After all, this is a monument to despair -
A verse of a cracked cry...
A. Barkova
A little-known, but extraordinarily talented woman with a unique destiny, A.A. Barkov.
Anna Aleksandrovna Barkova (1901-1976), better known as a poetess and a legendary political prisoner (three terms in the camps ... "for thoughts"), more than half a century ago, in her original talented prose, she prophetically "drew" much of what has happened to us in recent decades.
Yevgeny Yevtushenko, compiling his anthology "Strophes of the Century", called Anna Barkova one of the best Russian poetesses of the 20th century and compared it with Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva. Barkova was not broken by decades of Stalinist camps, nor by barracks and communal apartments, where she lived defiantly freely, side by side with people completely distant from her, before whom she never hid either her education or political views. The tragic fate of the remarkable Russian poet Anna Alexandrovna Barkova, whose work should rightfully be inscribed in the context of Russian and world culture, deserves to be known to the broad masses of readers.
Barkov in the 1930s
For a long time, the name of Barkova was simply “turned off” from the literary process, and yet her poetic debut was brilliant. At the dawn of her youth, in the distant 1920s, a girl from the provincial workers' town of Ivanovo-Voznesensk came under the attention of Lunacharsky, the People's Commissar of Education himself, who in a letter to Barkova predicted a great future for her: “I fully admit the idea that you will become the best Russian poetess for all the past time of Russian literature. Blok, Bryusov, Pasternak spoke positively about her work ... She reached a position that others could only dream of. In 1922, Barkova moved to live in Moscow, becoming the personal secretary of Lunacharsky, who hopes to “sculpt” her into a “great proletarian poetess”, a scale no lower than that of another Anna - Akhmatova. In the same year, the first and only lifetime collection of poems by Barkova "Woman" was published in Petrograd. The lyrical heroine of the book is “an Amazon with a formidable weapon”, an ardent herald of new truth, new love and beauty, which came with the revolution to replace the old ones. “Jeanne d'Arc of modern poetry” called Barkova one of the literary critics of that time.
But behind the Kremlin wall, she saw the double morality of the Bolshevik government (“One face is for the initiated, / The other is for the naive masses ...”) and did not want to live by their rules. Three years wandered in strange corners.
Memorial plaque on the former gymnasium
What supported her then? What prevented you from completely dissolving in the dull everyday life of Russian everyday life? First of all - nature, character, the original inner strength inherent in it. “From the age of eight,” Barkova later writes in her diary, “one dream is about the greatness of power through spiritual creativity.”
Even in her youth, Barkova discovered something that attracted her and at the same time repelled those around her. A person who came from the very bottom of the city, she initially carried a certain secret anxiety. “Fiery-red, with slightly curly hair, a long braid, serious eyes with a piercing look,” this is how the high school student Barkova was remembered by one of her peers. The girl from the "muddy hut" was drawn to culture, to Dostoevsky, Nice, Edgar Allan Poe.
Only in the books revealed something strange to me
Through Russian gray dust
Through despondency cursed
I dreamed of someone else's reality, -
Later Barkova will write, peering into the beginning of his life.
Gymnasium where A.Barkova studied
Anna writes poetry under the pseudonym "Kalika - Crossing", published in newspapers and magazines. A strange pseudonym for a 20-year-old girl, beggars, holy fools, "God's" wanderers have long been called kaliks in Rus'. The people considered them not only blessed, but also revered as prophets, people close to God. One gets the impression that along with the literary name, the poetess chose her fate.
Before many, she understood the black abyss of power, today called the cult of personality.
Let our goal be dearer to us
Mothers, and brothers, and fathers.
After all, you have to shoot, maybe
To your favorite face.
…………
This book is a hot coal
(See my chest open?)
In the name of sending a friend to the chopping block,
We destroy our home and family. (1927)
Barkova's poems of the late 20s and early 30s are full of the realities of the unsightly Soviet reality of the era of the birth of the Stalin personality cult: the standardization of life in all its guises, the replacement of the individual-personal "I" by the faceless "we" (remember the novel by E. Zamyatin), the ubiquitous the practice of total betrayal and denunciation, a new, even worse slavery to replace the old one, the creation of new idols, more cruel and terrible than the old ones, instead of the intended paradise on earth, the construction of a huge universal barrack-prison.
We were naive. dreamed
Lead humanity to heaven.
Good to find the tablets,
Climbing up the new Sinai.
And instead:
With servile obedience together
We make a bloody share
Then, to build an unnecessary
Reinforced concrete paradise.
Since the end of the twenties, it has ceased to be printed for ideological reasons. "Woman" remained the only book published during her lifetime by Anna Barkova.
After the resignation of Lunacharsky, Barkova works in the Pravda newspaper. Hard times have begun. And Anna Alexandrovna had a rebellious character, she did not know how to be silent or say “yes” where the soul screamed “no”. In December 1934, when the assassination of Kirov was discussed in a narrow circle of Pravdists, Anna threw a careless phrase: "They killed the wrong one." Someone brought it. As a result, Anna Alexandrovna Barkova was arrested for "systematic conduct of ... anti-Soviet agitation and the expression of terrorist intentions." She was placed in the Butyrsky isolation ward even without the permission of the prosecutor.
On December 31, 1934, Anna Aleksandrovna Barkova was sentenced by a Special Meeting to 5 years in the Gulag. Only those who have gone through this can understand what Barkova was going through then. Alexander Isaevich Solzhenitsyn conveys this state in this way: “Arrest is an instant, striking transfer, transfer, transfer from one state to another.” And in the same place: “The Universe has as many centers as there are living beings in it. Each of us is the center of the universe, and the universe splits when they hiss at you: “You are under arrest!”
It seemed that life was over. Wherever she is sent, there will be no poetry, there will be no spiritual creativity. And she writes a statement addressed to People's Commissar Yagoda, where she asks to subject her to the highest measure of punishment, i.e. shoot… People's Commissar Yagoda, trembling, imposes a resolution on the letter: "Do not send it far." She is sent to Karlag (Kazakhstan).
Lyrical waves, it's too late!
It is necessary to say goodbye to the song fate.
I hear a roar sweet and menacing,
But your disturbing surf was late.
