voiced response - “We are with you!”, In which communal strength, communal faith in goodness sounds. With the greatest integrity and expression, such a sense of life is conveyed in a poem (1971), where everything is permeated with the freshness of a clear autumn, free and at the same time filled with mature strength, “thick, coppery”, not afraid of bad weather and “stubborn undead”.
V. A. Kotelnikov
Russian literature of the XX century. Prose writers, poets, playwrights. Biobibliographic dictionary. Volume 3. P - Ya. 519-521.
TRYAPKIN, Nikolai Ivanovich (b. December 19, 1918, village of Sablino, Tver province) - Russian Soviet poet. Born into a peasant family. He studied at the Moscow Institute of History and Archives (1939-41) and at the Higher Literary Courses (1956-58). He began to publish in 1945. Author of collections of poems: "The First Furrow" (1953), "White Night" (1956), "Chants" (1958), "Krasnopolye" (1962), "Crossroads" (1962), "Songs of the Great Rains "(1965), "Silver Ponds" (1966), "The Loon Flew" (1967), "The Nest of My Fathers" (1967), etc. In Tryapkin's early poems, traces of various influences are noticeable, from N. Klyueva and S. Yesenina before M. Isakovsky and A. Prokofieva. Mature Tryapkin's poems are distinguished by the sincerity of expressing feelings, a variety of forms, and melodiousness. Much of Tryapkin's poetry comes from Russian folklore and from the carefully studied speech of the modern peasantry.
Op.: Chrysostom. Fav. poetry. [Foreword. N. Bannikova], M., 1971; Swan geese. Poetry. [Intro. Art. V. Zhuravleva], M., 1971.
Lit .: Lvov S., ... This is everything, as it once was ..., “Lit. newspaper”, 1947, 20 Dec.; Karp P., Poems by Nikolai Tryapkin, "Star", 1954, No. 4; Ermilova E., “I came out from where everything can be done all over again”, “Znamya”, 1963, No. 1; Mikhailov Al., "Among the enchanted herbs ...", "Friendship of Peoples", 1969, No. 2; Kozhinov V., Two layers, “Mol. guard”, 1969, No. 1; Kulikov S., The reality of talent. About the poems of N. Tryapkin, “Lit. newspaper”, 1969, 24 Dec.
L. M. Volpe
Brief literary encyclopedia: In 9 volumes - V. 7. - M .: Soviet encyclopedia, 1972
Tryapkin Nikolai Ivanovich (19.12.1918-20.02.1999), poet. Born in the village of Sablino, Tver province. in the family of a peasant carpenter. In 1930, under the threat of dispossession, the family moved to the village. Lotoshino, where Tryapkin graduated from high school. In 1939 he entered the Moscow Institute of History and Archives. With the outbreak of war, Tryapkin, who did not get to the front for health reasons, was among the evacuees near Solvychegodsk, where he worked as an accountant.
Tryapkin wrote his first poems while still studying at the institute. But it was in the Russian North that his poetic voice gained true power. “Indigenous Russian way of life, indigenous Russian word, indigenous Russian people…” he wrote in his autobiography. - For the first time, my eyes were opened to Russia and Russian poetry, because I saw all this with some special, “internal” vision. And somewhere there, very close, the beautiful Vychegda merges with the beautiful Dvina. Wooden Kotlas and its blue pier - so majestic and so visible from afar! And everywhere - great forests, overshadowed by great legends. All this is very good for beginning poets. For the air itself is such that the heart is cleansed and becomes melodious. And for the first time I began to write poems that fascinated me myself. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. It was as if I was reborn, or someone doused me with magical moisture. Criticism noted the similarity of Tryapkin's early poems with the poems of N. Klyuev, and the poet himself subsequently wrote about this:
Do not bawl you patterned, accordion!
You collective farm troika, stop!
We will be credited with the Klychkov cat,
What purrs about Noah's flood.
The poet developed and grew over decades, slowly, steadily improving his talent. Over time, what only showed itself in separate strokes and made it possible to speak of Tryapkin as the heir of N. Klyuev (who was not published in Russia from 1928 to 1977), acquired a full-fledged sound already at the time when it became clear that Tryapkin did not limit himself to carefully preserved heritage. In his poetry, the free song of the peasant lyre, cut off during the “eves”, found its second wind, found its new sound in the voice of a man who retained in his memory both the tragic 30s and the tragic 40s - the entire terrible era of the “great turning point”:
Wake up, my heart, and listen to the great chant.
Let the eternal Time buzz at the unknown beginnings.
Let the other fly after the Other,
And You and I are only reeds under such a wind.
Over the years, the defining motive of Tryapkin's creativity, the motive of Memory, was revealed. A memory that carries in itself everything heavy, tragic, hysterical that is concentrated in the history of the destruction of the Russian peasantry and its original culture, which has reached its climax in these damned days. This theme did not make itself felt immediately - time had to pass before the experienced, accumulated, began to be embodied in poetry. Tryapkin is by no means hysterical; he paid a generous tribute to the laughter, song and dance element of folk art. There are not so few poems in his legacy in which he is not averse to making fun of himself and others kindly, and sometimes laughing caustically. And yet, if you read his poems in chronological order, the feeling of earthly heaviness and pain for the lost time will grow. The memory of the poet is cut in two by a border, on one side of which one can hear the “ringing of war hooves” and the creak of a baby’s cradle, and on the other side - completely different, disturbing sounds - the crackling of a broken tree and the dreary howl of a snowstorm. The flute singing over the churchyard is not yet a symbol of the end of life, it is only a stage, a terrible segment that several generations go through, so that those to whom God has given survive and are able to convey their bitter story to their descendants, to sing an old, folk, full of reckless revelry and heartfelt anguish, now almost forgotten song ... ("We fell in love with this song, but we rushed through our bones ..."). Slowly, step by step, the poet approached the epic tale of his genealogy. The first chapters of it were written in n. 80s, when Tryapkin gained epic poetic power, when previous separate attempts to combine time layers merged into a single picture of the tragedy, in which the recent past and visions of raids and seizures, migrations of peoples and their disappearance from the face of the earth, separated by millennia, organically merged:
And the hammer pounded, clogging the windows with slabs,
And the shovel in the garden fell asleep at the cellar manhole.
And the native hut, which got wet from mother's tears,
It sounded like a coffin, waiting for us from time immemorial.
It was like a myth. It was in those years
Where a gigantic battering ram hit the earth's limestone.
And the earth rumbled. And the universal vaults thundered.
And the old ferry went to the oceans.
Tryapkin combined in his poetry heterogeneous linguistic layers - three main layers in an inseparable unity: the folklore layer, the layer developed by Russian classical poetry of the 19th century, and the layer of modern living spoken language. Over the years, the song line did not “come to naught”, but the main place in Tryapkin’s work was occupied by verses of a philosophical warehouse. The "peasant" tradition is reflected in them in sharp publicistic pathos, with which the poet emphasizes his belonging to the people, his peasant essence. Publicistic pathos, corresponding to the difficult movement of a poetic note, breaking out of hidden depths, is akin to the “Abvakum” pathos of his great predecessor, N. Klyuev. In Tradition, dedicated to the memory of Habakkuk of the twentieth century, Tryapkin emphasizes the organic connection of the poetic word with nature, with Mother Earth. The word, which has deep roots in folk soil, in the national element, will not disappear and will not perish, even if it exists for a long time under a bushel in other dramatic moments of history, covered by an invisible veil of Mystery that hides from the uninitiated the divine poetic melody:
He threw himself under that heel,
From under which - smoke, and dust, and flames.
Why do we all remember that rage
And we will not forgive that death with relics?
Long ago we forgave those
To whom God himself would not grant forgiveness.
And this old man! This wretched bastard!
Why are more stones flying at him?
The Universal Time in the poet's creative mind shrinks, whole millennia rush by within a few hours. In a single second of being, there are the Birth and Decline of human civilization, the conception of the Universe and the disintegration of the nodal roots of earthly existence. In an indissoluble unity, nationwide, state-national views and universal, cosmic thought are intertwined. The embodiment of universality, the simultaneity of everything that happens on Earth and in infinity is available to the poet. As if in a spiral, he expands his spiritual world, which gives him from time to time the opportunity to push the boundaries of the beautiful aesthetic tradition inherited from Klyuev. Here, on the verge of the Earth and the Cosmos, the poet's eyes open to the past, present and future, here he is the creator of the world. Russia itself becomes a part of the Cosmos, crowns the earth with its luminous crown:
black, polar,
Somewhere in the night distance
Glowing Rus radar
Above the head of the earth...
