Last leaves. "Emotional and artistic perception of the poem by A. Alien "Snowflake" And the alien is the last leaves

Anton Prishelets (Anton Ilyich Khodakov) is a Soviet poet. Anton was born on December 20, 1892 (January 1, 1893) in the Saratov province - in the village of Bezlesye, Balashov district, into a peasant family. . .
Anton Prishelec worked as a journalist in Balashov, in 1922 he moved to Moscow, where he worked in the editorial office of Rabochaya Gazeta. Anton the Prishelets was published in the magazines Krasnaya Nov, Novy Mir, Nedra, Molodaya Gvardiya, Oktyabr and others. . .
In 1920, Anton the Prishelets published his first collection of poems, "Dawn Calls", then - "Poems about the Village", "My Fire", "Grain", "Green Wind", "Sweet Path", "Bunch of Hay", "Polynya ”, “Bend” and others. In total, Anton the Visitor released 15 collections of poetry in his life. . .
Anton Prishelets is the author of popular songs: “A lapwing by the road”, “Oh you, rye”, “Where are you running, dear path”, “My life, my love” and others. Among the co-authors of songs by Anton Prishelts are such famous Soviet composers as S. Prokofiev, S. Katz, S. Tulikov, V. Muradeli. . .

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Poetry Reviews

"Poetry of the native land"
"Literary newspaper" No. 150, 12/17/1955

The poet tells how in childhood he discovered the world of simple and sincere beauty. He carried his admiration for her throughout his life. Not only images and sounds saved him memory, he retained more: delight in the generosity of nature, a clear and proud faith in man. He carefully selects the signs of his native land: the Volga flood, the expanse of the steppe, the Saratov ditties ... He talks about farmers and warriors, about children and girls in unpretentious and precise words. The truth of childhood impressions, confirmed by all subsequent life, became the truth of his poetry.
This is the charm of the book of poems by Anton Prishelts "My Bonfire" ("Soviet Writer", 1955). There is no diversity and complexity in it, but its constancy and unity are amazing. Its theme is the native country, the modest charm of nature, the strength and talent of the people. In his poems, every apple tree and every steppe well are beautiful. The Khoper River, Lake Senezh, Rastorguevo station, Volga stretches are not random poetic labels, but well-named favorite places. What is seen and experienced is not embellished and exalted. It remained ordinary and familiar, only warmed by a lyrical feeling. This is how landscapes and people are written. The Stranger can be treated trustingly, he performs without a pose. The poet does not know exclamation points. He respectfully speaks of labor and heroism. The young fighter “did not dream of becoming famous as a hero”, but under fire he swam across the river with his comrades and defended himself from a cruel onslaught on a narrow piece of land for five hours. "Well, that's all he did." You will not find "fierce" love with the Stranger, but a modest feeling burns in his poems and tacit fidelity is affirmed.
The August steppe is warm,
Butterfly lightness of the dress,
Bitter-smelling wormwood
And two Christmas trees at sunset. . .
You read the Alien's poems like the pages of a diary, where the chronicle of events and personal life are inseparable. Collective farm power plant on a small river. Blue jerseys of the sports parade. Waiting for front-line letters. The grief of parents who lost their son. In the poem “Your Portrait” written about this poem, the poet speaks sincerely with the reader. Hope and happiness are more embodied than sadness. The cycle of poems about the fallen warrior solemnly and lightly ends with the poem "Motherland". Proximity to nature and unity with people are the leitmotifs of poetic experiences, which is why the feeling of the Motherland is so directly expressed in the poetry of the Alien.
The Alien's collection is called "My Bonfire". One can recall Polonsky's well-known romance and another poem of his addressed to Tyutchev, where poetry is likened to a fire warming a tired companion: Tyutchev answered with a quatrain "To my friend Y. Polonsky" ("There are no more living sparks in your greeting voice"). The Stranger has the same bonfire, only his light is “cheerful”. Of course, this association is not accidental. In the verses of the Alien, the intonations of Nekrasov, Lermontov, Tyutchev are sometimes heard, even Fetov's nightingales sing in his verses. This is natural for a poet. He continues the line of the Russian poetic landscape, which goes from Lermontov's Motherland to Yesenin's Anna Snegina. For poets of the past, the perception of nature was often burdened with tragic notes, for the Stranger the landscape is almost always animated by the fullness of happiness. The same is in the songs of the Stranger: they are written in the intonations of the Russian romance, but in their own, major and hearty tone. "Where are you running, dear path?" - as a folk song, music is necessary here.
The Stranger's poems attract with freshness, but do not always leave the impression of completeness. It seems that the poet understands this himself: he varies the theme many times without offering final solutions. It is difficult to make a choice in his poems, they must be read all together. This can be seen as a disadvantage. But you can also say this: before us is a lyrical story, unhurried and frank ... "

AUTUMN POEMS FOR CHILDREN

True omen

The wind drives the clouds
The wind in the pipes groans,
Rain slanting, cold
It knocks on the glass.
Puddles on the roads
Wrinkle from the cold,
Hiding under a canopy
Sad rooks.
true omen,
That the summer is passing
What mushrooms are asking for
Themselves in the box,
What's in a hurry with gifts
Bright autumn again
What is missing at school
Talker-call.

(G. Ladonshchikov)

Autumn omens

thin birch
Dressed in gold.
Here comes the sign of autumn.

The birds are flying away
To the land of warmth and light,
Here is another one for you
Autumn omen.

Sowing rain drops
All day since dawn.
This rain too
Autumn omen.

Proud boy, happy:
After all, he is wearing
school shirt,
Bought in the summer.

Girl with a briefcase.
Everyone knows that this is
Autumn coming
True omen.

(L. Preobrazhenskaya)

Autumn

Wet babble of summer leaves
Verse and thinned.
Maple leaf like a swan
Circling on the water.
Birches gathered in flocks
Only the winds are waiting.
Smoke branches, growing -
Somewhere the leaves are burning ...
And in the garden, in the white fog
Heard for a hundred miles
The sound of falling ripe apples
Overripe stars.
(I. Gamazkova)

Look how beautiful the day is

Look how beautiful the day is
And how clear the sky
As the ash tree burns under the sun,
Maple burns without fire.

And circles over the meadow,
Like a firebird, a crimson leaf.

And scarlet like rubies
Rowan berries bloom
Waiting for guests
Red-breasted bullfinches...

And on a hillock, in red leaves,
As if in lush fox fur coats,
majestic oaks
With sadness look at the mushrooms -

old and small
Russula scarlet
And purple fly agaric
In the middle of wormholes...

The day is drawing to a close,
Goes to sleep in the red tower
The sun is red from heaven...
The leaves are fading.
The forest fades.
(I. Maznin)

Carpet tracks

Somewhere behind the autumn clouds
The crane hushed up the conversation.
On the paths where the summer ran,
Multi-colored carpet lay down.

The sparrow was sad outside the window,
Unusually quiet at home.
On autumn carpets
Winter is slowly coming.
(V. Orlov)

night leaf

I was sitting today
before dark
Near the open
Window.
Suddenly on the windowsill
lay down
Golden
Little leaf.
Damp outside the window
And dark.
Here he flew
To my window.
He is trembling.
And it is clear that this is why
The tail is wiggling
Him.

(V. Orlov)

Autumn awards

swayed
Noisy
In the dark thicket
Pines, firs!
Encounter with the wind
So happy:
He gives them
Rewards!
Attaches
"Order of the Maple"
On the uniform
Pine green.
red order,
notched,
with golden
Border!
And handily
medals
each spruce
The winds have come!
golden
Yes, pink
"Aspen",
"Birch"!