To meager and pitiful questions
The answers are more and more painful, more and more angry.
You, my life, a spoiled sketch
Great creation, decay! (1930)
It is amazing, but it is in the camp that the world space of history will open before her. Here she will hear the voices of the heroes of past eras, who make her believe in the inexhaustible possibilities of the human spirit. Here she will discover something in herself that she simply did not know before. Barkov becomes an outstanding Russian poet not in the "freedom", but in the Gulag. Paradox!
Much more will be written about the diversity of Barkova's camp poetry. About her amazing psychologism in revealing people who find themselves behind barbed wire. On the symbolic multidimensionality of her image of Russia. About her prophetic poetic forecasts. However, even now it is clear that Barkova's poetry is far ahead of her contemporary literature in terms of philosophical, social, political outlook on the future.
Rus.
Trampled by Tatar horses,
And tortured in robbery orders,
And Petrovsky beaten by experience,
And Peter's club brought up.
And stormed by the Prussians,
And robbed by her circle.
You were all twisted by currents.
Confused by other people's skills.
You are facing Europe
Up on its hind legs above the abyss,
Bewildered, bewildered
It was thrown into the same abyss.
And you are alive, alive - alive,
And you repeat one thing: sickly!
I feel someone with an iron hand
Will lift me over the abyss again.
(As if in our “upturned” time, this poem “Rus” was written.) The date under the poem is 1964 ...
She left Karlag Barkova in 1939, lived in the war and the first post-war years under administrative supervision in Kaluga. And in 1947 she again found herself in the camps, this time in Vorkuta, under the same Article 58.
All these years she wrote poetry, two poems and more than 160 poems appeared in the camps - these are only those already known, published in recent years. And what! Perhaps best of all, she explained her spiritual feat herself, and just in camp verses:
As our woeful spirit is tenacious,
A greedy heart is deceitful!
Poetry's ringing key
Breaks into the depths of the ditch.
In some poor land
Scurvy, swamps, barbed fences
I love and sing about love
One of the best songs.
Freed in 1956, Barkova came to Moscow, but the capital met her unfriendly. Despite all the efforts, she did not receive a residence permit or a roof over her head.
Anna Alexandrovna was forced to accept the invitation of her roommate Valentina Ivanovna Sapagina and settled in Shterovka, Voroshilovgrad region.
Just one year of respite, freedom with a loss of civil rights. At this time, Barkova wrote prose, in which her amazing foresight was once again manifested. In the story "How the Moon Is Made" Barkova presented two future Kremlin coups at once: the anti-Khrushchev conspiracy of 1964 and Gorbachev's perestroika of the 80s.
Anna Aleksandrovna warned contemporaries who did not listen to her: but those who were supposed to observe the “ideological virginity” of slaves were eavesdropping. In a letter to a Moscow acquaintance, Barkov sends a satirical story about Molotov. The hero of the story - Molotov - is rude, sharp, merciless. As a result of the denunciation, Barkova was arrested for the third time and went on her third "journey".
Registration card for A. Barkova
The third term (1957-1965) does not pass in such difficult conditions as before. The times of the "thaw" briefly touched the places of detention. Anna Alexandrovna, due to her age and illnesses, was not in general work. Barkova with her difficult character, evil tongue, intransigence to the meanness of others annoys many.
The beginning of Barkova's rehabilitation was the fact that Lunacharsky's letters to Barkova were published in the next volume of Izvestia of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. Moscow friends seized on this fact like a straw. And began long walks through the authorities, they turned to Fadeev, Tvardovsky. And already at the beginning of the Brezhnev era, Anna Alexandrovna was pulled out of the camp. In 1965, she was rehabilitated and sent to an invalid camp in Potma, Mordovian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. Only in 1967, Anna Alexandrovna was able to return to the capital, having received a room in the center of Moscow on Suvorovsky Boulevard, in which, like in a cell, the light was constantly on. A room in a communal apartment, bars on the window.
In the last years of life
Finally, fate gave Anna Alexandrovna several quiet years among her favorite books, old and new friends. During these years she worked continuously. Several times she offered her poems to various Moscow magazines, but they were not accepted anywhere: “There is no optimism, there is no life-affirming beginning.” Not a single line will ever appear in print during his lifetime. And to live after the third liberation is another ten years.
Barkova spends her entire pension on books, leaving a little for bread, butter, tea and cheese. She is attracted in books by what was characteristic of herself - sharpness of mind, observation, causticity. She loved philosophical and historical literature. But evil fate seems to weigh on the poor old woman. First - a sore throat - difficult to swallow, and finally, doctors report that she has cancer of the esophagus.
She died long and hard. In the hospital, she was treated amazingly, just perfectly, but what happened to her was what happened to many who had been in the places she had been. One Russian writer said that a person who has been there, if he goes to the hospital, will not be able to pronounce the word "ward", but pronounces "camera".
Again barracks dress,
Treasury ostentatious comfort,
Again state-owned beds -
Shelter for the dying...
me even after the punishment,
As you can see, punishment awaits.
Will you understand my suffering
At unopened gates?
Flattened and pressed into the dirt
My dumb wheel...
Would sit in a tavern dull
An alcoholic Picasso!
Anna Alexandrovna loved life too much and, of course, she was afraid of death, but when she felt the end, she asked to be buried in church ... She was afraid of oblivion. The realization that the terrible experience of her life, as well as the experience of thousands of other comrades in fate, was not able to change the environment that frightened her most of all.
Soaked in blood and bile
Our lives and our deeds
The insatiable heart of a wolf
Fate gave us fate.
Tearing with teeth, claws,
We kill mother and father.
We do not throw a stone at the neighbor -
We pierce the heart with a bullet.
Don't you need to think about it?
No need - well, if you please:
Give me universal joy
On a platter like bread and salt.
1928
First one-volume collected works, 2002
Barkova chose the fate of an unknown poetess, but she did not want to be a forgotten poetess. To go through all the torments of hell, to die and be resurrected, to love so much and hate so much and at the same time remain unheard - this terrified Barkova.