May you not be the power of the cross
And not a fiend of evil,
Whole under heaven
I lay down in your paws.
The combination of real and historical layers, so characteristic of the poet, was most clearly embodied in his "biblical" cycle, in particular, in one of his best poems - "The Song of Walking in the Land of Palestine." The legend told by the poet about his pilgrim grandfather is perceived as a reality, but at the same time as a distant past, shrouded in an idyllic haze, which has nothing to do with the tragedy that modern “Davids” are doing on the Jordanian shores.
The conviction of inevitable retribution merges in Tryapkin's voice with a tragic note when referring to history and the universe on behalf of the dead, in the voice of the poet, who took on their pain and embodied it in lines that acquired prophetic power, penetrating the earthly circle and cosmic distances:
The earth rumbled. And at night the horizons burned
The seas roared. And the fires of the batteries scurried about ...
Forgive me, mother, who played the quiet flute
And the child was carried away - away from terrible people ...
I curse myself. And I will not accept all my passions.
This is me knocking on your reserved doors.
Forgive me, mother, who sanctified the sinful earth.
For my unfaithfulness. For my great lies.
In the last years of his life, Tryapkin was very upset by the collapse of the country and the reign of foreignness in it: “Both the Fritz, and the Lyakh, and the Tatar, there was enough of another boor. But you, Moscow, have not seen such vomit and shame ... And all our snouts are a bared mouth. And the gorilla is dancing at our gates.<…>Huge nits grow fat in the ground. And serut Hasidim in the Moscow Kremlin.
The song talent of the finest lyricist did not dry out, but in his poetry the note of resistance to the black power that covered Russia sounded more and more clearly. Poems imbued with this feeling were published exclusively on the pages of the Zavtra newspaper and the Our Contemporary magazine.
Taken from the site
He sighed, did not grieve, did not wander ...
He sighed, did not grieve, did not wander
Near the white manor house
And did not compare the bronze railings
With your beaten straw.
And at the celebration of May nights
Evil annoyance did not take me,
What the nightingale did not sing to me
What a grove shone in bloom!
What a flute called incessantly! ..
Why, how many thunderstorms are there in the wind
It flew by, scorching everything with fire!
Nothing! You listen with me:
Over the bay that hid in the thickets,
White garden on a wave of wind
White noise with might and main dispersed.
He makes noise in dozens of frets
About the land full-blooded and honest,
And in the canvases of his sails -
The unceasing voice of the resurrection.
And the carousel flies with the children,
And it buzzes, wound up with a current.
And the evening hop calls
To dream at the high fence.
Come and do not regret minutes
And you don't have to be upset at all.
What the nightingale did not sing to us
In the white grove of the master's garden.
And life has passed. Finished drawing.
Let's fix the stove. And meet the cold.
And only a vague rumble of memories
Passes suddenly through the veins sometimes.
He will sweep there, as in the mines of water,
A rumble will rush - and again oblivion.
And before the ancient twilight of nature
A candle is burning - my window.
And on the ground mazuriki
And on earth, the Mazuriks live for themselves, live.
And daughters kiss on the cheek and marry off.
And everything with them, Mazuriks, is in order, as always:
And Lermontov under a bullet, and a position though where.
They live with devils, they live with angels,
And everything around, on occasion, will be stripped of sticky.
And you, warrior, righteous, well, who are you?
Walking, new Lermontov, hungry and barefoot.
And everyone grins: you are a fool, they say, a fool
The beards are all rendered, and now everything is not so.
And it's snowing outside
And it's snowing outside, and it's snowing outside,
And it's snowing outside, snowing.
How many roofs I see there, how many I see lay down there,
Powdered roofs, fell ill!
And in my skete there is wilderness, and in my skete there is silence,
And in my skete the wilderness, silence.
Only the rustle of pages and a baking mouse,
Careful mouse, mouse.
And outside the windows there is a creak, and outside the windows there is a run,
And above the log cabins - snow, snow.
How many mountains are there! How many rivers are there
And above them all - snow, snow ...
The furnace is flooded, night is approaching.
And they mix - oven, night.
And there is light in my soul. And hit mine - away.
And my longing - away, away.
Spirit lights up. Breathing is taking place.
(And on the street - snow, snow.)
Only the rustle of pages. Yes, the candles of this flash.
(And outside the windows - snow, snow.)
And in my bones - a crunch. And on the perch - a thrush.
Oh, on the perches - thrush, thrush.
And my words - in growth. And my suffering is growing.
And my flowers - in growth, in growth.
And outside the windows - snow. And outside the windows - snow.
And outside the windows - snow, snow.
Because of a thousand mountains. Because of a thousand rivers.
Enchanted snow, snow...
And how many of them were at our table!...
And how many of them were at our table!
And how much goodness flaunted on it!
And how many lofty speeches were heard!
And how many cheerful ladles were drunk!
And now they are - a thunderstorm,
And our salt - but in our eyes.
And we repeat the old lesson:
And life is forgotten, and beer is not for the future.
And that's what I always mean...
And that's what I always mean
When I walk through the meadow along the daisies:
What are these daisies and this earth
They live, dividing their flesh among themselves, -
They feed each other, and drink their salt,
And in the song of the bees in a year they will sing.
And in this work of flowers and earth
And the former bees and grasses have gone,
Snow-thaws have gone - and they will go again,
And my ancestors are always here;
And I myself and you through the years, then,
We will enter the living circles of the universe.
And a distant descendant - funny Adam -
That's the same hand touches us.
And we will be with you - the earth and grass.
And tell descendant Well these words:
That's supposedly what chamomile blossom,
And my ancestors - always here ...
We nodded, lifted up the stems,
That there is no death, and death - nothing.
August rustled
Green tops of the willows.
He turned yellow birch branch on,
He swallows on the south he says.
Do you hear, dad? August rustled
About the fact that you yourself saw in the morning:
Last dandelion circled
Out our homestead on the hill.
And if - and the wind a manual,
And the pond under the drake bezburno sleeps ...
And yet - hlopochuschih foliage
And sails our poplar and noise.
And the swallows around scurry, scurry,
At the sound of distant hail cranes.
Green world will leave his comfort,
It is preparing to weigh anchor.
Green world will leave his comfort,
It is preparing to weigh anchor.
And the blue-gray haze floating, float
The hillside sloping fields.
Green world will leave his comfort,
Preparing to weigh anchor ...
And our blacksmiths forge, forge
Iron sole for sled.
And if so - come on, father, and we,
We equip your on the road.
Take the ax, straighten a minute before winter
Kolkhoz warehouse where corn Save.
And I'll go around our house,
Taking tow, konopatku and butt,
So as not to be thrust into the recesses of his later
Dodger-frost Nozdrin white fluff.
And to entice pobaski overnight
We blindly zvonkotrubny kamelok.
On the blue expanse of the spring river
Our way of blizzard is long and far.
White butterfly! White butterfly!
White butterfly! White butterfly!
The herbal hot land.
There, behind the hushed FOREST Capello
Crane heard a sob.
River running, bending over the clearing,
Yellow leaf chase.
The butterfly is white with chornenkim nose!
Summer went to the east.
Do you hear how the world runs in the wrong direction -
Mountains, forests, clouds?
Pine trees are buzzing - and an old crow
The last dream of the century.
How he lived in his youth, his youth
In the echoing forest depths ?!
You will die on the first cold.
Many eh stay and I ...
Duma influx, and pines sway,
Yellow leaf swirls.
River murmurs. Eyes closed.
Time runs east ...
Let hear a familiar song
There, for the Evening Star.
Maybe we are the July dromami
Tomorrow proveem with you.
Years will fly like falcon bold,
The world does not get tired to shine ...
White butterfly! White butterfly!
Who would have begotten us again!
Enchantment her life ...
Enchantment his life - leaving to the initial limits
Where I grew up - sprouted, spread flower, celandine.
I charge line, and in the shower ember inflates,
Vorozhba eh you are my! These lines then iterative strings!
Gorodba you're my only weapon! Outgoing from the soul runes!
Swam there, leaving to those distant beginnings,
Where everything is so good and so is everything in bulk!
Where any magpies sing like overseas birds,
Where any dust turns into the smell of chamomile.
I conjure a line. And in my soul I inflate the coal.
And I lay these fingers on my strings:
Are you my old man! The first ducks have arrived!
Are you my side! Meadow snows are the first trips!
Where are you, my unforgotten friend?
Where are you, my unforgotten friend?