(A. Shevchenko)
Gathered and flew

Gathered and flew
Ducks on a long journey.
Under the roots of an old spruce
The bear is making a lair.
The hare dressed in white fur,
The bunny got warm.
Wears a squirrel for a whole month
For reserve mushrooms in the hollow.
The wolves roam the dark night
For prey in the forests.
Between the bushes to the sleepy grouse
The fox is escaping.
Hides the nutcracker for the winter
In the old moss nuts cleverly.
Capercaillie pinch needles.
They came to us for the winter
Northerners-bullfinches.

(E. Golovin)

Sheet

Quiet, warm, gentle autumn

light.
On sidewalks, lawns, alleys
she pours them, not sparing at all, –

sheet.

sheet.

moment – and, bypassing the wide cornice,
down!
(A. Starikov)

Autumn in the forest

Autumn forest every year
Pays gold to enter.
Look at the aspen -
All dressed in gold
And she babbles:
"Stin..." -
And shivering from the cold.

And the birch is happy
Yellow outfit:
"Well, the dress!
What a charm!"
Leaves quickly scattered
The frost came suddenly.
And the birch whispers:
"I'll chill!..."

Lost weight at the oak
Gilded coat.
The oak caught on, but it's too late
And he roars:
"I'm freezing! I'm freezing!"
Deceived gold -
Didn't save me from the cold.

(From A. Gontar, translated by V. Berestov)

Autumn

Slow down, autumn, don't rush
Unwind your rains
Spread your fogs
on the rough river surface.

Slow down, autumn, show
I turn yellow leaves,
Let me make sure, don't rush
How fresh is your silence

And how bottomless the sky is blue
Over the hot flame of aspens...

(L. Tatyanicheva)

Autumn

All the trees fall asleep
Leaves fall from the branches.
Only spruce does not crumble -
She never sleeps.
Fear of rest does not give:
Do not oversleep the New Year!

(M. Schwartz)

Autumn

The tedious rain is pouring down on the ground,
And the space drooped.
Autumn screwed up the sun
Like a light bulb fitter.

(M. Schwartz)

Autumn

Autumn,
autumn...
The sun
Damp in the clouds –
Shines even at noon
Dull and timid.
From the cold grove
In field,
on the path
blew a hare –
the first
Snowflake.

(T. Belozerov)

Autumn seamstress

So that the little earth winters without hassle,
Autumn sews a patchwork quilt for her.
The leaf is neatly sewn to the leaf,
The stitch adjusts with a pine needle.

Leaves to choose from - any will come in handy.
Here next to the crimson lilac lies down,
Although very golden to the taste of the seamstress,
Will fit and brown, and even spotted.

The thread of the web fastens them carefully.
More beautiful than this, you will not find pictures.

(T. Gusarova ■ )

Leaf walker

Red rain falls from the sky,
The wind carries red leaves ...
leaf fall,
change of seasons,
Leaf walker on the river, leaf walker.
The sides of the river freeze,
And there is nowhere to go from frost.
The river was covered with a fox coat,
But trembling
And can't get warm.

(V. Shulzhik)

Colored autumn

Colored autumn – evening of the year–
I smile lightly.
But between me and nature
There was thin glass.

All this world – in full view,
But I can't go back.
I'm still with you, but in the car,
I'm still at home, but on the road.

(S. Marshak)

Soon white blizzards

Soon white blizzards
Snow will rise from the ground.
Fly away, fly away
The cranes have flown.

Do not hear the cuckoo in the grove,
And the birdhouse was empty.
The stork flaps its wings -
Fly away, fly away!

Leaf sways patterned
In a blue puddle on the water.
A rook walks with a black rook
In the garden along the ridge.

Showered, turned yellow
The sun's rays are rare.
Fly away, fly away
The rooks have also flown away.
(E. Blaginina)

Sheet

Quiet, warm, gentle autumn
wilted leaves spread everywhere,
paints in lemon, orange color
light.
On sidewalks, lawns, alleys
she pours them, not sparing at all, -
hung over the window in the web
sheet.
Open the window. And a trusting bird
on my palm, spinning, sits down,
light and cold, gentle and pure
sheet.
Wind gust. The leaf flies from the palm
here he is on the next balcony,
moment - and, bypassing the wide cornice,
down!
(A. Starikov)

Grove golden

Autumn! The grove is golden!
golden, blue,
And flies over the grove
A flock of cranes.
High under the clouds
The geese are responding
With a distant lake, with fields
Forever goodbye.
(A. Alien)

Autumn has come

Autumn has come
It started to rain.
How sad is
Gardens look.

The birds were reaching out
To warm climes.
A farewell is heard
The scream of a crane.

The sun does not pamper
Us with their warmth.
Northern, frosty
Blows cold.

It's very sad
Sad at heart
Because it's summer
Do not return already.
(E. Arsenina)

leaf fall

Ice crunches underfoot
I can not see anything. Darkness.
And the leaves rustle - invisible,
Flying from every bush.
Autumn walks the roads of summer
Everything is quiet, it's easy to rest.
Only in the sky is festive from the light -
The sky lit up all the constellations! ..
Similar to golden leaves
Stars are falling from the sky... flying...
As if in a dark, starry sky too
Autumn leaves have arrived.
(E. Trutneva)

leaf fall

leaf fall,
Falling leaves!
Yellow birds fly...
Maybe it's not a bird
Are you going on a long journey?
Maybe this
Just summer
Flying away to rest?
will rest,
Strength will be gained
And back to us
Will return.

(I. Bursov)

fall leaf lesson

And in pairs, in pairs after her,
For my dear teacher
Solemnly we leave the village.
And in the puddles from the lawns there was a lot of foliage!

"Look! On the dark Christmas trees in the undergrowth
Maple stars burn like pendants.
Bend over for the prettiest leaf
Veins of crimson on gold.

Remember everything, how the earth falls asleep,
And the wind covers it with leaves."
And in the maple grove lighter and lighter.
All new leaves fly off the branches.

We play and rush under the leaf fall
With a sad, thoughtful woman nearby.

(V. Berestov)

autumn conversation

Kalina said to Kalina:

– Why are you, girlfriend, in a rut?
Why such a cloudy view?

What is the pain in your heart?

Kalina answered Kalina:

– That's why the torment gnaws at me,

That winter is already on the threshold,

What is already on the approach of a blizzard,

After all, not without reason - think for yourself! –

Our branches flew around yesterday! ..

(A. Kaminchuk)

autumn wind

Rain. Clouds over the earth
An uninterrupted sequence.
Under the bush, dry is sad
Empty nest.

The wind spins and rushes -
Whirlwind of leaves, noise and groan,
Maybe turn into a storm
Did he think this time?

The rain subsides in the evening.
Dreams roam in the night garden.
And curled up in a ball, the wind
Sleeping soundly in an empty nest.
(N. Zverkovskaya)

autumn wind

Someone walks at the gate -
That will touch the branch
That will collect blades of grass
And throw it up.

That will begin to bend the mountain ash
At a crowded dacha,
Here he began to blow into the puddle,
Like hot tea.

And does not freeze without a coat
On a chilly blue evening...
This someone is nobody
He is the autumn wind.
(L. Derbenev)

moose echo

The moose trumpeted anxiously:

Summer was - end-chi-moose.

And the forest alarm

Rolled along the road.

He flew up to the clouds with the wind,

Ran along the fox trails.