She denied comfort in anything, including literature. Therefore, her path could never completely coincide with the path of those for whom culture is their home, saving in the most difficult moment from the icy, cruel wind of life. Barkova simply could not exist without this wind. He was poetry to her. He cannot be heard - the blizzard-rebellious voice of Anna Barkova!
Though the soul scattered in snowstorms,
Everything is sung in dead snow,
Although there are few saints left, -
I keep the last one.
Let under the burden of failure
And I'll fall under someone's laughter
The Russian wind will mourn me,
How he mourned us all.
Maybe in five generations
Through the terrible flood of time
The world will mark an era of turmoil
And mine among other names.
Collection of Barkova 2009
Barkova loved life in its spiritual and creative essence too much to sacrifice her soul to pessimism. She was afraid of oblivion, she was afraid to remain in the memory of people as a witch on a broomstick ... Thank God, her poems are printed, books are published. They are read. They care. Encourage empathy. The prophecy of the poetess who wrote in her testamentary verses is coming true: "Above all is the power of the spirit and love." Let us remember this testament of Anna Barkova. Anna Alexandrovna Barkova passed her thorny earthly path with dignity, without losing face.
Preach new truth
To marry her to disgrace,
And dry autumn leaves
Scatter your treasures.
And the fate of the messiahs is doomed,
Darkened by all the clouds.
With humility to take alms,
Believe in what others see
To sacrifice everything, and in recompense -
The shackles and pads are tight.
And the fate of the Messiah is not new:
To be hungry, cold, decayed,
To be crucified and spat on by all,
Buried and resurrected.
POEMS BY ANNA BARKOVA
"In the daytime they are all like gunpowder..."
During the day they are all like gunpowder,
And at night they are quiet as mice.
They listen to every whisper
which is heard from somewhere.
There, on the stairs... My God! Who is this?
Call... To whom? Isn't it for me?
And the heart aches, and the heart aches!
And with a conscience - rigmarole!
Every little step is remembered
My God! Isn't it for this?
With such a suspicious - how stupid!
I drank vodka and ate meatballs!
They get up in the morning. Swelling under the eyes.
But the fear went away with the night.
And a song is whistled about the wide country,
Where it breathes so freely ... and so on.
1954
spell
I will look into your eyes
I will curse you forever.
You can't forget me
And get rid of melancholy.
I'm with the fog - out the window - into your house
And in the fog I melt gray.
You will pass through familiar places
In the alleys of the dark, deaf
You will hear these verses.
And you'll see I'm waiting on the corner
And dissipate into the evening mist.
I will curse you forever.
I am in yours, you are in my captivity.
1974
Eight years is like one year old
Eight years, like one year old,
I got it right, my friend.
And now it's useless to guess
What is in the darkness - the rise or the abyss.
Smiling in the face of adversity
I sing something easy
Only together, neither next nor next
You will not go, dear friend.
1955
***
I love with malice, with suffering,
With heavy choking breath,
With a moment of flying joy,
Poetess Anna Barkova (1901 - 1976, unknown Russian poetry) felix_mencat wrote on July 16th, 2015
From www.gay.ru
Poetess Anna Barkova was born in 1901
The poetess Anna Barkova, whose work was perceived in the 1920s as a revolutionary alternative to the prayer lyrics of Anna Akhmatova, spent about thirty years of her life in Stalin's camps. After going through prisons and the Gulag, she fully realized her homosexuality and found a spiritual justification for her lesbianism in a polemic with Vasily Rozanov's "People of the Moonlight". Barkova thought a lot about this book in her diaries of the late 1950s. "In relation to sex and marriage, he (Rozanov) is certainly right in something. I understand this. But the correctness of his me, a man of "moonlight", is damn annoying ..."
In 1922, her only lifetime book of poems “Woman” was published (with an enthusiastic foreword by Lunacharsky), the next year the play “Nastasya Koster” was published in a separate edition.
Early 1920s - pinnacle of Barkova's official recognition; her poems become widely known, they begin to talk about her as the “proletarian Akhmatova”, the exponent of the “female face” of the Russian revolution. Her lyrics of these years are really deeply original, she effectively expresses the rebellious (revolutionary and god-fighting) aspirations of the “fighting woman”, masterfully using a rich arsenal of poetic techniques (in particular, dolnik and accent verse, firmly established by that time in Russian poetry).
However, Barkova's rebellious nature quickly brings her into deep conflict with Soviet reality. It cannot find a place for itself in official literary and near-literary structures.
Soaked in blood and bile
Our life and our affairs.
The insatiable heart of a wolf
Fate gave us fate.
Tearing with teeth, claws,
We kill mother and father
We do not throw a stone at the neighbor -
We pierce the heart with a bullet.
A! Shouldn't you think about it?
No need - well, if you please:
Give me universal joy
On a platter like bread and salt.
1925
At the end of 1934, she was arrested for the first time and imprisoned for five years in Karlag (1935-1939), in 1940-1947. she lives under administrative supervision in Kaluga, where in 1947 she was arrested again and this time imprisoned in a camp in Inta, where she was until 1956. During this period, the poetess wrote about herself like this
Yes. I became completely different
My friends don't recognize me.
But the frost sometimes burns
Hotter than the sun, more painful than fire.
1954
In 1956-1957 she lived in Ukraine in the village of Shterovka near the city of Lugansk.
On November 13, 1957, despite the "thaw", she was arrested for the third time (as before, on charges of anti-Soviet agitation) and imprisoned in a camp in Mordovia (1958-1965).
Since 1965 he lives in Moscow, in a communal apartment, receiving a small pension.
All these years, Anna Barkova continues to write poetry, many of which reach great artistic power and are among the most important documents of the “camp literature” of the Soviet period.
In the lane Arbat crooked
Very dark and decrepit house
I hastened to passers-by sullenly confess:
"Here is the grandfather of Russian aviation."
Whose grandmother am I?
Proletarian poetry my granddaughter -
Before grandmother's granddaughter died -
What a pity!
1975
The publication of her works began only in the 1990s; several collections of poems were published in Ivanovo and Krasnoyarsk.
“Heroes of our time / Not twenty, not thirty years old.
Anna Barkova
Those cannot bear our burden, / No!
We are heroes, the same age, / Our steps coincide.