I dream of a blurry shore,
I remember the ear of the night.
In the long and dark obscurity
The years have passed between us.
Where are you, whose name is for the song
Did you save my lips?
Youth - with a travel bag,
In the ashes - native housing.
Heart overgrown paths
Looking for your position.
Somewhere a valley will pierce
Morning in meadow flowers...
Where are you, my swan call,
What are the constellations in the sky?
In memory of V.I.Dal
Somewhere out there, in the midnight glow,
Above the earth, flickering for a moment,
Rises by an ancient vision
Immense as the sky, old man.
And over the roar of rivers full of water
Giant hand holding
House of folk concepts
And the sovereign purse of the language.
The timpani rumbles, the drum rumbles ...
The timpani rumbles, the drum rumbles,
At the Trinity Lavra - a Jewish shalman,
Let's sing.
Huge nits grow fat in the ground,
And Serut Hasidim in the Moscow Kremlin,
Let's sing.
And all our snouts are a bared mouth,
And the gorilla dances at our gates,
Let's sing.
My Coming Kindred
May they be illumined by the light of understanding
And they will bring all their roots
From the distant date of my birth.
And they will say this: “Here are our woods
They are always sprawling and young.
We do not have God's miracles in our family,
And the golden grandfather strings.
Ten years ago...
Ten years ago
I dreamed of glory.
And among us looking for a treasure
My State.
And I knew the power of my fear
In the father's house
And published his poems
In a solid volume.
And now there is no fear of mine
And there is no State.
And in the bitter smoke all the tops
And all ditches.
And I will not find those gates
And there is no building
Where I released every year
Your messages.
I'm pulling someone's hand
To love and faith
And he himself is in disbelief
At the door of death.
And all my songs -
In the rubbish pit.
And I wait at every track
Christ food.
And my whole soul screams
Like a captive falcon
And still strives to hide
From mortal life.
But once, dear brother,
We dreamed of fame
And among us looking for a treasure
My State.
And now there is no fear of mine
And there is no State.
And in the bitter smoke all the tops
And all ditches.
For the great Soviet Union!
For the most holy human brotherhood!
Oh Lord! Almighty Jesus!
Resurrect our earthly happiness.
Oh Lord! Lean over me.
We got wild in the abyss of pitch.
Sprinkle us with willow water,
Do not hold you supreme evil
For my shameful Babylons -
That I tore down Your domes,
What shredded I holy icons!
Fence! God forbid! Protect!
Raise from the bloody dungeons!
What is the pus in my old bone
What a stench from demonic harlots!
Oh Lord! Almighty Jesus!
Resurrect my earthly happiness.
Raise you my red union
To the Cross of His lectern.
For the spring fields
For the spring fields,
He took away the afternoon snack again.
For meadows, for weeding...
And again around me -
Only the sun and a bee
Greenery, greenery.
Yes, a familiar shrub,
Thickened at the end.
Yes, from the collective farm "Drummer"
Jumping runner.
Hooves rumbled
Somewhere out there, along the bridges, -
And forgotten by the mud
It suddenly fell at my feet.
Plantain trembled
And hushed angrily
And I stand - like an atheist
Before the saints.
Where are you, former craving
Earth kin?
And on the crest of the ravine
I barely get up.
For mowing, for weeding,
No matter how far you look,
Only blue, only Christmas tree
Yes, the village of Gribari.
Yes, kopecks, yes a broom,
Yes, maned rye ...
And other villages
And you won't find it in the pipe.
Or in shaggy manes
Lost in time?
Or floated once
For you, brother?
Let not so and not so.
Even though it's like this...
And the ancestor sits in me
And the fist seems to me.
Oh, Emelya, Emelya!
What is this? For whom?..
And I stand like a grouse
before his wrath.
And my soul is in scabs,
And in words - wastelands.
And I stand like a criminal
Before the voice of the earth.
And the earth laid out
It suddenly frowns
That sparkling shiver
Laugh around.
And go through the waters
Either light or smoke.
And the soul, like under honey,
Golden underneath.
Oh, you are my power - the field!
Kohl is guilty - I'm sorry.
Give me a song
For you to flourish.
Let the meadows not turn sour
And the bread will not burn.
And I swear before my soul -
Not a step back.
And the words that lay
Yes, under a deaf stone,
I'll raise it like tablets
Before your light
Viburnum laughed, blushing happily
Viburnum laughed, blushing happily,
Braided me in green braids.
And viburnum put on a beautiful ring for me
In glowing gems of dew.
Like owls, all around, with a blue veil,
Lightning fluttered in the meadow.
Here's something true, simple and broad
The accordion player played around.
But it seemed - on the slopes by revelation itself
Flickering ponds and haystacks.
But it seemed - a girl's tear from excitement
A blue drop escapes from the leaf.
And the viburnum whispered: “Take without a trace
All the ripe grapes are mine!
And we laughed with her, and believed sweetly
Into the undivided soul of the earth.
familiar field
A familiar field, and in the field - trenches and ditches,
Dried clay and a bush of half-dead grass.
Scattered pipes. Yes towers. Yes, again - yes.
A familiar field - mine - and not mine at all.
Sleep, my bitterness, and do not disturb my memory.
Let the high rye lean here like a swan.
Let the oats chime here and the herds roam.
Sleep, my bitterness. Let the eternal water flow.
Iron field. Iron and righteous hour.
The iron ring of grass under the feet of us.
Iron arches over us buzzing on weight.
Iron box. A field - in Ironwood.
Dried clay. Resin. Yes forgot drill.
Huge pipes lie in the deep ditches.
Familiar herbs have gone somewhere to nowhere.
And on top of us buzzing thick wire.
Wake up, my heart, and listen to the great chorale.
Let the eternal Time buzz at the unknown beginnings.
Let flies Others followed suit after the other,
And we are with you - only a blade of grass in the wind so.
And we'll only believe in the birth and growth
And their hands prepare for new grooves.
And let zalepechet over us another vine,
We only see the eternal sun in the eyes.
Familiar field and in the field - yes trench ditches.
Iron pine - tops in the mist blue.
Iron arches over us buzzing on weight ...
And my song is not lost in Ironwood.
And the great flame of the world passed ...
And the great flame of the world has passed,
Or rather - flashed!
And from the old forest only a bird's wing
And it is kept in a gold teremu
Yes, under the eternal glass.
A land zapropala in pitch smoke -
And myself do not find ...
Again cemetery. Pine trees and grass
Again cemetery. Pine trees and grass.
Fences. Plates. And the flowers of fireweed.
And pathetic eulogy,
Not read that without fear, without blushing.
And only hear - creaking corncrake.
Yes Do you hear the roar from the vaults of the universe ...
And then - knock undisputed drops:
No name or middle name. No titles.
I heated the fire-place. Good!...
I heated the fire-place. Good!
What! So, not all pouteryano.
And I was sitting in the warmth - the spine,
Not dead in the snow, under the snowstorms.
What kind of squeaks in the frosty porch?
What a deep sigh stove?
Or again become sad about us
Cranes for distant seas?
And what you saw a dream
In this hectic night, snow?
What! Arise, head of the gramophone,
Start this song gently.
Let the window peep drops
And in the snow prosineet proluzhina.
Take, as before bed
In its original, girlish lace.
And believe me, that not all departed,
That the snow is not all zaporosheno ...
And calls us again for the village
How to kill people?
How to kill people?
How to kill people?
I never saw people being killed.
I do not twist in gangs, and war did not take,
And in the torture chambers of my executioners did not throw,
And before he died, I did not ask the young Orlonka,
And on the ground I look through the eyes of a child.
But somewhere, sometime, and with someone, and someone
For me to do this evil care
And with the iron rule fighter and soldier
He opens the chest under the machine sight
Or choking someone into a dank cell ...
That's all it happens on our planet ...
And in all the fields I hear the ringing of the lark,
And I look at the eyes of the earth child ...
Oh, the country of my ancestors! Land dear!
This is what? What is my grace is that?
And in what I stand before you answer -
On such a crude and cruel world?
Only grass I whisper yes ears nod
Similarly themselves all friends die.
And I go for a lazy bumblebee voices,
And I sing the songs here on this flute.
And the flowers are responsible nods lan ...
This is what -
And there is real happiness?
When He was crucified, and spit upon,
Already uplift,
And on the cross burned ispolosovannaya
Sunset light -
The people clung to their privalischam -
For wedge wedge
And he cried to the high of the lists -
Almost one.
No one knew of Foot,
The dirt, dust,
Bent Mother, Parent of God -
Candle land.