And from the trees with a yellow echo

Dropped autumn leaves.
(V. Stepanov)

Cranes

Above the brown field
hemp
They fly lazily
Cranes.
are flying,
They call to each other.
Everyone is looking at
say goodbye
With Christmas trees
green,
With birches
And with maples
with the valleys
with lakes,
With darlings
open spaces.
(G. Ladonshchikov)

Autumn worries of a hare

What's on the rabbit's mind?
Prepare for winter.

Obtain not in the store
Down jacket excellent winter.

white-white whiteness,
To run in it until spring.

The former became cold,
Yes and – ser, and – too small.

He is in the winter of the enemy pack,
Like a target on a slope.

It will be safer in the new
Not noticeable to dogs and owls.

White snow and white fur –
And warmer and more beautiful than all!

( T. Umanskaya)

Last leaves

Fly over the fields
Last leaves,
Last leaves
They fly around in the forest.
And the sun, barely
Breaking through the clouds
Drops the last non-heating ray.
Can't hear on the river
no song, no word.
Gone are the anglers
With the last catch.
But they stubbornly believe
both people and birds
Everything will be born again!
Everything will happen again!

(A. Alien)

autumn fairy tale

The fairy tale begins
Autumn is quiet.
She walks through the forest
Like a moose
Can't see
Don't hear
As follows the branches.
But behind it we are with you
Let's hurry ourselves.
You see it flared up
Clusters of September rowan.
You see, the mushroom turned red
Under the ringing aspen.
Hangs in a light haze
On the pine cobweb.
Summer is tangled up in her
Aspen leaf.
(G. Novitskaya)

The forest smells like mushrooms

The forest smells like mushrooms
And the leaf didn't come off
At the aspen.
And from the browned rowan
More heat of summer
Didn't disappear.
Haven't told everything yet
Creek,
living under the roots.
But the rain
Already in a hurry for us
Like forests
Didn't see it!
(G. Novitskaya)

On the road, on the path

On the road, on the path
Lost the leaves of the forest.
Spider on the cobweb
Got me by the collar.

The nights have become darker
And the woodpecker's knock is not heard.
More often the rain wets the branches,
There will be no sound of thunder.

In the morning already in a puddle
The first ice appeared.
And the snow is spinning lightly
Know the frost on the way, it goes.
(L. Nelyubov)

Autumn assignments

Morning in the forest
Above the silver thread
Spiders are busy –
Telephone operators.
And now from the Christmas tree
To the aspen
Like wires, they sparkle
Cobwebs.
Calls are ringing:
– Attention! Attention!
Listen to autumn
Tasks!
– Hello bear!
– I'm listening to! Yes Yes!
– Not far off
Cold!
Until the winter came
To the threshold
Do you need urgently
Find a den!
The bells are ringing
At squirrels and hedgehogs,
From the top
And to the lower floors:
– Check it out soon
Own pantries –
Are there enough supplies
For wintering.
The bells are ringing
At the old swamp:
– The herons are all set
For a flight?
– Everything is ready for departure!
– Good luck!
Don't forget again
Look in!
Linden bells are ringing
And for maple:
– Hello! Tell,
Who is on the phone?
– Hello! By the phone
Ants!
– close
Your ants!
– Tell me, is this a river?
– River, river!
– Why for crayfish?
No place?
And the river says:
– These are lies!
I will show you,
Where do crayfish hibernate?
– Hello guys!
Good afternoon guys!
Already on the street
It's cold!
Time for the birds
hang out feeders –
On the windows, on the balconies,
On the edge!
After all, the birds –
Your faithful friends
And about our friends
You can't forget!

(V. Orlov)

Doctor Autumn

On the spines of hedgehogs
Two mustard plasters lie.
So someone put them on
But where is this doctor?
The forest sighed
And dropped the leaves...
– Guessed! It's Autumn!

(E. Grigorieva)

From dawn to dusk

Forests are turning
In painted sails.
Autumn again
leaves again
Without beginning, without end
Over the river
And at the porch.

Here they are floating somewhere -
That back
And then go ahead.
From dawn to dusk
The wind is tearing them apart.

all day long
The rains are slanting
Pulling threads through the woods
As if mending painted
Golden sails...

(V. Stepanov)

Until next summer

Quietly the summer is leaving
dressed in leaves.
And stays somewhere
in a dream or in reality:
silver fly
in spider webs
undrunk mug
steam milk.
And a glass stream.
And warm earth.
And above the forest glade
buzzing bumblebee.

Autumn comes quietly
dressed in mist.
She brings rain
from foreign countries.
And a yellow heap of leaves,
and the scent of the forest
and dampness in dark burrows.

And somewhere behind the wall
alarm clock until dawn
chirping on the table:
“Until bu-du-sche-th-let,
to bu-du-sche-go-le- ... "

(Tim Sobakin)

Letter

Evil autumn breeze
I plucked a leaf from a bush.
For a long time he spun with a leaf.
Circled above the trees
And then on my knees
Put down a yellow leaf.
Touched cold face:
"Get a letter!
Autumn sent you
And a bunch of yellow
red,
different letters
Threw.

(E. Avdienko)

Autumn

Rustled underfoot
Leaves with yellow sides.
It became damp, it became naked,
You have to get ready for school.
I barely have a notebook
Placed in my portfolio
Among the rowan berries,
maple and aspen leaves,
Acorns and russula…
And, probably, Olezhek,
My desk mate will ask:
"What is all this?" "It's Autumn"...
(T. Agibalova)

Ryabinushka

Look! Aspens blushed,

Birches stand in yellow shawls ...

At the forest prima donna rowan

The beads burn like a scarlet ruby.

Dressed up like a princess

At a sumptuous autumn feast.

She is a forest mermaid, probably

Braided the braid in the morning.

(L. Chadova)

Autumn miracle

It's autumn now, bad weather.
Rain and slush. Everyone is sad:
Because with the hot summer
They don't want to break up.

The sky is crying, the sun is hiding
The wind sings mournfully.
We made a wish:
Let summer come to us again.

And this wish came true
Having fun kids:
Miracle now - Indian summer,
It's hot in the middle of autumn!
(N. Samoniy)

Autumn in the dance is crying softly

Dissolved autumn braids
Blazing fire.
More often frost, less often dew,
Rain - cold silver.

Autumn bared her shoulders
In the neckline all the trees -
Soon the ball, farewell party...
The leaves are waltzing.

Chrysanthemums with marvelous fur
Decorate autumn outfit.
The wind is not a hindrance to the ball -
Louder music a hundred times!

Unleashed autumn braids,
The wind ruffles silk hair.
More often frost, less often dew,
Sweeter is the smell of late roses.

Autumn in the dance is crying softly
Lips tremble in a whisper.
In puddles, sad eyes hide.
The birds are circling mournfully.

Holding out a leaf like a hand
Waving sad "Goodbye" ...
Autumn, feeling parted,
Whispers tearfully: "Remember ..."
(N. Samoniy)

sad autumn

Leaves flew away
Follow the birds.
I am red autumn
I miss you day after day.

The sky is sad
The sun is sad...
It's a pity that autumn is warm
It doesn't last long!
(N. Samoniy)

Plums are falling in the garden...

Plums fall in the garden
A noble treat for wasps…
Yellow leaf bathed in the pond
And welcomes early autumn.

He pretended to be a ship
The wind of wandering shook him.
So we'll follow him
To piers unknown in life.

And we already know by heart:
In a year there will be a new summer.
Why the universal sadness
In every line in the poetry of poets?

Is it because the traces on the dew
Will the showers wash away and the winters get cold?
Is it because the moments are all
Fleeting and unique?

(L. Kuznetsova)

Autumn. Silence in the dacha village ...