We are both victims and heralds, / Both allies and enemies.
Blok and I conjured, / We were engaged in high labor.
They kept a golden curl / And went to a brothel.
They broke ties with the people / And went to the people as debtors.
They put on Tolstoy blouses, / Following Gorky, they wandered into tramps.
We tried whips / Old Believer Cossack regiments
And the prison nibbled on rations / From prudent Bolsheviks.
They trembled, seeing rhombuses / And crimson buttonholes,
Bombs were hidden from the Germans, / During interrogations they said "no".
We saw everything, so we survived, / Bits, shot, hardened,
Our Motherland, evil and humiliated, / Evil daughters and sons.
She also wrote fiction.
Barkova was prone to fantastic themes all her life. Starting from the fantasy story "The Man of Steel" (1926), to the dystopia "The Liberation of Gynguania" (1957) and the story "Eight Chapters of Madness" (1957), in which the modern Mephistopheles in the guise of a retired Soviet employee fishing in a local pond, tells how he talked with the Minister of State Security of Stalin and Adolf Hitler himself, invites the author to travel through time and space, and the interlocutors went to the future, to its alternative options - the liberal-democratic and militaristic-communist worlds.
What powerful verses:
Where is the loyalty to some homeland
And the strength of native dwellings?
Here everyone stands before life -
Powerful, merciless and poor.
Let's remember with an evil smile
Wandering naive fathers.
Was a fatal mistake
Game of the dear dead.
With servile obedience together
We make a bloody share
Then, to build an unnecessary
Reinforced concrete paradise.
Lives behind a chained door
In the darkness of our strange hearts
Servant of godless mysteries,
Great sufferer and liar.
Anna Aleksandrovna Barkova (16.V11.1901 - 29.1.1976) was born in Ivanovo-Voznesensk in the family of a watchman of the gymnasium, in which she later studied.
Since 1918, she began to publish in the regional newspaper "Working Land", and soon in the capital's magazines.
In 1922, the first and only book of poems by Barkova "Woman" was published with a foreword by Lunacharsky.
Seven poems by Barkova were included in the collection of Yezhov and Shamurin “Russian Poetry of the 20th Century. Anthology of Russian lyrics. M., 1925
- 336 -Barkova was published in the magazines Krasnaya Nov, Novy Mir, Krasnaya Niva, Print and Revolution ... From 1924 to 1929 she worked at Pravda.
Hard times began, and Barkova had a rebellious character: she did not know how to be silent or say “yes” where her soul screamed “no”.
In December 1934, Barkova was sentenced to 5 years in the camps. In 1939 she was released and sent into exile.
During the war years, fate brought her to Kaluga. How and for what she din lived - is unknown.
In 1947, Barkova was again arrested and sentenced to 10 years in labor camp. She served this term until January 1956 in the Komi ASSR, first in Inta, and then in Abez. Here we met and were together for a long time.
There were many outstanding people in this camp, but Anna Aleksandrovna, even against such a background, stood out for her originality and sharpness of judgment.
Small in stature, ugly, with a cunning squint, with an eternal cigarette in her mouth, in boot covers and a large pea coat that was not large in size ... Having no relatives “outside”, she did not receive any help from outside. But she never complained, she was courageous and did not lose her sense of humor.
Released in 1956, Barkova came to Moscow, but the capital greeted her unfriendly: despite all the efforts, she did not receive a residence permit or a roof over her head, and at the invitation of her friend, with whom she was serving time, she moved to Shterovka, Luhansk region. By this time, Anna Alexandrovna was rehabilitated.
A friend of Barkova, a dressmaker, sewed at home. One of the customers, having run into debt for the work and not wanting to pay, denounced Barkova and her friend. There were other "witnesses" who claimed at the trial that both of them "vulgarized the Soviet press and radio." So in the fifty-seventh year, for 120 rubles, Barkova and her friend received a new term - 10 years in prison each.
In 1965, Anna Aleksandrovna was rehabilitated in this case as well, sent to the Potma of the Mordovian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic in an invalid home.
In 1967, with the assistance of Tvardovsky and Fedin, Anna Alexandrovna returned to Moscow,
- 337 -received a room in a communal apartment on Suvorovsky Boulevard, was admitted to the Literary Fund, she was assigned a pension of 75 rubles. Life seems to be getting better
Every morning (“like going to work,” she said) she went to the House of Books on Kalininsky Prospekt and spent her entire pension on books. They filled the whole room. An old refrigerator donated by someone never turned on: it also served as a bookcase.
Anna Alexandrovna several times offered her poems to various Moscow magazines, but they were not accepted anywhere: “There is no optimism, there is no life-affirming beginning.”
Despite the fact that Anna Alexandrovna's character was not easy, prickly, she did not remain lonely: people were drawn to her - including young people.
Anna Alexandrovna's poems are very difficult to collect, and many have disappeared altogether. How many verses, written on scraps of paper in her sharp, angular hand, were twirled, scattered, carried away by the “Russian wind”!
Ivanovo-Voznesensk
Department of Public Education
To the editor of the local newspaper
Tov. A. A. Barnova
Even at the risk of hurting you with praise, since I know that praise is often fatal for young writers, I must say that I remain at my established opinion of you:
- 339 -You have rich emotional experiences and great artistic talent. You need to protect and develop all this. I fully admit the idea that you will become the best Russian poetess in all the time that has passed by Russian literature, but, of course, this is subject to an extraordinary attitude towards your own talent.
CUTE ENEMY
Enemies on the other side
My old friend.
O death come to me
From lovely hands.
I sit sad on the hill
And they have lights.
Yearning in darkness
My friend, remember!
Aren't the grasses rustling,
Are not his steps?
No he won't come back
He and I are enemies.
I won't sleep tonight...
Tomorrow, my friend
I will look at you tenderly
And I'll cock the trigger.
It's time for you to rest
Oh, how tired you are!
Kiss the bullet in the chest
And I - in the mouth.
Soaked in blood and bile
Our life and our affairs.
The insatiable heart of a wolf
Fate gave us fate.
Tearing with teeth, claws,
Negation. Statement.
Statement. Negation.
Arguing between truth and error
The stars twinkle mockingly.