Whom I will tell of the mysterious moan,
I will tell of someone?
"I forgive you all, O My Son, the only one
I forgive all. "
And he shouted, crying out to the sky starry -
To his fate.
Only Mother swallowed blood iron
With his nails.
We sped the days of the last millennium
The dirt, dust
About My Russia! Inflorescence incorruptible!
Candle earth!
And the same cross - outraged, spat upon.
And - for so many years!
And on the cross burning ispolosovannaya
Sunset light.
All the same cross ... And the breeze fluttering -
This, to me;
"Forgive all my suffering of the Son:
They're in the dark! "
I look at the Cross ... Yes Sgin you, damn the darkness!
Die, Snake!
About My Russia! Did you not there - Crucified?
About My Russia! ..
She is silent, starry sky to vozzrevshi
In its harvest season;
And only son swallows blood iron
With her nails.
spaceports
Somewhere there is a space launch,
Somewhere there is a space launch.
And over the world are universally thunder.
Fly away from the earth, these strange temples,
These ominous boom of smoke and sound,
That descend someone with some onions,
And pierce straight into the cap of the universe,
And born in the heart of other Legends:
Sends to the sky fire of Prometheus,
For life's dark transbaikalian forests:
Even in the charter school no one belmesa.
And in furnaces at this time in our derevnyushke
Howl, witches, cast iron dampers,
And in the night, full of a strange light,
Oven lights as live magneto.
And I could not help extinguish the fire cigarette,
And rather go for the run to the crossroads,
Where some spectra play on rye,
A power rattle around bodies ...
And I stand behind the hill, in a familiar glade,
And in the soul, is snared by something and somewhere,
Blue light bloom magneto ...
And, suddenly issuing hurricane scale,
Suddenly Shiba sky in window frames,
And the flying head over heels with shoals and bloomed
These Poshehonsky all our products.
And all around, all emitting the same glow,
As bayonet, riser freeze plants.
And tremble as in a fever, cranes,
A rumble in the power organs fields.
And the old lady with glasses, those that are taught from books,
They say because of the kids jumped desks:
And all of this earth, they say, the great Gaia
Sends to the sky Fire of Prometheus -
These ominous boom of thunder and light ...
Calm down, native.
And remember this.
Flying loon ...
Flying loon
flying loon
At the dawn of the vernal.
flying loon
With a sea cliff
Crude over the tundra.
And there in the marshes,
And there on the moor
Lingonberry blossomed.
And there on the moor
Smoked fogs
Deer grazed.
Flying loon
Screaming loon
Flap their wings.
flying loon
Over green moss,
Over the blue water.
Steaming swamps,
steaming swamp
On the warm dawn.
Steaming swamps,
Toumani grass,
Lingonberry blossomed.
Screaming loon
screaming loon
On my roof.
Screaming loon
The sun has woken up,
That sea sings.
The sun has woken up,
What month walks,
As a young deer.
What month walks,
That the sea is shining,
What a cute waiting.
oak leaves
Oak leaves! Oak leaves!
Knock acorns!
Let raspolzutsya severe bad weather
With our fields.
Let us smile at the sun clear,
Stars burn.
Zlat leaf!
Good strength, thick, Medyanaya,
Give winds.
I bow to you!
Sypsya, I ask, in my white sleeves,
Knock acorns!
Let them, winds, fun, bold,
Strike up quickly.
Sypte in my virgin canvas,
I bow to you!
Let them disappear, thunderstorms midnight,
Evil to us.
Give your canopy to collect mnogodumnuyu,
The tie a knot.
Give broad field on the tree noisy
Node raise.
Oak leaves! Branches uglastye!
Zlat voroshok!
Give hang under the canopy maned
Dumnyi bag!
Let it swing under that nagovornoyu
My Tabernacles.
Let it subside, all undead resistant,
With our fields.
Good strength, thick, Medyanaya,
Give winds.
Sypte in my linen shirt,
I bow to you!
Sea
Somewhere loon cries of desolation water.
Rare pine transparent under the northern lights.
Or did you come again - the young and rootless -
By the tundra and cliffs stranger, unknown to the precepts?
That there is a tundra? Forest in the blue infinite.
From coast gull flying on river izluki.
Again, I - the old hunter with a backpack quiver,
Heat mosquito in the ear - ringing like bows.
What is it beyond the sea? Lying snow fog.
Dream blizzards under the canopy of the Star Plague.
Peace be with you, earth, and water, and the midnight country,
Forever sparkling Ridge Ice Gloom!
How many centuries I have to cut through to the threshold of the Earth!
I froze light dense forest wall.
The doors opened. And the way straight to the stars began.
Well let stay on the last line of the known world!
Peace be with you, and the sun, and rocks, and birds' nests,
Strong odors salt at the beginning of creation!
All ahead! But so far only - warm yes Health,
Gulls, but the sun, and I, yes the sea glow.
White sandbar. And the stones. And rustling tide.
The sea in the afternoon sleep from distant steamer.
Shout into space. Zamrosh. No reviews.
Sweet of the sea, to stay on the ground alone.
Not worthless that planet ...
Not worthless that planet,
Not perish even that edge,
If you become a poet
Even Tryapkin Nicholas.
Even Tryapkin Nikolai
He goes straight to God in heaven.
And the Lord to him for that
Lets loaf.
L do not spring to the culprit ...
L do not spring to the culprit,
The long-awaited spring?
Suddenly takes and the recall
Song Russian one.
The song is very old,
Young like the dawn ...
Oh bee flew fanatical
Over the distant sea.
Unlocks summer red
(What's the golden key!)
Produced a bright sun
Over my homeland.
And it came, came
By the Mother Volga River
On skorlupochke nut,
A wheat spikelet ...
Song proud do not know,
He walks across the field on foot,
Good people smiling
For pastoral horn.
The song is new, not new
In Lapotko of berestin,
And the dew Cornflower
All washed up as one.
Even the most backward
At the heart of the grass is alive ...
But only a small bee
Pobyla the seas!
I do not regret, my friends, it's time to die ...
I do not regret, my friends, it's time to die,
And sorry, my friends, that can not be punished.
That the house I have so many pigs,
And neither Dubya nor stones in my hands.
Dear Fatherland! Invaluable mother!
I am not afraid to die. I've got to die.
Only let not kill the old man's rust,
A Permit to die of lead and knife ...
No, I did not come out of people!
No, I did not come from the people.
Oh, chernokostnaya breed!
From your tough kind
I did not go anywhere.
And the white bones to bones gray
I just go with the muse to visit.
And only the universal graveyard
He wakes me Gabriel.
And my blood - not blue!
That blue? So thin!
She - venous second.
That - not the land and water,
And only yl and only soda.
A salt entered the fist people.
Oh, chernokostnaya breed!
Oh, chernososhnogo horde!
Let me serf. But not filthy.
I let the dog. But it is not whining.
And sweat - my smell of a real,
Corn - rings on the hands!
And if you, my leggings,
Sometimes Black and smelly -
Rinse you in a cloud of God
And dry in the clouds!
And even in the rags of Paris
Do not torment us hernia!
And in these ditties - no manure,
A spring water.
No, I did not come from the people.
Oh, chernokostnaya breed!
From your tough kind
I did not go anywhere.
No such willows ...
No such willows
Over the river outpost
Only pine stands
Raskudrya-curly.
Only pine-pine,
Yes, what Pine -
Tihomirkina wife
Gold Frosenka!
Walks through the fish sup,
He clings to the bottom.
Puts vertices Tihomir
Yes, looking at the little wife.
The sun is not at the top,
And another divinka:
Cooks Frosenka ear
Yes Livenka plays.
You play a wife, play,
I danced to
Yes fry it and know
For you threw.
And you eat, but the game,
Yes fate guessing,
Yes, out of the bag a loaf
Larger spread.
It's just the miracles,
If you are healthy,
Yes, do not be, my beauty.
Too harsh.
Song Ivan erring
I will be punished by the Lord,
I'll be the devil anointed
I would be a great sinner
Up to the Last Judgment.
In our dirty vale
Not to find me the best role
And the devil in captivity
Sour us, gentlemen.
I ordered all paradise -
I attached too smolder:
What is life without fisticuffs!
What kind of faith without the hula!
If my something indigestion
Where is my paradise villages covering!
Not fit for soaring -
Wings too heavy.
In underground Kharlamov
Zaplyuyut me as cad -
Oh, Vanya, they say, grimy,
Poshehonsky pig! ..