Autumn. Silence in the dacha village,
And desert-voiced on earth.
Gossamer in transparent air
Cold as a crack in glass.

Through the sandy pink pines
The roof is bluish with a cockerel;
In a light, hazy velvet sun -
Like a peach touched with fluff.

At sunset, magnificent, but not sharp,
The clouds are waiting for something, frozen;
Holding hands, they shine
The last two, the most golden ones;

Both turn their faces to the sun
Both fade from one end;
The elder bears the feather of the firebird,
The youngest is a fluff of a fire-chick.
(N. Matveeva)

Late fall

Played the colors of autumn
The riot of color fades
And trees with a light gray
Dressed up with the first snow.

Only pines yes ate
They don't take off their coats.
Neither in the heat nor in the blizzard -
Greens are tenderly preserved.

And indeed, marvelously
White color and green color
Combine beautifully
Only a cold winter!

(E. Yakhnitskaya ■ )

Complains, cries

Complains, cries
Autumn outside the window
And hides tears
Under someone else's umbrella...

Sticks to passers-by
Bores them –
different, different,
Sleepy and sick...

That makes you tedious
windy longing,
That breathes a cold
Moist city...

What do you need
Weird madam?
And in response – annoying
Whip on wires...
(A. Herbal)

Autumn is coming

Gradually getting colder
And the days got shorter.
Summer is running fast
A flock of birds, flashing in the distance.

Already the rowans have turned red,
The grass has become withered
Appeared on the trees
Bright yellow foliage.

In the morning the fog swirls
Motionless and gray-haired,
And by noon the sun warms
Like a hot summer day.

But the wind barely blows
And autumn leaves
Flickers in a bright dance
Like sparks from a fire.
(I. Butrimova)

Golden autumn of wonderful beauty

Blue skies, bright flowers
Golden autumn of wonderful beauty.
How much sun, light, gentle warmth,
Autumn gave us this Indian summer.
We are glad for the last warm, clear days,
Honey mushrooms on stumps, cranes in the sky.

As if an artist with a bold hand
Painted birch trees with golden paint,
And, adding red, painted the bushes
Maples and aspens of wondrous beauty.
It turned out autumn – Eye-catching!
Who else can draw like this?
(I. Butrimova)

leaf fall

Fallen leaves crunch underfoot
The whole earth, covered with a multi-colored carpet,
And maple autumn cold flame
Sparkles in the sun like a farewell fire.

And the wind plays with a rowan branch
And the clusters flash in the autumn foliage.
There has long been a sign among the people,
With a lot of mountain ash - for a cold winter.

The last daisies have golden eyes
Reminded again of the departed warmth
And drops of dew, like living tears,
From their white cilia flow at dawn.

And the wind drives the fallen leaves
And the cranes fly like a sad wedge.
I have a train that rushed from summer to autumn,
A yellow ticket will wave in the distance.
(I. Butrimova)

It's cloudy outside the window

It's overcast outside the window... So what?
I am enjoying this beautiful day.

I look into the lakes-heavens, I melt in them,
Sailing into the sky-high distances.

I inhale the aroma of leaves with bitterness.
I love gossamer lace.

And I rejoice in the moment I live
Drawing unearthly inspiration.

It's overcast outside the window... So what?
I am enjoying this beautiful day...
(N. Pristi)

September makes us sad with tears of rain...

September makes us sad with tears of rain...
Already under the silver more than once the herbs were hidden,
In the puddles in the morning transparent frames,
Rowan under the window blushed like a child ...
The river runs, hurries, trying to avoid
A languid sleep and a long captivity...
And the maple birch whispers with inspiration,
How can he wait patiently...
(O. Kukharenko)

September is beautiful...

In red boots, in a yellow suit,
September came out in a fashionable outfit.
In a wheat curl, to the envy of the virgins,
The viburnum ruby is skillfully woven.

Walking like a dandy on the grasses of the meadow,
He brings gifts to his friends.
Aspens in a grove, in a birch forest
Waiting for the color of honey and gold in braids.

Handed out all the colors September is generous,
But there was not enough pine and cedar,
And linden and oak are not enough of them ...
Calls September to help his brother.

In an amber tailcoat, to the sound of streams,
October feasts in gardens and parks,
And gold pours of various samples.
November, all in white, is on the way.

(I. Rasulova ■ )

October has come

October has come. Brought under the crowns
Your own torch – forests flared up.
One pine tree with green fire
Laughs in autumn's eyes.
The wind blows through the alleys
With golden foliage at the wedding.
And the forest is sad for bird trills,
Spill pensive calm.
(L. Bochenkov)

November

Maples are flying faster and faster,
Darker and darker the low vault of heaven,
Everything is clearer, how the crowns are empty,
All you hear is how the forest grows numb,
And increasingly hiding in the darkness
The sun that has cooled to the ground ...
(I. Maznin)

* * * * * * * * * * *

Poetry Reviews

"Poetry of the native land"
"Literary newspaper" No. 150, 12/17/1955

ANTON ALIEN
POEMS AND SONGS

LAND NATIVE
(Yu. Slonov)
CHOIR OF RUSSIAN SONG OF ALL-UNION RADIO

VOLZHANKA
(Yu. Slonov)
L ZYKINA

WHERE DO YOU RUN THE PATH CUTE
(E. Rodygin)
STATE OMSK RUSSIAN FOLK CHOIR

OUR REGION
(D. Kabalevsky)
CHOIR OF THE PIONEER PALACE

OH YOU. RYE
(A. Dolukhanyan)
RED SIGN ENSEMBLE

MY LIFE. MY LOVE
(S. Tulikov)
V. VLASOV

V ROAD CHIBIS
(M. Jordan)
CHILDREN'S CHOIR

EVERY GIRL WANTS HAPPINESS
(S. Tulikov)
E, BELYAEV

An amazing thing is a song that does not usually lend itself to pre-established canons and rules. We write a lot of songs, but only some of them, true ones, pierce the heart and live with a person for a long time. To those who were lucky enough to create such a song, Anton the Stranger belongs.
He was born in 1893 in the village of Bezlesye, Balashovsky District, Saratov Region, into a peasant family. From 1914 to 1917 he was a soldier at the front. He published his first book so long ago, when many and very adult readers were no longer in the world - in 1920. Soon he becomes known as a poet and journalist, author of many collections of poetry. Each poet has his own soul, his own character, his own world, without which he cannot be a poet. It's raining - Anton the Visitor writes:

And I'm standing on the shore -
And I can't figure it out:
Why don't I go home
Why do I get wet in the rain.
And why do I tolerate it
And why do I love so much
And the lake
And the fisherman
And the wet rustle of the reeds,
And everything here.
In front of me -
All of our
Russian,
Native!

And all of him, Anton, is Russian, whole. Maybe that's why he owns such glorious song verses: “A lapwing by the road”, “Oh you, rye” or “My life, my love, with black eyes!”. I especially liked one song, amazing. I remember sitting, meeting by chance, several poets, including the authors of many, many songs, sat, read poetry. One of us - Sergey Vasilyev - said: “For a week now, the song has not let go of me. Just don't be offended, guys, she's not yours."
And what an insult there could be ... He sang this song. It was astonishingly simple and at the same time astounded by its special novelty. It was a song by Anton the Stranger:

Where are you running, dear path,
Where are you calling, where are you going?
Whom I waited for, whom I loved,
You won’t catch up, you won’t return!
Behind that river, behind a quiet grove,
Where we walked with him together.
The moon is floating, helper of love, Reminds me of him.

Everything is said in these lines in its own way. Not a single repetition, not a single forced, unnatural, complicated line. What next:

I was a careless girl
I was stupid with happiness:
My friend is heartless
My love has caught up.