Yesterday's lies become the truth
Yesterday's truth will become a lie.
Everything is crossed out, everything is written down,
And ridiculed and embellished.
In a severe fit of disgust
Finally you want silence
You want times of cessation
And your end will come.
In a dead body, ossification
It is decent and proper for the dead,
In a dead look, the same doubt
And a violent calm.
CONCLUSIVELY
Laconically, please - succinctly.
The reader has no time.
Sun, stars, trees are great
Everyone knows from a long time ago.
We all know it's very hard
Living with friends and living apart.
Everything is written on paper
Everything is felt through
Everyone knows that youth is good,
But old age is sometimes useful,
Why is the stingy moisture
Suddenly dripped caustic from the eyes?
BLACK BLUE
Twilight is cold. Yearning.
I am bitter from a sip of tea.
Thoughts of one and one,
And blue is something outside the window.
- 352 -Silence is alive and not empty.
Closed mouths of books breathe,
Only breathe. Frozen words,
Outside the window darkens blue.
The lamp is very bright strong,
Blue creeps in from the window.
Thoughts about one and one.
The blue is darkening outside the window.
I love thick gold
In the sun and in a dream I catch it,
Only the light is thick and golden
It will be filled with a dead blue.
I can't bring back the past
I can't really live.
My head is turning white
Outside the window is blue.
HEROES OF OUR TIME
Heroes of our time
Not twenty, not thirty years.
That we can't bear our burden
We are heroes, age peers,
Our steps are the same.
We are the victims and the heralds
Both allies and enemies.
We conjured together with Blok,
They did high work.
Golden kept curl
And they went to a brothel.
Breaking ties with the people
And the people went into debt.
Wearing Tolstoy blouses
Following Gorky, they wandered into tramps.
We tried whips
Old Believer Cossack regiments
And the prison gnawed rations
The prudent Bolsheviks.
- 353 -Trembling, seeing rhombuses
And crimson buttonholes,
Bombs were hidden from the German,
During interrogation they said "no".
We saw everything, so we survived,
Bits, shot, hardened,
Our homeland, evil and humiliated,
Evil daughters and sons.
RENUNCIATION
From faith or from disbelief
Renounce, right, all the same.
We will breathe with quiet hypocrisy
What to do? Apparently it's destined.
Everything for posterity
Flowed into the future river,
With the same meek treachery
With a corrupt, beggarly hand.
We are the bloodied god
Let's glorify with a slave tongue,
We will shut up our miserable mouth
Lord's thrown piece.
And we must renounce, we must
In the name of extra days, minutes.
In the name of the herds we enter the herd,
We kiss the whip on our knees.
Such malice towards the talking pack,
Contempt for yourself, for your fate.
Such tenderness and such bitterness
Thrown into the world - thrown into the abyss,
And this is called eternal sleep.
What if we return again? Useless:
You will be born in another time.
- 354 -And I won't meet you, no, I won't meet you
I will go into terrible wanderings alone.
And if this return is an eternity
I do not need her.
He lived in a closet, in a hut, without a stove,
in Judea and Ancient Greece.
“I would like a little sheep’s warmth,
I can warm myself with a sulfur match.”
He looked up at the stars,
He glorified his life in poverty.
Who ruined the life-loving Osya,
And left me on the ground?
I curse this life
But I also hate death
I don't know what I'm looking for
I don't know why I'm fighting.
And, probably, in the last court
Laugh to myself venomously
What are the seraphim nonsense
And that their harps are broken.
And what could the Lord before the Process
Weigh all denunciations and squabbles.
What I see? Chief Imp
At the prosecutor's office.
Have mercy, God, night souls.
I don't remember whose
Forgive my night soul
And be sorry.
Around everything is quieter, and everything is deafer,
And it's getting darker.
- 355 -I will go to the land of suffocation,
In the mist of November.
Forgive my night soul
My love.
Sleep. I want to listen to your dream
Full of anxiety.
Forgive my night soul
Anna Aleksandrovna Barkova- Russian poetess, prose writer, playwright.
She was the fifth (and only surviving) child in the family of a caretaker/porter at the Ivanovo-Voznesensk Gymnasium. Mother worked in a textile factory and died early. Anna studied well at the gymnasium where her father worked, from the age of five she read a lot and began to write early, from the age of 13 she earned money with lessons.
She published poems from the age of 16, in 1918-1921 she worked as a "chronicler" in the Ivanovo newspaper "Working Territory" under the direction of A.K. Voronsky. She appeared in print with poems that were noticed and highly appreciated primarily by “leftist” criticism; sympathetic attention was paid to her poems by such aesthete intellectuals as A. Blok, V. Bryusov. Lunacharsky wrote to her: “I fully admit the idea that you will become the best Russian poetess in all the elapsed time of Russian literature”. In 1922 he moved to Moscow, entered the school led by V.Ya. Bryusov Literary and Art Institute, but soon leaves it. At the invitation of A.V. Lunacharsky, worked for him for two years as an assistant secretary, but due to a conflict (caused by her caustic comments on the secrets of the Kremlin court) she left his secretariat. In 1924, with the help of M.I. Ulyanova gets a job at Pravda, where her notes and poems sometimes appear. Then, until 1929, he worked at Selkolkhozgiz.
In 1922, her only lifetime book of poems “Woman” was published (with an enthusiastic foreword by Lunacharsky), critics write about her as the antipode of Akhmatova: “Russia split into Akhmatovs and Barkovs”. The following year, the play "Nastasya Koster" is published in a separate edition, which also receives the full approval of the Soviet authorities. The beginning of the 1920s is the pinnacle of official recognition of Barkova: her poems become widely known, they begin to talk about her as the “proletarian Akhmatova”, the exponent of the “female face” of the Russian revolution. Her lyrics of these years are really deeply original, she effectively expresses the rebellious (revolutionary and god-fighting) aspirations of the “fighting woman”, masterfully using a rich arsenal of poetic techniques (in particular, dolnik and accent verse, firmly established by that time in Russian poetry).