And so goes, my friends,
That neither safe nor in brief
I not fit any of your calendar,
Neither the Parnassian princes.
In our dirty vale
Too much of any pain -
Groan, moan the whole planet,
All a mother of our Russia!
How is there not to snap?
Even with a mother-I will fight!
Even Teschin snack
Immediately I turn my ass!
Even for the sake of purification
I will not go on forgiveness:
A tooth for a tooth for an eye - the eye!
Die so die:
With our mighty motherland!
With our glorious glass of vodka!
What is there beyond the grave -
And then I can find out.
I let the Lord punished
But with chortom're not connected.
Oh, you, my friends, the people of Leningrad!
Stalingrad Eagles!
I am not fit for humility
Not fit for burning ...
Oh, sorry, I'm sorry -
Too heavy tears.
The Song of the Great Campaign
So I start. Time
I welcome the light of day.
I obuyu foot in the stirrup
I'll sum up the horse.
On Stogniy thundering orator,
And with us - music groups.
Oh Rus! Bush! Russia!
The great Soviet Union!
It is time to hiking,
What had happened vvek.
In the fields, the mountains, and waters
Playing the trumpet, Oleg -
Oleg is not a simple and prophetic,
Shining god squads.
We praise these things,
What are all the epics.
We love their markets
And ancestral songs ligature.
In our eyes the Khazars
Throw dirt folly.
And in our Kremlin Khazars
Allowed the country to spray ...
Aegeus, gentlemen Gaidary!
No wonder I have been saving up anger.
It is time to hiking,
What had happened vvek -
Poljud With all plants,
Spill great rivers.
The sailors on the Black Sea,
Okhotsk sailors
Balts are on patrol,
Ready as bayonets.
And in the villages thundering orator,
And with us - music groups.
Oh Rus! Bush! Russia!
The great Soviet Union!
Come on, our prophetic hero,
Shining god squads!
We know these things,
What are all tales ...
Power - on the complete assembly.
Hvalyntsy and tveryaki.
And my songs are on patrol,
Ready as bayonets.
Song of the winter hearth
Section couch, Section couch,
Make the bed.
On the old roof tearing shingles,
Durit snowstorm.
In the darkness of the forest the wind blows
Dog howling,
And we are so nice in bright light,
And we are with you.
Section couch, take off your boots,
My beauty,
Pushes blizzard-way track,
timber creak.
On the snowy windows gray graying hair,
Thick piece,
Walk storm, knocking the moose
On warm yard.
The wind, the wind throws
Scraps of coniferous,
And we laugh, and we, as children,
And we are with you.
We prizhmomsya, and we will ask
Flying snow
To even moose in the deep drift
We found overnight.
imitation of Ecclesiastes
Everything on earth is born,
And everything on earth comes to an end,
And what it was meaningful,
The absurdity becomes.
And here it is - the essence of the ultimate,
And here it is - the eternal sadness.
Earth you are my relentless!
Our Milky!
And if we are all born
And with the will of his not cope -
Why, then, to ridicule
We re-rush?
You left the house - all harp sounded,
All your children and friends were jubilant,
And the house has returned - and sorrow, and sobs,
And your whole family led to the slaughter.
And you see the table, desecrated by enemies,
And do you see the floor that trampled cattle,
And do you see the wall in the urine and manure
And all his utensils in the robbery baggage.
Be strong and of good courage, and body and spirit.
Not everything is in the sun sweeps down?
And the glory of Honor, and in the stench of dishonesty
Let it be in the hands of your pole of balance!
Well, who shepherds the land
reproaches of the wise brings?
What in the world kings
Fool on your feast will not be asked?
Sage - he is God himself
The truth lay, not hide.
(And the one on the occasion of these things
A roar and a wolf vzvoet!)
But a fool - known bug:
He has the power to honey pours!
And honey is - Brewfest Sciences,
Since the glory is called.
And I saw in his earthly wanderings -
In all corners of the earth in all ways -
And the light of the mind, and the total darkness of ignorance
And the death of the good, and the absolute power of evil.
And I saw the meanness prevails,
And as a true judge the correctness,
And then he had a good kiss to her heel.
And I cursed Stogniy human,
And on a hot ashes buried in shame.
And under whistles servile slander
For his works, I left for good.
Vanity of vanities, vanity of vanities -
And a hundred thousand times, and for ever.
Only darkness and light, only darkness and light.
Only Star ice and the snow.
Only darkness and light, only a trace of the beast
Yes sand desert graves.
Everything else - vanity of vanities;
What you yes I nabludil.
And year after year. And for the native born,
And for centuries in darkness - the darkness again.
Only the star turn. Only with your mouth shout.
Yes desert sand. Yes hills.
Message from Mark Sobol
My friend Mark! Do not reproach me,
What I knock on your privacy.
Touched the pus - and that's really the secretary general himself
Crawled all over the world - from the snake vermin.
Yes to hell with it, let yourself crawling,
Yes, let it be
even a worm with the garbage!
But he creeps - and we with you eats,
But he creeps - and we are with you in gnoyke.
And viruses are raging hatred,
And now scurrying all the apples of discord,
And we are to each other in tselimsya behinds
Or the burning in the chest from under the fence.
My friend Mark! And you're not an animal,
Why I love you until now.
Let's brother went down and now
Again according to the Charco tyapnem Tsedeele.
Do smoke mutual stuff for us?
Believe me-ka word friend and poet:
I would have laid all his poems
In the first verse of the New Testament ...
I am distressed, old man, that our twentieth century
Such was also grumpy, and the stench.
I praise the Creator! Though you do not Secretary General -
And now I am particularly gratifying.
And therefore - do not reproach me,
What's knocking at your privacy.
Let's once again sit down by the fire,
What we once called inspiration.
I broke my universe,
I parted my orbit.
And now it is - not the universe,
And Dumpling John Smith.
And it is not Star Trek-track
Flying my nursery rhymes,
And under someone's hungry spoon -
Stray dumplings.
Birth
Soul languished for many years,
In the remote reservoirs dozed water.
And then he flashed a welcome light,
And my heart cried out: - Freedom!
My friends! What's with me?
Thundering sea, sparkle fumes
Space walks over the hut,
The soul singing legend Rome.
Friends! Friends! Resurrected poet,
And darkness fell off the deck.
And then he heard the roar of the planets
Through the fork lightning rod.
The whole world around - singing dollars,
My hut - dwelling of the gods,
And weathervane soared as the eagle
Over Olympic ashes.
And I put my black bread
On the white pages.
And in the red corner stranded Phoebus
Squared hand of his right hand.
Called sunset, called Dawn,
And everything that the best in nature,
And I made the call heaven color
With a simple repom in the garden.
What a miracle in reality!
And I have trodden it! Down!
And I'm magic grass
I sought Kupala night!
My friends! Let there be light!
Yes lavishing darkness, and all at once!
Cheered spirit resurrected poet
Of serious drom of dead mud.
Sing about the sun, the warmth,
I go for springtime gate
So that in every blade of grass on the ground
Times of turns overheard.
Russia
So - again on their way,
So - it failed again.
So - again, my friends - with God!
At random, so on the off chance.
What we porch of the Father!
What is our brother and we each!
You scram my ring,
Although the north, even to the south.
We die, but we walk
Through the mountains and herds.
And where we go - we do not know
Just we know that there:
In those regions and those in the suburbs,
Where the house is not locked,
Where there are the words and songs
Under the lamp-flame.
Drat, human evil,
All pockets and pennies!
Damn all that,
Where neither God nor soul.
The porch - no porch,
Where handkerchief - to rotok ...
You scram, my ring,
Though the west il east.
We curse and walk
Through the mountains and herds.
And where we go - we do not know
We just know what's in there.
Russia
With one inconceivable thought
I look at your calm face.
How many lived dreams! How much stellar noise!
How many springs and winters on the shoulders!
And with me all the same incomprehensible thought
And all the same visions at night.
And still a candle over a sleepless page
Burning down in my kennel...
And you bloom in me with meadow lightning
And a flower that is in the yard in spring.
And again I'm leaving for the distant willows
And to distant field bridges,
To scream again like a lonely crane
Over your great expanse.
I will smoke - and again I will not hear an answer
And I will droop with a sad wing.
Only again under the canopy of moonlight
You will knock in the forest with an ax.
I recognize you, Russia. And I won't be offended.
And I will accomplish my feat as best I can.
And let that willow in the autumn mantle
I will load in a desert meadow.
And I will bow under the iron with a high rye,
And I'll ride the magpie by the stream.
You are my only light on my path
And my only harbor.