My love lay in wait ... What a bitter accuracy here! And how much female pride in the following lines:

And took him away, unfaithful,
All happy in sight.
Oh, my unending sadness
To whom I complain, I'll go!

You will sing this song and as if you will transfer your sadness to someone, you will be cleansed, you will gain new strength. And when I think about the fate of song poetry, I involuntarily want to wish: let each of us break out of our hearts at least one song, so well-worn, so merged with music. Already with these twenty lines alone, Anton the Stranger will forever remain in poetry.
The Stranger has a poem "Polynya"
... Freeze
Freezing gardens.
The river is wrapped up
In heavy ice...

Further, the poet says that right there “near the bend, at the very south, in the most burning and evil wind, tearing the snow, melting the ice, a living river stream flows - an unfreezing polynya!”
And, speaking of this power of the river, the poet, according to the good old tradition, thought of the song:

With such perseverance
And with such strength
Break into her every
Human heart! To break the ice.
For the snow to boil
So that everyone cannot
Don't sing my song!

Many feathers touched on this topic, but in this case these are not just poetic lines. And joyfully say to Anton the Stranger; dear friend, what you dreamed about has come true - we cannot but sing your songs, because you have your own sweet path in poetry.
L. Oshanin

V.V. Rozanov
Last leaves. 1916
January 3, 1916 A stupid, vulgar, fanfare comedy. Not very "successful to myself." E° "luck" comes from a lot of very lucky expressions. From witty comparisons. And in general, from a lot of witty details. But, truly, it would be better not to have them all. They covered the lack of the "whole", the soul. Indeed, in "Woe from Wit" there is no soul and even no thought. In essence, this is a stupid comedy, written without a theme by "Bulgarin's friend" (very characteristic) ... But it is fidgety, playful, glitters with some kind of silver "borrowed from the French" ("Alceste and Chatsky"1 by A. Veselovsky), and liked to the ignorant Russian of those days and the following days. Through "luck" she flattened the Russians. Lovely and thoughtful Russians have become some kind of balabolka for 75 years. "What Bulgarin failed, I succeeded," the flat-headed Griboyedov might have said. Dear Russians: who hasn't eaten your soul. Who didn't eat it. Blame you for being so stupid now. His very face - the face of some correct official of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs - is disgusting in the highest degree. And I don’t understand why Nina loved him so much. "Well, this is a special case, Rozanov's." Is it so. 10.I.1916 A dark and evil man, but with a face that is bright to the point of intolerance, moreover, a completely new style in literature. (resume about Nekrasov) It was he who “came” into literature, was a “newcomer” in it, just as he “came” to Petersburg, with a stick and a bundle where his property was tied. "I came" to get, get settled, get rich and be strong. He, in fact, did not know how it "would come out," and he didn't care at all how it "would come out." His book "Dreams and Sounds"2, a collection of pitiful and flattering poems to persons and events, shows how little he thought of being a writer, adjusting himself "here and there", "here and there". He could also be a servant, a slave or a servile courtier - if it "worked out", if the line and tradition of people "in case" continued. It happened to stumble on the kurtag, They deigned to laugh ... He fell painfully, got up well. He was granted the highest smile3. All this could have happened if Nekrasov "came" to St. Petersburg 70 years earlier. But it was not for nothing that he was called not Derzhavin, but Nekrasov. There is something in the surname. The magic of names ... There were no internal obstacles "to stumble on the kurtag" in him: in the Catherine era, in the Elizabethan era, and best of all - in the era of Anna and Biron, he, as the 11th hanger-on of the "temporary worker", could in other ways and in other ways to make that "happy fortune", which 70 years "after" he had to do, and he naturally did it in completely different ways. Just as Berthold Schwartz, a black monk, while making alchemical experiments, "discovered gunpowder" by mixing coal, saltpeter and sulfur, so, soiling various waste paper nonsense, Nekrasov wrote one poem "in his mocking tone", - in that subsequently famous "Nekrasov versification", in which his first and best poems were written, and showed Belinsky, with whom he was familiar and pondered various literary enterprises, partly "pushing forward" his friend, partly thinking of "taking advantage of him somehow." Greedy for the word, sensitive to the word, brought up on Pushkin and Hoffmann, on Cooper and Walter-Scott, the linguist exclaimed in surprise: - What a talent. And what ax is your talent4. This exclamation by Belinsky, spoken in a wretched apartment in St. Petersburg, was a historical fact - decisively starting a new era in the history of Russian literature. Nekrasov understood. Gold, if it lies in a casket, is even more precious than if it is sewn on a court livery. And most importantly, there can be much more of it in the box than on the livery. Times are different. Not a yard, but a street. And the street will give me more than the yard. And most importantly, or at least very important - that all this is much easier, the calculation here is more accurate, I will grow "more magnificent" and "on my own." On the kurtag "to stumble" - junk. Time - fracture, fermentation time. The time when one goes, the other comes. The time is not for the Famusovs and Derzhavins, but for Figaro-ci, Figaro-la "(Figaro is here, Figaro is there (fr.)). He instantly "rebuilt the piano", putting a completely new "keyboard" into it. "The ax is good. It's the ax. From what? He may be a lyre. The time of Arcadian shepherds has passed. "The time of Pushkin, Derzhavin, Zhukovsky has passed. About Batyushkov, Venevitinov, Kozlov, Prince Odoevsky, Podolinsky - he hardly heard. But Pushkin, with whom over time he began to" compete ", as the ruler of the thoughts of the whole era, he hardly ever read with any excitement and knew only enough to write a parallel to him, like: You may not be a poet, But you must be a citizen5. But the point is that he was completely new and completely " stranger." A stranger to "literature" even more than a stranger "to St. Petersburg." Just as the "palaces" of princes and nobles were completely alien to him, he did not enter them and did not know anything there, so he was alien and almost did not read Russian literature, and did not continue any tradition in it. All these "Svetlanas", ballads, "Lenora", "Song in the camp of Russian soldiers"6 were alien to him, who came out of a ruined, deeply upset and never comfortable parental family and a poor noble estate . Nothing behind. But ahead - nothing. Who is he? Family man? Link of a noble family (mother - Polish)? Common man? An official or even a servant of the state? Merchant? Painter? Industrialist? Nekrasov something? Ha-ha-ha ... Yes, "industrialist" in a special way, "of all trades" and "in all directions." But still, the word "industrialist" in its rigid philology - goes here. "Industrialist", who has a feather instead of an ax. Feather like an ax (Belinsky). Well, he will "hunt" for this. There is industry, with "patents" from the government, and there are "industries", already without patents. And there are Great Russian crafts, and there are also Siberian crafts, for the black-brown fox; on an ermine, well - and on a lost person. (interrupted, thinking of changing it into a feuilleton. See feuilleton) 7 January 16, 1916 I would not like a reader who "respects" me. And who would think that I'm a talent (and I'm not a talent either). No. No. No. Not this one, the other one. I want love. Let him not agree with any of my thoughts ("do not care"). He thinks I'm wrong all the time. That I'm a liar (even). But he does not exist for me at all if he does not love me madly. He does not think only about Rozanov. In every step. At every hour. He does not consult mentally with me: "I will do as Rozanov would have done." "I will act in such a way that Rozanov, having looked, would say yes." How is this possible? For this, I renounced from the very beginning "every way of thinking" so that this would be possible! (i.e. I leave all sorts of thoughts to the reader). Me - no. In fact. I am only a breeze. To eternal tenderness, affection, indulgence, forgiveness. To love. My friend, don't you notice