But then everything was no longer so: naturally, they did not publish works that criticized the authorities ... Barkova's rebellious nature quickly leads her into a deep conflict with Soviet reality. It cannot find a place for itself in official literary and near-literary structures, because possesses "excessive intemperance". Long before the appearance of the “Kremlin highlander”, she wrote, for example, the following: “Sad”, “ideal”, “bedrooms”, / Everyone procrastinated to nausea. / Now we will use the sonorous rhyme "Stalin" / We will clamp our critical mouths ". Barkova was arrested on December 25, 1934 - at the beginning of the mass repressions associated with the "Kirov case" because of an accidentally thrown phrase: they killed, they say, the wrong person, and she spends four years in Karlag (1935-1939). Then she lived under supervision in different cities of Russia, survived the Great Patriotic War in Kaluga, and worked as a watchman.
But in 1947 she was arrested again, she was again charged under Article 58-10. On February 16, 1948, the Judicial Collegium for Criminal Cases announced the verdict: 10 years in prison with serving in a correctional labor camp, loss of rights for five years after serving the sentence. And this time they are imprisoned in a camp in Inta, where she is until January 1956, when Anna Alexandrovna was released under an amnesty decree.
After her release, she wrote a lot, but in 1957, despite the "thaw", she was arrested for the third time. On November 13, 1957, the KGB again opened a criminal case against her “on the grounds of Article 54-10” (reason: a denunciation and a satirical story about Molotov intercepted in the mail). Anna Aleksandrovna was charged with the fact that she, having been brought to criminal responsibility twice, did not renounce her anti-Soviet beliefs. For "slanderous fabrications" in his work, Barkova no longer receives Stalin's, but Khrushchev's ten and ends up in Mordovian camps. Another eight years passed in Ozerlag.
At the end of his "last term" Barkova in 1965 was sent to the village. Potma of the Mordovian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic to an invalid home, from where she only in 1967 received (with the assistance of A. Tvardovsky and K. Fedin) the opportunity to return to Moscow, received a room in a communal apartment on Suvorovsky Boulevard, was admitted to the Literary Fund, she was assigned a pension of 75 rubles . Every morning (“like going to work,” she said) she went to the House of Books on Kalininsky Prospekt and spent her entire pension on books. They filled the whole room. An old refrigerator donated by someone never turned on: it also served as a bookcase.
All these years, Anna Barkova continues to write poetry, many of which reach great artistic power and are among the most important documents of the “camp literature” of the Soviet period. Several times she tries to offer them for publication, each time receiving an invariable refusal with the wording: "No optimism, no life-affirming start".
An excerpt from a letter from 70-year-old Barkova: “... I indulge in the devil of irony, the demon of contradiction, the spirit of unbelief. But do not think that the sky is completely alien to me. Forgive me for the quote, but I can repeat after Heine: "I don't know where irony ends and heaven begins." And this dubious, insidiously mocking side of any phenomenon, any faith, any belief and principle is the first thing I see and feel, and against which I am wary. Rise above hate? To rise above 30 years of your slavery, exile, persecution, infamy of all kinds? I can not! I am not a holy man. I am just a man. And only for this, the chariot of history for 30 years crushed me under the wheels. But it didn't completely crush. Left severely crippled, but alive ".
Therefore, Anna Barkova could rightfully write about her generation and herself with such amazing shrillness:
“Heroes of our time / Not twenty, not thirty years old.
Those cannot bear our burden, / No!
We are heroes, the same age, / Our steps coincide.
We are both victims and heralds, / Both allies and enemies.
Blok and I conjured, / We were engaged in high labor.
They kept a golden curl / And went to a brothel.
They broke ties with the people / And went to the people as debtors.
They put on Tolstoy blouses, / Following Gorky, they wandered into tramps.
We tried whips / Old Believer Cossack regiments
And the prison nibbled on rations / From prudent Bolsheviks.
They trembled, seeing rhombuses / And crimson buttonholes,
Bombs were hidden from the Germans, / During interrogations they said "no".
We saw everything, so we survived, / Bits, shot, hardened,
Our Motherland, evil and humiliated, / Evil daughters and sons.
Anna Alexandrovna died of throat cancer on April 29, 1976 - shortly before her death, she slipped out of the hospital ward, went down from the third floor, hobbled to the exit and lost consciousness. Recovering herself, she explained to the sisters who ran up that she had lagged behind the column: she was trying to catch up. This woman, who denied God all her life, asked to be buried according to the Orthodox rite. She was buried in the church of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker in Khamovniki, the urn with her ashes was buried at the Nikolo-Arkhangelsk cemetery. And only fourteen years after her death, her books began to appear: several collections of poems were published in Ivanovo and Krasnoyarsk. One of the most complete publications is the book “... Forever not the same” (M .: Sergei Dubov Fund, 2002). “The linguistic clarity of her poems reflects the dignity with which this woman went through a thorny path prepared for hundreds of thousands of people”. (V. Kazak).
Barkova was prone to fantastic themes all her life. Starting from the fantasy story "The Man of Steel" (1926), to the dystopia "The Liberation of Gynguania" (1957) and the story "Eight Chapters of Madness" (1957), in which the modern Mephistopheles in the guise of a retired Soviet employee fishing in a local pond, tells how he talked with the Minister of State Security of Stalin and Adolf Hitler himself, invites the author to travel through time and space, and the interlocutors went to the future, to its alternative options - the liberal-democratic and militaristic-communist worlds.
Literature:
A.I.Mikhailov // in the dictionary of Russian literature of the twentieth century. M.: OLMA-PRESS Invest, 2005 - pp. 170-173
V.D.Panov. Review of archival investigative files by A.A. Barkova // Selected. From the Gulag archive. pp.271-280.
© (according to the network)
In the barrack
I am not sleeping. Snowstorms roared
From an unknown forgotten time,
And the colored tents of Tamerlane
There, in the steppes...
And bonfires, bonfires.
Return b Mongolian queen
Into the depths of past centuries.
Tied to the tail of a mare
I am my loved ones and enemies.
Would strike with savage revenge
I am you, conquered world,
Defeated in their royal tent
I would arrange a barbaric feast.
And then in one of the battles,
From unheard-of orgy battles
In the inevitable moment of defeat
I would fall on my own sword.
What, tell me, is this good for me,
That I am a woman and a poet?