And I will return to my lonely room
No one knows the path...
And my thought flies - a midnight bird -
And drops a feather over you.
Light you are my timid, mysterious light!
There are no words for you, and no name.
The sail in the river does not move suddenly.
The rights of heaven and earth are equal,
The city, like air, is ethereal in the distance...
Light you are my quiet, shy light!
Cloud flocks disappearing trail.
Evening is not evening, no darkness, no fire.
Silently I stand by the sunset.
In timid smoke, bent like a bow,
A viaduct hung right in space.
The rights of heaven and earth are equal.
Yellow glare on the heart lay down.
How many years have passed over us?
Noon has long been sung by wires.
How many forces have blown over us?
The reactive smoke, like a wire, froze.
Only at times, flashing through the glass,
There, the train will silently rush by.
Silently I stand by the sunset...
You are my quiet light! Can you hear me?
You are my timid light! Mysterious light!
You have no words and no name.
The sounds are gone. And the bushes fell silent.
Sun in smoke at sunset.
I'll be bored again soon
I'll be bored again soon
And I'll sit in the corner.
Give me a song like this
To remember lightly
And for the spinning wheel for our
The fiber will swirl
Give me a better song
And what - all the same.
So that the black filly
Danced before you
To the star of the night
Rang under the arc.
So that the path is straight
The snowstorm did not cover
Give me a song like this
To not let you down again.
stanzas
They drank a long time, fell out of love,
Faded, faded -
And became a handful of black dust
And got lost in the dust.
And everyone was holding on to brass knuckles,
And they fell face down to the ground.
And you're still the same, mother planet,
Eternal spinning top.
And again we crush the kingdoms,
And again we plow virgin soil -
And yet we stand on the same edge,
In the same grief in captivity.
And again we fall like branches,
To the foot of your tree.
And neither our ancestors can save us,
No hops, no glory - nothing.
And yet in a brief illumination
We don't stop singing songs
And we celebrate every moment of birth,
And every sun rising.
And before the boundless space
We stand winged
And with the same diligent hryvnia
We knock on the gate of paradise.
And just wipe away the tears
And we put the city on a hill...
And we don't trust anyone
Your miserable sum.
Yes. I don't trust anyone
Neither this staff, nor the bag.
And I'll knock on the door again
To my earthly sense.
And never get jealous
To the satisfaction of the sleeping and the deaf,
For my eternal wanderers.
And again the cloud will hang
Curly canopy above me.
And through the cities, through the villages
I will go the sultry path.
I see darkness and I see light
I hear in the cries of cranes.
O my poplar, my spring!
You rustled with a thunderstorm and fluff,
And with the world war
And with worldwide destruction.
And life runs, changes temper.
And now, having dumped crazy waters,
The river comes with an infusion of herbs
And with the wise light of the sky.
I sow my father's land
And I build huts at the bend.
And the brother came and did not find
The one that he threw in the hour of separation.
And it's easy for me, easy to tears.
And I'm so happy to the point of pain,
That I was born like that oats
Breathe in the smoke of your native field!
Laying the first footprint in the snow
I celebrate the holiday of ice drift
And in the change of winters, and in the change of years
I read the confession of nature.
And there, over the grandfather's stream,
Noisy familiar sedge.
And I, like a swan, beat with a wing
At the protected source.
Poems about a birch grove
Not idols of glory and power,
Not Caesar's magnificent palace -
Let me dream of a white grove
And with her blue farm.
That grove is long gone,
That farm is forever forgotten.
But so much blessed light
Give me a memory again!
We had a village
Just a mile away from them.
And all this grove shone
Opposite my windows.
She shone with foliage,
She shone with birch trunks.
And I am this light incomparable
Carried through the years.
From life dissolute and wild
He healed me many times
And that childish strawberry
And fanned those greens.
Until now I dream of the road
Under the canopy of birch domes.
And the breath of the Lord God
Dearer than all glory to me.
Hello, boundary ditch -
Threshold of the Holy Temple!
And suddenly among the bushes, like an outpost,
The farm wind vane sounded.
And I dream of white buckwheat
Garden full of bees
And that blue porch
And that blue palisade.
And the gentle light of the new moon
hitherto flows into me -
And you, farm songstress,
My beautiful aunt!
Get out, evil tempter,
And take away all your stench!
Because the Redeemer does not sleep,
Living with us in Russia.
Years of hard times will pass,
Ashes and smoke will scatter
And again we will go out like children,
To their birch groves.
And the road will lay again
In that white shining temple.
And the breath of the Lord God
Rush through all the clovers ...
Not idols of glory and power,
Not Caesar's magnificent palace -
Let me dream of a white grove
And with her blue farm.
Poems about Grishka Otrepyev
For me, brother, you are not a book at all.
And I remembered you for a reason.
Red-haired rogue, arrogant stripped
And in kings - holy simplicity.
You and I are one shirt
Tell me like this, without fools:
How much does Monomakh's hat weigh?
Behind the colored windows of centuries
What is there, where - understand from afar!
Yes, and now - so many of you in the world
Waiting for the royal ration!
Forget - who is the father, who is the mother.
Isn't it better to sow than to grab?
But you ba, Grisha, let's face it,
I could just play songs.
And I would go with cranberries in the market
Yes, I would weave bast shoes from bast.
And here you are psycho boyars
Chopped straight to pieces.
But everything is - behind the invisible haze
You are so good, my friend,
What of all, perhaps, crooks
You, she-she, are not the most ventilated.
Chopped up yet and burned,
They put it in a cannon - and a skiff.
And other vagabonds were forgiven everything,
Even the darkness came up with merit.
And the liturgy thunders for centuries -
With the saints, they say, rest in peace.
And now you are like a snake,
The clerks are cursed for robbery.
I just know that you are a guy without fear.
And come on - say without fools:
How much does Monomakh's hat weigh?
And how many whips are you? ..
So many blizzards roared ...
So many blizzards rustled outside the snowy window,
Behind a furry window!
Snow covered, filled up all the huts around,
All woodlands around.
Filled up - and again silence, silence,
Quarrel forty.
And above my roof, like fluff fibers,
Smoke swirled.
And he stands in the sun, and fades away,
And shining and trembling:
What! There is, they say, and here and the hearth, and hello,
And a living soul
Behind the snows, forests, a thousand miles -
Come quickly!
We will wait for spring, rolling thunderstorms
At the forest wastelands.
We will accustom ourselves to oblivion, to silence -
For legends and books.
We will hear how it beats in the snow, half asleep,
I wasn't clouded by fame
I wasn't clouded by fame
And he did not look for a crown.
I have always been and am a peasant -
And I won't make it right.
And here again I will raise my verse
Before the face of grandchildren and sons:
Love the earth, know the earth,
Keep the ground down to the basics.
Do not be lighter than a bird's thought -
Grow into the ground like granite.
She gives shape to everything
And forever affirm:
And our essence, and our glory,
And the smell of the best fruit, -
And our Russian state
Leave the Russian forever.
And that's why the land is necessary
To measure with a special measure:
She is not only bread and herd,
She is also a sister and mother.
And that's why in the spring field
Take off your boots brother
And try to be sinless
And never lie to the earth.
And I'm not with that, not then
I give the verses a high fret
And now I shout: do not plunder the earth,
Don't be cursed a hundredfold!
She is not only drunk and full,
She is also a chest and a crate,
And our famous speech
With her, you will never be bored.
And our essence and our glory
She won't leave without a trace
And our Russian state
Leave the Russian forever.
I'll go beyond the red mists...
I will go beyond the red mists
Through those sunset bridges.
Beyond the distant field, by the weeds,
Wait for me until late dark.
They say that there, beyond the scarlet,
Where the sun sets on a sixth,
Blossoms with unprecedented power
Fire-winged fabulous flower;
That barely, they say, touch it with your hand -
And the earth in a mysterious garden,
And the stars rise above you
On the great song move...
Give me funny spells
From deaf and boring blindness,
And let that faith at sunset
The distant bushes will light up.
Wait for me, wide, at the edge,
Beyond the fields of the fading day...
I will light up that light without burning out,
And I'll get the flower out of the fire.
And let the passer-by go
Thinking nothing of us
Turn you into a roadside stone
To hide from prying eyes.
Well, if prophetic lightning
Yet they will shout about my end, -
You are on this page
Blossom as an unexpected flower.
And let him be eternal and desirable,
Ringing an accordion at the porch,
And ignite with an unspeakable mystery
And earth, and air, and forests.
And no one will ever stop
To forget the song as in a dream.