that I am only a shadow around you and there is no "essence" in Rozanov? This is the essence - Providentia (Providence (lat.)). That's how God arranged it. So that my wings move and give air to your wings, but my face is not visible. And you all fly, friends, to all your goals, and truly I do not deny either the monarchy, or the republic, or the family, or monasticism - I do not deny it, but I do not affirm it either. for you should never be bound. My students are not related. But a little rude - not me. A little ferocity, rigidity - I'm not here. Rozanov cries, Rozanov mourns. "Where are my students?" And here they all gathered: in which only love. And it's already mine. That is why I say that I do not need "mind", "genius", "Significance"; and so that people "wrap themselves in Rozanov" as they become in the morning, and playing, making noise, working, on the day 1/10 minutes of everything remember: "Rozanov wanted all this from us." And as I renounced "the whole way of thinking", so that for the sake of always being with people and never arguing with them about anything, not objecting to them in any way, not upsetting them - so "those that are mine" - let them give me only their love , but complete: i.e. mentally will always be with me and around me. That's all. How good. Yes? January 16, 1916 Vasya Bauder (grade II-III of the gymnasium, Simbirsk)8 usually came to see me on Sundays at 11 am. He wore a gymnasium overcoat, made of gray (dark grey), thick, unusually beautiful cloth, which stood "stake" or as if tightly starched - and this showed such beauty that, putting it on only on the shoulders, - somehow slightly squatted from the pleasure of wearing such a coat. He was from an aristocratic family and an aristocrat. First, it's a coat. But most importantly, they had painted floors and a separate living room, a small hall, fathers' office and bedroom. Even richer than them were only Rune - they had a pharmacy, and Lakhtin. The boy Lakhtin (Styopa) had a separate, cold room with a squirrel in a wheel, and at Christmas a beautiful sister came and her friend Yulia Ivanovna came with her. I never dared to talk to them (young ladies). And when one turned to me, I flushed, tossed about and said nothing. But we dreamed of young ladies. Clear. And when Vasya Bauder came to see me on Sundays, they sat with their backs to each other (so as not to be scattered) at separate small tables and wrote a poem: TO HER There has never been any other topic. "E °" we did not know any, because we did not know a single young lady. He, relying on his magnificent overcoat, still allowed himself to walk along the sidewalk along which the schoolgirls walked when they poured out of the Mariinsky Gymnasium (after lessons). My coat was baggy and disgusting, made of cheap, limp cloth, which was "soft" on the figure. In addition, I was red and red (complexion). Therefore, he had the appearance of dominating me, in the sense that he "understands" and "knows", "how" and "what". Even a possibility. I lived in pure illusion. I only had a friend, Kropotov, who signed the notes: Kropotini italo9, and these "from afar" Rune and Lakhtin. We argued. I had an ear, he had an eye. He asserted, mockingly, that I did not write poetry at all, because "without rhyme"; on the contrary, it seemed to me that it was more likely that he, not me, wrote prose, p.ch., although he ended with consonances: “horse”, “me”, “friend”, “suddenly”, but the lines themselves were completely silent, without these tempos and periodicity that agitated my ears, and afterwards we learned that this is called versification. For example, for me: The morning breathes with the aroma The breeze sways a little ... But if “breathing” and “swaying” didn’t work out, then I boldly put another word, saying that it was still a “verse”, p. h. there is "harmony" (alternating stresses). He had... He just had lines, ugly, for me - stupid, "perfect prose" but "consonance" of the last words, these ends of the lines, which seemed to me - nothing. These were not the current blank verses either: it was simply literal prose, without ringing, without melody, without melodiousness, and only for some reason with "rhymes", on which he was obsessed. This is how we lived. I have kept his letters. Indeed, as soon as I entered the fourth grade, I was taken by brother Kolya to Nizhny Novgorod, I must have "developed rapidly there" (the Nizhny Novgorod gymnasium was incomparable with the Simbirsk gymnasium), "lifted my mind" and wrote to the "old homeland" (according to the teachings) several arrogant letters, to which he answered me like this: [put here by all means, by all means, by all means!!! — Bauder's letters. See Rumyantsev Museum]<позднейшая приписка> . 16.I.1916 "I" is "I", and this "I" will never become - "you". And "you" are "you", and this "you" will never become like "I". What is there to talk about. You go "to the right", I - "to the left", or you "to the left", I "to the right". All people are "not on the road to each other." And there's nothing to pretend. Everyone goes to his Destiny. All people are solo. 23.I.1916 So arr. Was Gogol wrong at all? (The fundamental principle of Russian reality), and this is not the point. If Gogol had been received nobly by a noble society: if it had begun to work, to "ascend", to become civilized, then everything would have been saved. But after all, this was not at all what happened, and it should be noted that in Gogol there was such a thing that “this was not what happened.” He did not write his "great poem" with "bitter laughter"; He wrote it not as a tragedy, tragically, but as a comedy, comically. He himself was "funny" at his Manilovs, Chichikovs and Sobakevichs, laughter, "scream" is felt in every line of "M.D." Here Gogol will not deceive, no matter how cunning. Tears appear only at the end, when Gogol saw for himself what a monstrosity he had done. "Finis Russorum" ("End of Russia" (lat.)). And so the society perceived vilely ("comically") written thing vilely: and this is the whole point. Chernyshevsky - Nozdryov and Dobrolyubov Sobakevich cackled at the top of their lungs: - Oh, so she's our bitch. Beat her, beat her, kill her. The era of killing by "loyal subjects" of their fatherland has come. Until March 111 and "us", to Tsushima12. 23.I.1916 Action "M.D." and it was this: that Gogol, peeped somewhere, really met him, really flashed before his eye, EYE, and in what ingeniously, senselessly and on a whim, he guessed the "essence of the essences" of the moral Sivukha of Russia - through his painting, imagery, through the great sketchiness of his soul - generalized and universalized. Pellets, particles have grown throughout Russia. "Dead souls" he did not "found", but "brought". And here they are "the 60s", the laughing "womb", here are the scoundrels Blagosvetov13 and Kraevsky14 who "would have taught Chichikov". Here is a perfect copy of Sobakevich - a genius in cursing Shchedrin. Through the genius of Gogol, it was precisely the ingenious in abominations that appeared in our country. Previously, the abomination was mediocre and powerless. Besides, she was naturally flogged. Now she herself began to smack ("accusatory literature"). Now the Chichikovs began not only to rob, but they became teachers of society. - Everyone ran after Kraevsky. to Kraevsky. He had a house on Liteiny. "Pavel Ivanovich has already fledged." And into the trumpet "Father. Notes" gave the "Gospel of the public." 26. I.1916 You walked past a tree: look, it's not the same anymore. It has received from you a shadow of curvature, cunning, fear. It "shake" will grow as you grow. Not quite - but a shadow: And you can not breathe on a tree and not change it. To breathe into a flower - and not distort it. And walk across the field - and not deaden it. This is what the "sacred groves" of antiquity are based on. Which no one has ever entered. They were - for the people and the country as a repository of morality. Among the guilty, they were innocent. And among sinners - saints. Did no one enter? In historical times - no one. But I think in prehistoric times "Caryatids" and "Danaid"? These, precisely these groves were the place of conception, and through this the oldest temples on earth. For temples - of course arose from a special place for something as special as conception. This was the first transcendence encountered by man (conception). 