I look like a wistful wolf
Into the depths of the passing years.
And I'm burning with strange greed
And from a strange, wild longing.
And the tents and bonfires of Tamerlane
Far from me, far away
1935 Karaganda
Vera Finger
March wind, March wind
Promises a big ice drift.
And sitting in a magnificent carriage
Death pursues, catches, waits.
Here he goes. And huddled in heaps
Curious and timid people.
And the portly royal coachman
Looks majestic ahead.
He does not see that the girl is tender,
But with a stubborn not girlish forehead,
Raised her rebellious hand
With a peace banner, a white scarf.
Neither an onlooker, nor a brisk saleswoman
You weren't there.
Only your mind and hand are dexterous
This case was in the project.
Oh you Russians are our projects
To murder, to truth, to lies!
Opening a new sect
We are preparing a blueprint for faith.
Was not there, but sent the case
And gave direction to fate.
You left your loved ones there
The closest and dearest to you.
And then your life and freedom
And a bloody glorious story
Pierced, sealed for years
Peter and Paul sharp spire.
And then everything went silent and froze,
Lurked like a predator, haze.
In Shlisselburg secret chambers
Life has matured and blossomed.
Moving, pathos of meetings,
Someone's speech, sounding ardent,
And the fatigue of bruised shoulders.
Creepy, wild in the open space,
You can walk calmly alone.
And among European wanderings
There was a terrible Russian tremor.
But terror bombs disturbed
Those who rested peacefully in sleep,
The dead night of Russian expanses
Illuminating with instant fire.
Yes, you have an heir,
Not straight and solid like you.
Your faith - and new nonsense,
Coldness of the heart and passion of the head.
To you, stubborn, simple and pure,
Were strangely distant at times
These passionate chess players
Mathematicians, players.
Power-hungry, Jesuits,
The conspiracies of the gloomy slave,
All their betrayers are hidden
On the steep slopes of the struggle.
In satanic bomb blasts
He embodied the wrath of the people,
He is mysterious, silent,
Brilliant traitor Azef.
But not you, not them. Someone third
Rus' national firmly bridled,
The people's revolt calculated, marked out
And the spill was bound with granite.
He created a formidable empire,
Never seen such a land.
Bloody stars lit up
On the resigned towers of the Kremlin.
And thirst for treacherous deeds
suddenly seized the hearts,
And watched each other
At the door, at the window, at the porch.
For fear, for reward
The slippery vile whispered.
Ninth Circle of Dante's Hell
Settled by Soviet Rus'.
You were silent. And with measured steps
Through thick red fog
Went to the last faithful comrades
To the club of museum political prisoners.
But you in open space
It was wild and scary, as of old.
In the depths of your sleepy wanderings
The dead king appeared.
And whispered with a dead smile
The previously hated shadow:
"You see, he was a mistake,
This March doomsday.
You blew me and my throne
But not slavery of hearts and minds,
So you see, hosts are born
Unprecedented new slaves.
You woke up in agony
Suffocating in a bed coffin
With late envy of the fate of Sonya,
And to her rope, and the post.
Return
Ivan got out of the car
With a miserable bag.
The people dispersed from the platform
To friends, to my home.
Ivan stood in thought,
The back of the head scratched sadly,
Here, in this station noise,
No one was waiting for Ivan.
He hunched over and moved on
With your miserable bag,
And beat in the face and in the chest
Night windy darkness.
The streets were quiet
And the shutters were closed at home,
As if waiting for dashing
As if there was a plague.
He walked without an argument,
Not feeling tired feet.
I did not recognize his Russian city,
I did not know and could not find out.
He walked along the ravines, along the hills,
Not feeling the tired legs,
He walked, blissful and bitter,
Ivan the Fool.
Favorite hero from fairy tales
Tsarevich, born in a hut,
He goes, driven by fate,
Walking towards destiny.
Eight years is like one year...
Eight years, like one year old,
I got it right, my friend.
And now it's useless to guess
What is in the darkness - the rise or the abyss.
Smiling in the face of adversity
I sing something easy
Only together, neither next nor next
You will not go, dear friend.
Where is the loyalty to some homeland ...
Where is the loyalty to some homeland
And the strength of native dwellings?
Here everyone stands before life -
Powerful, merciless and poor.
Let's remember with an evil smile
Wandering naive fathers.
Was a fatal mistake
Game of the dear dead.
With servile obedience together
We make a bloody share
Then, to build an unnecessary
Reinforced concrete paradise.
Lives behind a chained door
In the darkness of our strange hearts
Servant of godless mysteries,
Great sufferer and liar.
Heroes of our time
Heroes of our time
Not twenty, not thirty years.
That we can't stand our time
We are heroes, age peers,
Our steps are the same.
We are the victims and the heralds
Both allies and enemies.
We conjured together with Blok,
They did high work.
Golden kept curl
And they went to a brothel.
Breaking ties with the people
And the people went into debt.
Wearing Tolstoy blouses
Following Gorky, they wandered into tramps.
We tried whips
Old Believer Cossack regiments
And the prison gnawed rations
The prudent Bolsheviks.
Trembling, seeing rhombuses
And crimson buttonholes,
Bombs were hidden from the German,
During interrogation they said "no".
We saw everything, so we survived,
Bits, shot, hardened,
Our homeland is evil and humiliated
Evil daughters and sons.
During the day they are all like gunpowder ...
During the day they are all like gunpowder,
And at night they are quiet as mice.
They listen to every whisper
which is heard from somewhere.
There, on the stairs... My God! Who is this?
Call... To whom? Isn't it for me?
And the heart aches, and the heart aches!
And with a conscience - rigmarole!
Every little step is remembered
My God! Isn't it for this?
With such a suspicious - how stupid!
I drank vodka and ate meatballs!
They get up in the morning. Swelling under the eyes.
But the fear went away with the night.
And a song is whistled about the wide country,
Where it breathes so freely ... and so on.
fool
I'm sitting alone on the porch, on the porch,
And I try to tinker with a song.
A man is running in his head, spinning
And someone turns a screw.
I'm watching this little gray bird...
No one will see me here.
The little man in his head goes through things,
In the head incessant: current, current.