A flower will look into his eyes
And tell a story about me.
I went to the forests
I went to the woods,
Which you will not find in reality,
And listened to the witching sighs,
And tore the unearthly grass.
And burrowed into shaggy moss,
In the spirit of darkness, in a smoky dream,
And he was neither a matchmaker nor a brother -
The tenant God knows what times.
And the sleepy pines creaked
And they muttered like magicians.
But where, when, to what extent -
All memory out of my head.
And I'm not looking, and I'm not sorry ...
New snow falls on the ground.
I chop wood and warm the hut -
Already an old man.
I look - and I see, as for the first time,
Estates with frozen tops,
And the barnyard, and winter,
And my whitewashed garden.
And again with the warmth of native villages
The smell of snow humps.
And here again I sing about hay,
About the ringing strands of the gorodba.
I'm going to the carport
I'm on guard at night...
From the enchanted forest
Returned to home.
Nikolai Tryapkin (1918 - 1999)- Soviet poet. He was born in the Tver province into a peasant family. All his poetry is permeated with rural motifs. His poems are distinguished by incredible ease and accuracy, even if they are on important topics. In Soviet times, he was even called the best Russian poet. The poet Yuri Kuznetsov wrote about him: “Nikolai Tryapkin is close to folklore and ethnographic environment, but close as a flying bird. He doesn't get stuck, he floats. That is why in his poems there is always a feeling of a jubilant flight ... Everyday details echo with a melodious echo. They breathe like they are alive. The poet manages his material mysteriously, without any apparent effort, like Emelya from a fairy tale, whose furnace itself walks and the ax cuts itself. But this is no longer everyday life, but a national element.
Nikolai Tryapkin did not accept perestroika and the collapse of the USSR and spoke sharply, including in verse, about these changes and about the new rulers. But even during the USSR, he did not hesitate to call phenomena by their proper names. As you know, in the 70s and 80s, general pilfering flourished. Here is how Tryapkin wrote:
How did you learn to steal?
They steal everything - recklessly,
Son steals, mother steals -
And they are building a thieves' cottage.
The baker steals from the ovens,
The carver steals from the loaf,
The watchman steals from melons,
Steals a scribe from a ladder.
The doctor steals from powders,
The welder steals from the soldering iron,
And even a jumping coach.
And even a scavenger at the landfill.
They steal soil from under the yard,
They steal the bottom from under the tub,
They steal Peter's conscience,
They steal Marfushka's soul...
Whom to ask? Who to shout?
And to whom should you be accountable?
And what will we steal
When will we tear everything up in the world?
In the 1980s, Tryapkin wrote the poetic cycle "From the Family Chronicle" on an epic scale. Here is one of the poems from this cycle. It is inspired by the poet's childhood memories of the events of the 1930s, when the Tryapkin family fled from dispossession from their native village of Sablino to the Russian north.
Song of the Best Dog
And finally sold the horse. And everything was ready.
I don’t remember anything - how things went there before that.
I only saw through the window: a cow bent its horns,
She rested heavily - and wearily followed someone.
Only somewhere above, a jackdaw screamed in fright,
And an unknown weight fell upon my heart.
And the mother cried, shielding herself with a corner of her half-shawl,
And the parent, returning, launched his cap under the table.
And that morning came, which conceived this legend,
And carts with belongings were already at the porch.
And the people crowded and clamored, as at a general meeting,
Fathers fussed, not forgetting about a glass of wine.
And the hammer pounded, clogging the windows with slabs,
And the shovel in the garden fell asleep at the cellar manhole.
And the native hut, which got wet from mother's tears,
It sounded like a coffin, waiting for us from time immemorial.
It was like a myth. It was in those years
Where a gigantic battering ram hit the earth's limestone.
And the earth rumbled. And the universal vaults thundered.
And the old ferry went to the oceans.
And the cart creaked. And bales and pillows were dangling,
And all the grandmother's tubs were rattling on the go.
And was it not me who sat there on the very last top
And he blew goodbye, and into that shepherd's tune?
For a long time the village has gone beyond the oat hillock,
And the people - they tried everything, keeping near our carts.
And they shoved us donuts and all sorts of milk and cottage cheese,
As if there, in front, a dashing Pecheneg was waiting for us.
Everything was as it should be, and tears, and dancing, and a fight.
Only - what is there for a cry at the last cherished birches?
We turned around, we looked: and behind us there was a dog spitting,
Dear dog is my own righteous dog!
Oh, you red-haired kosmach! Golden my grimy buddy!
Where are you running? For what unknown flea?
Go back and keep your ashes there,
And gnaw your bone under the wing of a new eaves.
Calm down, please. Don't jump on my luggage.
I'm crying myself. And ready to follow you everywhere.
But after all, we handed you over to the collective farm guards, -
Serve, watchman, on a different, unprecedented path.
And forget me. Don't risk your canine courage.
I'm leaving for a place where there are not such yards at all.
I myself, it seems, will live as a seedy mongrel,
And you already, brother, will not find a kennel there ...
And the dog kept rushing, squealing and spinning underfoot,
And these cries pierced me like knitting needles through and through:
This heart of mine squealed like a dog behind us ...
This childhood of mine, like a dog, was chasing me ...
Oh you, my dog! You listen to the moaning of the cuckoos!
Years will fly by and such a noise will rumble!
And no one here will remember whether that funny village,
Where together with you we tumbled through the spring flowers.
Years will pass - and universal poppies will rise here,
And our bones will burn in the crucible of other sunsets...
And if other dogs stick to me,
I will remember you - and I will sing this verse for my grandson.
Poems about fighting religion
Once the father comes - in the evening, from labor,
He twisted my ear and whistled a little "Ermak".
"Did you hear, darling? I received an assignment today -
Tomorrow the temple will be unloaded. Let's dispossess the saints a little."
"What's next?" - “And then the fees are already brief:
With half a ton of explosives - and a whirlwind to the seventh heaven.
Come on in tomorrow. Look into God's chambers there.
Dig into books. I'll make something myself."
And in me already youth rang in all tendons
And she called out to the constellations and to the eternal tablets of the earth.
And beyond the evening field, spreading sunset wings,
The Byzantine miracle shone in the crimson dust.
I loved these chapters, flying up to unknown heights,
And Sunday bells, and the whistle of indefatigable swifts.
This grandfather's temple, which adorned our entire neighborhood
And sanctified our entire vale with his crown!
Let me not honor the saints and, having looked at the church, I was not baptized,
But when the vociferous copper called from the bell tower,
I went into the porch, and humbly stood at the door,
And he looked into the depths, immersed in the dusk by a third.
The soul froze, and the candle flicker trembled,
And the thundering choirs overthrew wave after wave.
And everything seemed to me that I stepped into the limit of the Universe
And that eternity itself kindled fires before me.
No, I was not with God and I did not stand in a village church,
And the soul froze completely under a different voltage.
These prophetic hymns flying to the heights of the universe!
This poor heart, washed by the best rain! ..
And I came there - to look at a different concern!
I can not forget now that sad suffering, -
How paternal hands tore the gilding off the walls,
How the father's ax left traces on the icons.
They broke the altar, crumbled parquet slabs,
And the bitterest dust covered all the windows all around.
And our mournful aunts Julitas stood by the walls,
Wiping a tear with his gumasey shred.
And then I watched my father's hands tremble,
As his partner silently swallowed food ...
I took nothing, not a single hidden thing,
And he looked up, so as not to look people in the eye.
I loved these vaults, flying up to unknown heights,
And Sunday choirs, and hums from all levels ...
This grandfather's temple, erected by a local builder
And collected by a penny in the valleys of my Fatherland!
And I looked to where the swift tribe scurried around,
Flying under the dome, clinging to each ledge.
And I did not know then that the bitterest seed had sunk
In this heart of mine that was sad at the dumped robes.
And the years will fly by, and the twilight of ignorance will dispel,
And everything will be remembered - this temple, and an ax, and swifts, -
And about these walls I will add this legend
And the high Song that will be sung at this boundary.
Let the grandson listen - and don’t look at his grandfather so crookedly:
Although he was timid, the old man still loved the truth! ..
Forgive me, God, for these late impulses
And for this my sorrowful cry.
Describes nature very beautifully.
***
Viburnum laughed, blushing happily,
Braided me in green braids.
And viburnum put on a beautiful ring for me
In glowing gems of dew.
Like owls, all around, with a blue veil,
Lightning fluttered in the meadow.
Here's something true, simple and broad
The accordion player played around.