2.II.1916 We talked about Gogol, discussed different aspects of him, and two things flashed through his mind: - Every thing exists insofar as someone loves it. And "things that absolutely no one loves" - she and "no". Amazing, universal law. Only he said even better: that "someone's love for a thing" calls the "thing" itself into being; that, so to speak, things are born out of "love", some kind of a priori and pre-worldly. But he had it with warmth and breath, not like a scheme. Surprisingly, a whole cosmogony. And in another place, after a while: Gogol's things don't smell of anything. He did not describe a single smell of the flower. Not even the name of the smell. Apart from Petrushka, which "stinks". But this is specifically Gogol's jargon and his mannerisms. Incl. it is also not a smell, but a literary smell. He says such that Gogol is disgusting, uninteresting and unbearable. And that he has nothing but fiction and writing. (With Tigranov Faddey Yakovlevich) 16 He has a mother and a lovely wife, blonde (skinned) and fair-haired: pale, powerless hair color, with an overflow of gold. He said that this is the oldest root of Armenia, that it is in the oldest and provincial areas that there are entirely red-haired peasant women. "Thank you, I did not expect"17. He himself is a black beetle, small in stature, a theoretician and philosopher. 5.II.1916 And "fallen leaves" from my readers are flying at me. What is my "I" to them? A person he has never seen and with whom he will never meet in the distance (the town of Nalchik, in the Caucasus). And how much joy they bring to me. For what? And I thought, perhaps "for what", giving "someone", unknown, from myself "fallen leaves"? For I gave not to the public, but to "someone over there." So mutual. And how glad I am, feeling how a sprout touched my face from someone else's distant tree. And they gave me life, these foreign leaves. Aliens? No. My. Their. They entered my soul. Indeed, these are grains. In my soul they do not lie, but grow. At a distance of 2 weeks, here are 2 sheets: "18 / I.916. Tomsk. "How I understand the sadness of the "Solitary", sadness is close to the fallen leaves ... They are carried far away by a blizzard, circling over the frozen ground, forever separate each from friend, falling asleep with a veil of snow," my poor Olya sang and fell silent at the age of 23. She lived a cold life! - my fault, my pain until death. Once, on a dark autumn night, sadness came to me as a sudden foreboding of impending misfortunes - I was 5 Since then, she often visited me, until she became a constant companion of my life. I fell in love with Rozanov - he feels sad, understands those who are sad, shares our sadness. How do you mark in determining mental states depending on circumstances and age, my metaphysical age, full memories and forebodings, in happiness I was a pagan. Not to believe in a future life means little love. All my life I buried - father, mother, husband, all the children died; melancholy, despair, pain and dullness owned my soul - after the death of my last daughter Olya I can't d omit the thought that she is not, her beautiful soul does not live. If the beautiful and moral do not die, are not forgotten in our souls, then on their own do they really cease to exist for further improvement? What is the meaning of their life? It is expedient to close the pipe in order to keep warm when the firewood burns itself, and if the fire is still burning and people are warm and light from it, close the pipe, you will get waste and fumes. Someone brought the fire of life into us and did not determine the duration of its burning - is there a right to extinguish it? It sometimes happens that the firewood burns out, but there remains a smut that cannot burn in any way, then I don’t throw it away, but immediately use it to kindle another stove or pour it in and then also use it as a material for fuel, let it go for heat; my soul was also burned in the fire of suffering, but it has not yet burned to the end - it is dark and dull, like this brand - it has neither colors nor brightness, it has no life of its own - it goes to the fire, but yours - a warm, bright fire - cannot close the pipe. Thank you, dear, good, for the tears with which I took my soul away, reading "Solitary" and "Fallen Leaves" - they are like rain in the desert for me. Ah, what a life lived painful and full of vicissitudes, for what it was given to me, I would like to understand A. Kolivov" Other: "February 1st. Accidentally stumbled upon the uncut pages in the first box of Fallen Leaves. I'm glad that there is something unread. About Tanya. How Tanya read you Pushkin's verse "When a noisy day falls silent for a mortal", she read it during a walk by the sea. How good are these pages of yours. Well - everything, everything - first. What a wonderful woman you have - Tanechka. I got excited. Everything you said is so clear and good. Then I read the last lines - Mom's words: "Don't go to the market"18. Truth. But not every soul is a market. Vasily Vasilyevich, my dear, because 9/10 is nothing, nothing, well, they don’t understand anything! Do you know what they say about you? "Is this the Rozanov who is against the Jews?" Or - "Is this the one in New Time?" It takes tremendous courage to write like you, because it is more naked than Dostoevsky. "-" My dear and beloved Vasily Vasilyevich, I received your letter a long time ago, it gave me great joy, I immediately wanted to write to you, but I didn’t have to, but then Irina *1 got sick, and now, here is the 2nd week, Eugene *2 is sick, I take care of him myself. Wrapped up completely. Yesterday I was expecting people, and Evgeny says: "Hide Rozanov." I understood and put your books in the chest of drawers. I can't give them. I can not. They shove. Offended. There are books that I can't give to anyone. You have the words that books should not be "let to read." This coincided perfectly with our old, sore point about books. For this - we are scolded and blamed all around. If you don't save the book, they'll see it - you just have to give it - it's better not to return it at all - for "it has lost it from its purity." People can never understand that giving a book is 1000 times more than putting on your dress. But sometimes we give, we give with the tender thought of giving away the best, the last, and this is never, never understood: after all, a book is "common property" (so they say). Thank you, dear and dear, for your kindness, thank you for taking pity on me in your letter, I accept everything from you with joy and gratitude. How is your health now? Faithful and loving Nadya * 3 A. " * 1) Little daughter, 3 years old. * 2) Husband, school teacher. * 3) "Nadya" (as young) I called her in the first reply letter, - since I also have a daughter Nadya, 15 years old<примеч. В.В.Розанова> . 14.II.1916 What cannibalism... After all, these are critics, i.e. in any case, not average educated people, but outstanding educated people. Starting with Harris, who in The Morning of Russia 19 2-3 days after the book (Ued.) came out - hurriedly crawled out: "What kind of Peredonov is this; oh, if it weren't for Peredonov, because he has talent," etc. .d., from "Ued." and "Op.l." one impression: "Naked Rozanov"20, "Oooh", "Cynicism, dirt". Meanwhile, how clear it is for everyone that in "Ued." and "Op.l." more lyricism, more touching and loving than not only in your scoundrels, Dobrolyubov and Chernyshevsky, but also than in all Russian literature of the nineteenth century. (except Dost th). Why "Go-go-go" -? From what? Where? I'm not a cynic, but you are cynics. And already old 60-year-old cynicism. Among the dogs, in the kennel, among the wolves in the forest, a bird sang. The forest howled. "Ho-ho-ho. Not our way." Cannibals. You are only cannibals. And when you climb with the revolution, it is very clear what you want: - Have a bite to eat. And do not shout that you only want to bite the throat of the rich and noble: you want to bite a person. P.h. I, in any case, am no longer rich and not noble. And Dostoevsky lived in poverty. No, you are a gilded noble mob. You have pretty good breakfasts. You get both from Finland and from Japan. Pretending to be a "poor jacket" (Peshekhonov). You betray Russia. Your idea is to kill Russia, and in its place to spread France, "with its free institutions", where you will be free to cheat, p.ch. the Russian policeman is still holding you by the tails. 19.II.1916 Three times more has been written about the "Box 2" than about the 1st21. Someone from Khabarovsk today. Thank you. "Lukomorye"22 did not put its company up for publication. What did not "expose" - about this Rennikov23 said: - "What boors they are." Um. Um... Let's not be so direct. Still, they did a good deed: I already had about 6,000 debts in the printing house; suddenly they offered to "publish at their own expense." I am happy. And that Kor was immortalized. 2nd, so intimately dear to me - endless gratitude to them. More young people. Mark Nikolaevich24 (fam. forgot). Showed "Family question" 25, all with notes. I was surprised and thought - "That's who to publish me." But he's young: everyone took care of the cover. "What kind of cover we will make for you." I was silent. What, except gray! But they put out vine leaves. Well, the Lord is with them. Mich. Al.26 and Mark Nikolaevich - they will be forever remembered for "Korob-2" Without them, I would not have seen the world. 19.II.1916 And now the "Rozanov current" in literature will begin (I know that it will begin). And they will say: “You know: after reading R-va, you feel pain in your chest. .." Lord: give me at that time to pull my leg out of the "Rozanov current". And stay - alone. Lord, I do not want the recognition of the multitude. I madly love this "multiple": but when it is "it", when it remains " "I am myself" and in its own way also "one". Let it be. But even if I am "I". - I always pray for you and yours." Here. And nothing else. 20.II.1916 ... the fact is that "precious metals" are so rare, and rough ones come across all the time. in history. Why is there so much iron, why is gold so rare? Why do you have to go to India or Africa for diamonds, and feldspar is everywhere. Everywhere is sand, clay. There is an iron mountain "Grace"27. Can you imagine a golden mountain? There is only in fairy tales. Why in fairy tales, and not in reality? Isn't it all the same for God to create, for nature to create? Who "could do everything" could also "this". But - no. Why - no? Obviously does not answer any then the plan of the universe, some about the thoughts in it. So it is in history. Is Granovsky readable? Everyone prefers Kareev, Schlosser,28 and in the sense of "philosophy of history" Chernyshevsky. Nikitenko was a rather insightful person and expressed his personal impression of Mirtov (Historical Letters) that he was Nozdrev29. Nozdrev? But under Chichikov, he was beaten (or beaten - the devil knows), and in the era of Solovyov and Kavelin, Pypin and Druzhinin, he was elevated to the degree of "genius persecuted by the government." What is it? Yes, there is a lot of iron, but little gold. Only. Nature. Why am I all sad? Why do I have such grief in my soul, from the university. "Since Strakhov is not read, the world is stupid." And I can't find my place. But they don't read Zhukovsky either. Nobody reads Karamzin at all. Granovsky is not readable: Kireevsky, Prince. [V].F. Odoevsky - how many people bought them? They are printed by philanthropists, but no one reads them anyway. Why do I imagine that the world must be witty, talented? The world should "be fruitful and multiply", and this does not apply to wit. In the gymnasium, I got annoyed at the immeasurable stupidity of some students and then (in grades VI-VII) I said to them: “Yes, you need to get married, why did you enter the gymnasium?” Great instinct told me the truth. Of humanity, the vast majority of 10,000 9999 have the task of "giving children from themselves", and only 1 - to give "something" in addition to this. Only "something": a prominent official, orator. The poet, I think, is already 1 in 100,000; Pushkin - 1 per billion "Russian population". In general, there is very little gold, it is very rare. The story goes "on the edge", "near the swamp". She, in fact, does not "go", but drags herself. "There, the fog is creeping, a-huge." This "fog", this "in general" is history. We are all looking for play, brilliance, wit in it. Why are we looking? History must "be" and is not even obliged, in fact, to "go." It is necessary that everything "continues" and does not even continue: but that one can always say about humanity: "but it still exists." "There is". And God said, "Be fruitful and multiply," without adding anything about progress. I myself am not a progressive: so why am I so sad that everything just "is" and does not crawl anywhere. History screams from within: "I don't want to move," and that's why they read Kareev and Kogan. Lord: it’s a consolation to me, but I’m so worried. Why am I worried? 29.II1916 He is a nightingale, and he will sing his song from any cage in which he will be put. Will Maeterlinck build him a cage and call him "The Blue Bird"30. The new T. Ardov31 will roll his eyes and sing: “Oh, you are a blue bird, a wonderful vision that the Brussels poet created for us. "Green stick"32 And Nazhivin33 will say: "Green stick, the magical dream of childhood! Do you remember your childhood? Oh, you don't remember it. We then lay at the breast of our Mother Nature and did not bite it. We are now adults "We'll bite her. But come to your senses. Let's be brothers. Let's look at each other's noses, let's bury guns and all militarism in the ground. And we'll collectively gather to remember the green stick." Where should a Russian poet begin, and he will continue. And the bankers know this. And they buy. Saying: "They will continue. And first we will show them the Blue Bird and throw the Green Stick." (XL-year anniversary of "NVr.")34 9.III.1916 All my life I have lived with people deeply unnecessary to me. And I was interested from afar. (behind a copy of Chekhov's letter)35 I lived in the monastery backyards. I watched the bells ring. Not that they were interested, but they still call. Picked his nose. And looked into the distance. What would come of friendship with Chekhov? He clearly (in a letter) called me, called me. I did not answer the letter, very nice. Even swine. Why? Rock. I felt it was significant. And he did not like to get close to significant ones. (at that time I read only his “Duel”, which gave me a disgusting impression; the impression of a fanfaron (“von Koren” is a vulgar reasoner, to “choke himself” [from him]) and a mental braggart. Then this woman, bathing in front of passing on boat by men, lay on her back: disgusting, His wondrous things, like "Women", "Darling", I did not read and did not suspect). So I did not see K. Leontiev36 (I called to Optina), and Tolstoy, to whom it was so natural and easy to go with Strakhov, I saw each other for one day37. For the (extraordinary) heat of his speech, I almost fell in love with him. And could fall in love (or hate). I would hate if 6 saw cunning, delicacy, (maybe). Or immense self-love (perhaps). After all, my best friend (friend - patron) Strakhov was internally uninteresting. He was wonderful; but this is other than greatness. I have never seen greatness in all my life. Weird. Shperk was a boy (a boy is a genius). Rtsy38 - the whole curve. Tigranov is a loving husband of his lovely wife (blond Armenian. A rarity and wonder). Weird. Weird. Weird. And m.b. scary. Why? Let's face it, it's rock. Backyards. Nooks and crannies. My passion. Did I love it? So-so. But here's the conclusion: not seeing much interest around me, not seeing the "towers" - I looked at myself all my life. A diabolically subjective biography came out, with interest only in its "nose". It's insignificant. Yes. But in the "nose" worlds also open up. "I only know the nose, but there is a whole geography in my nose." 9.III. 1916 Nasty. Nasty, nasty my life. Dobrovolsky (Secretary of the Editorial Board) called me a "deacon" for a reason. And he also called it "sucking" (they sucked the pit of the berry and spit it out). Very similar. There is something diachkovskoe in me. But priestly - oh no! I'm running around "near the service of God." I serve the censer and pick my nose. Here is my profession. I wander through the backyards in the evening. "Where will the feet go?" With indifference. Then - fall asleep. Basically, I'm always dreaming. I lived such a wild life that I didn't care how to live. I would "curl up, pretend to be asleep and dream." Everything else, certainly everything else, I was indifferent. And here my "nose" unfolds, "Nose - World". Kingdoms, history. Anguish, greatness. Oh, a lot of greatness: how I loved the stars from the gymnasium. I went to the stars. Traveled between the stars. Often I did not believe that there is a land. About people - "absolutely unbelievable" (what is, live). And a woman, and breasts and belly. I approached, I breathed it. Oh how I breathed. And here she is not. She is not, and she is. This woman is already the world. I never imagined a girl, but already "married", i.e. married. Copulating, somewhere, with someone (not with me). And I especially kissed her belly. I never saw her face (not interested). And the chest, stomach and hips to the knees. This is "Mir": I called it that.