But it seemed - on the slopes by revelation itself
Flickering ponds and haystacks.
But it seemed - a girl's tear from excitement
A blue drop escapes from the leaf.
And the viburnum whispered: “Take without a trace
All the ripe grapes are mine!
And we laughed with her, and believed sweetly
Into the undivided soul of the earth.
, Zubtsovsky Uyezd, Tver Governorate, Russian SFSR
Nikolay Ivanovich Tryapkin(December 19, Sablino, Tver province - February 20, Moscow) - Russian Soviet poet.
Tryapkin's poetry is musical, rich in rhythmic repetitions, and stylistically related to Russian folk song.
The work of Nikolai Tryapkin was highly appreciated by the poet Yuri Kuznetsov:
Nikolai Tryapkin is close to folklore and ethnographic environment, but close as a flying bird. He does not get stuck, but soars. That is why in his poems there is always a feeling of a jubilant flight ... Everyday details echo with a melodious echo. They breathe like they are alive. The poet manages his material mysteriously, without any apparent effort, like Emelya from a fairy tale, whose furnace itself walks and the ax cuts itself. But this is no longer life, but a national element. In the line of Koltsov - Yesenin, folk poets, Tryapkin - the last Russian poet. It is difficult and even impossible to expect the appearance of a poet of such a folk element in the future. The Russian language is too muddy and distorted, and the genetic roots of the people have been severely undermined. But if this happens, a miracle will happen indeed. Let's hope so, but I am sure of one thing: in the 21st century, the significance of Nikolai Tryapkin's original word will only increase.
One of the most famous poems is "Somewhere there are spaceports ...".
Many of Tryapkin's poems have been set to music. Among the performers of songs based on his poems are Iosif Kobzon, Valentina Tolkunova, Marina Kapuro, the Seventh Water folk group. One of the poet's most famous songs is "The Loon Flew".
He was the first Russian poet to receive the State Prize of Russia (1992) for his book of poems "Heart-to-Heart Conversation".
With the poem "Because I'm Russian ...", which was included in Nikolai Tryapkin's posthumous book "Burning Aquarius", published by the "Young Guard" in 2003, there was a literary embarrassment. It was written by the head of the poetry department of the Zavtra newspaper Sergei Sokolkin and published in 1994 with a dedication to Alexander Prokhanov, but due to his own oversight, it ended up in a selection of Tryapkin's poems published in the newspaper in April 1995, and in the same form was included in the collection .
Nikolai Tryapkin died on February 20, 1999 and was buried at the Rakitki cemetery in the Moscow region.
Collections of poems
- First furrow, 1953
- White Night, 1956
- Chants, 1958
- Krasnopolie, 1962
- Crossroads, 1962
- Songs of the Great Rains, 1965
- Silver Ponds, 1966
- Loon flew, 1967
- Nest of my fathers, 1967
- Selected lyrics, 1970
- Chrysostom, 1971
- Geese-swans, 1971
- Harvest, 1974
- Evening bells, 1975
- Commandment, 1976
- The creak of my cradle, 1978
- Favorites, 1980
- Poems. M., Sovremennik, 1983
- Fire nursery, 1985
- Izluki, 1987
- Poems, 1989
- Heart to heart talk, 1989
- Already, apparently, that lot fell to us, 2000
- Burning Aquarius, 2003
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Notes
Links
- in the magazine room
- on the Literary map of the Arkhangelsk region
- on Chronos
- in the Big Encyclopedic Dictionary
- in the Red Book of Russian pop music
- in the magazine "Velikoross" No. 39
- at Literary Russia
An excerpt characterizing Tryapkin, Nikolai Ivanovich
- Everyone has their own secrets. We don’t touch you and Berg,” Natasha said, getting excited.“I think you don’t touch it,” Vera said, “because there can never be anything bad in my actions. But I'll tell my mother how you get along with Boris.
“Natalia Ilyinishna treats me very well,” said Boris. “I can't complain,” he said.
- Leave it, Boris, you are such a diplomat (the word diplomat was in great use among children in the special meaning that they attached to this word); even boring,” said Natasha in an offended, trembling voice. Why is she coming to me? You will never understand this,” she said, turning to Vera, “because you have never loved anyone; you have no heart, you are only madame de Genlis [Madame Genlis] (this nickname, considered very offensive, was given to Vera by Nikolai), and your first pleasure is to make trouble for others. You flirt with Berg as much as you like,” she said quickly.
- Yes, I’m sure I won’t run after a young man in front of the guests ...
“Well, she got her way,” Nikolai intervened, “she told everyone troubles, upset everyone. Let's go to the nursery.
All four, like a flock of frightened birds, got up and left the room.
“They told me trouble, but I didn’t give anything to anyone,” Vera said.
— Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis! laughing voices said from behind the door.
The beautiful Vera, who produced such an irritating, unpleasant effect on everyone, smiled and, apparently not affected by what she was told, went to the mirror and straightened her scarf and her hair. Looking at her beautiful face, she seemed to become even colder and calmer.
The conversation continued in the living room.
- Ah! chere, - said the countess, - and in my life tout n "est pas rose. Don't I see that du train, que nous allons, [not all roses. - with our way of life,] our state will not last long! And it's all a club, and its kindness. We live in the countryside, do we rest? Theatres, hunts, and God knows what. But what can I say about me! Well, how did you arrange all this? I often wonder at you, Annette, how it is you, at your age, ride alone in a wagon, to Moscow, to Petersburg, to all the ministers, to all the nobility, you know how to get along with everyone, I'm surprised!
- Ah, my soul! - answered Princess Anna Mikhailovna. “God forbid you find out how hard it is to be a widow without support and with a son whom you love to adoration. You will learn everything,” she continued with a certain pride. “My process taught me. If I need to see one of these aces, I write a note: “princesse une telle [princess such and such] wants to see such and such” and I myself go in a cab at least two, at least three times, at least four, until I achieve what I need. I don't care what they think of me.
- Well, what about, whom did you ask about Borenka? the countess asked. - After all, here is your officer of the guard, and Nikolushka is a cadet. Someone to bother. Whom did you ask?
- Prince Vasily. He was very nice. Now I have agreed to everything, I have reported to the sovereign,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna said with delight, completely forgetting all the humiliation through which she went through to achieve her goal.
- Why is he getting old, Prince Vasily? the countess asked. - I didn’t see him from our theaters at the Rumyantsevs. And I think he forgot about me. Il me faisait la cour, [He dragged after me,] - the countess remembered with a smile.
- Still the same, - answered Anna Mikhailovna, - amiable, crumbling. Les grandeurs ne lui ont pas touriene la tete du tout. [The high position did not turn his head at all.] “I regret that I can do too little for you, dear princess,” he tells me, “order.” No, he is a nice person and a wonderful native. But you know, Nathalieie, my love for my son. I don't know what I wouldn't do to make him happy. And my circumstances are so bad,” continued Anna Mikhailovna sadly and lowering her voice, “so bad that I am now in the most terrible position. My unfortunate process eats up everything I have and does not move. I don't have, you can imagine, a la lettre [literally] no dime of money, and I don't know what to equip Boris with. She took out her handkerchief and wept. - I need five hundred rubles, and I have one twenty-five-ruble note. I am in such a position ... One of my hopes is now on Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov. If he does not want to support his godson - after all, he baptized Borya - and assign him something to support, then all my troubles will be lost: I will have nothing to equip him with.
The Countess shed a tear and silently pondered something.
“I often think, maybe this is a sin,” said the princess, “but I often think: Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhoy lives alone ... this is a huge fortune ... and what does he live for? Life is a burden for him, and Borya is just starting to live.
“He will probably leave something for Boris,” said the countess.
“God knows, chere amie!” [dear friend!] These rich people and nobles are so selfish. But all the same, I’ll go to him now with Boris and tell him straight out what’s the matter. Let them think what they want about me, it really doesn't matter to me when the fate of my son depends on it. The princess got up. “Now it’s two o’clock, and at four o’clock you have dinner.” I can go.
And with the manners of a Petersburg business lady who knows how to make use of time, Anna Mikhailovna sent for her son and went out with him into the hall.
“Farewell, my soul,” she said to the countess, who accompanied her to the door, “wish me success,” she added in a whisper from her son.
- Are you visiting Count Kirill Vladimirovich, ma chere? said the count from the dining-room, also going out into the hall. - If he is better, call Pierre to dine with me. After all, he visited me, danced with the children. Call by all means, ma chere. Well, let's see how Taras excels today. He says that Count Orlov never had such a dinner as we will have.