“This is a fool,” they whispered about me yesterday,
And no one can think of him.
Ah, what a wonderful bird! Ghouls, ghouls!
The little man whispers, "Set your house on fire."
My head hurts because of you, man.
How fidgety you are, buzzing! How thin!
I'll pull you out, set fire to a candle,
You will squeak, damned, like a mouse.
If life were reversed...
If life were reversed,
If only we could start all over again!
Where are you, "my irrevocable time"?
Golden and proud to become!
Well, what would I do anyway?
If I became a newcomer, different?
I would be all-skillful,
With a very flexible soul and back.
I would definitely get into the press,
At least from the back - to hell with it! - porch,
wonderful poetess,
Patriot without end.
Experienced in Holy Scripture,
I would spread heresy all around,
I would get myself a sleigh
And a cottage-like house.
Youth would be greeted with a grin
And driving shivers with quotes,
Because blasphemous heresy
Often young people live.
And for this big medals
The heights would wake up on me,
And maybe they would give me an award:
Cursed, na! Choke!
Finally, a grateful motherland
My cold corpse would have been hammered into the coffin,
In a lush coffin the color of redcurrant.
Everything has been achieved. It's over, stop!
And the prominent public would listen
Very mournful funeral words
(Finally died, vicious,
And cleared the way for us!):
We will decorate, friends, with monuments
This glorious and creative way...
And then a cement idol to me
Would crush a dead chest.
And here it is, stupidly vulgar,
We call significant life.
Ah, and the stranger becomes sick to me
In my prison jacket.
It's good that I got another:
Poverty, and war, and jail.
That covered me with snow,
And knocked down by blizzards.
And that terrible turmoil of the constellation
Blinding the whole world and me
And that I will live to see retribution,
Until the great doomsday.
Pen for human cattle...
Pen for human cattle.
Entered here - do not rush back.
There are no rooms here. Wretched cabins.
On the bunk tags. On the shoulders - a pea jacket.
And the thieves' spasm of the meeting,
A chance meeting, somewhere out there, in the hallway.
Without a word, without love. Why are we talking here?
Only an eunuch or a monk will condemn.
On the watch there is a cabin for dates,
With a cynical joke they put a bed there:
Here to the prisoner, the poor creature,
It is allowed to sleep with a legal husband.
The country of holy pathos and construction,
Is it possible to fall more terrible and easier -
Is it possible on this mean bunk
To corrupt forever marital passion!
Under laughter, hooting and whistles,
By permission of the evil scoundrel...
No, better, better a candid shot
So honestly piercing hearts.
Burning and cold...
Burning and cold
I curse you and pray to you:
Byzantium is mine, Judea
And cool ferocious Rus'.
You are confused, midnight
And don't take your eyes off me
You are oriental, too oriental,
Run away to the west from you.
Where all the lines are clear, clear:
Every hill, and palaces, and temple,
Where with a confident gait
Everyone goes about their business
Where do not get confused with riddles
And they don't want to know the clues
Where wormwood is not drunk instead of sweet,
If they love it, they say it.
spell
I will look into your eyes
I will curse you forever.
You can't forget me
And get rid of melancholy.
I'm with the fog - through the window - into your house
And in the fog I melt gray.
You will pass through familiar places
In the alleys of the dark, deaf
You will hear these verses.
And you'll see I'm waiting on the corner
And dissipate into the evening mist.
I will curse you forever.
I am in yours, you are in my captivity.
And in the proximity of the heart so lonely ...
And in the proximity of the heart so lonely
Like a cosmic night without the living.
We have come from distant sources,
For a moment they merged - and away, and away again.
And everyone will pass there, in their own space,
In the empty where all rays die.
We will merge again in an indifferent sea,
Where we can not be separated, not separated.
Inquisitor
I remember: bent in shame,
Snows of alpine whites,
Bowed down under the fiery gaze,
Under the gaze of my Galileo.
And I looked away in thought,
And he clasped his hands on the cross.
You're right, poor fool
But death is in your right.
You now renounce the thought
You will continue to withdraw.
Who calculated the movement of the worlds,
It will burn in eternal fire.
What will you give the miserable mob?
We give her something.
Everything is more dangerous, more terrible and more untrue
The path you choose will be.
You yourself will begin to God
In inescapable anguish to resort.
The mind demands too much
But not much can give.
You yearn for a miracle
Prometheus cursing fire,
And new judges will judge you
A hundred times more ruthless than me.
You renounced, could not stand the fight,
Get out of the courthouse.
We will run into you more than once
In repetition and confusion of times.
I am fire, cross and love
I pacify the minds of the flight,
Worth moving me a frown,
And people will tear you apart.
But today he burns my hands
This cross. He is hot and heavy.
Through the fire of cleansing flour
I have spent too many in paradise.
The sun's light is replaced by darkness,
Lies and truth are all a game.
And will remain a rock for centuries
Only St. Peter's Church.
Bonfire in the endless night...
Bonfire in the endless night
Where there are no more roads
Lit by a careless hand
Random or fate.
It has sweetness, flour, bitterness,
And in a witching haze
Over the years, hard arguing
I go to his call.
We all screamed...
We all screamed a lot
Praise for struggle and work.
Too long the flames burned
Would you like to take a sip of ice?
Didn't achieve goals
And we prevent others from reaching.
Everything was on fire. And now they burned
Turned to ashes and smoke.
Recklessly loving freedom
We brought up a slave race,
Prepared bread and honey
For the coming smart gentlemen.
A new caste is born
Merciless like rock.
Belated sobriety, hello
We are at the feet of the enemy.
Don't chase me, don't chase me...
Don't chase me, don't chase me.
Our winter days are short.
Blasted and burned us
Our white haze.
I don't want any of us
It cooled, and fell silent, and died away.
For one of us to extinguish
This flash of broken forces
And the last passion in the region
Where I bitterly laugh and sing
About your love and about
That we will not return the past.
I was looking for you in my dreams
But the way blocked me
Either a deaf fence, or a ravine,
And I took a step back.
They'll take you out at four o'clock.
I wandered in a dreary delirium:
I'll die if I don't find it!
If we can't be together
I don't need to live anymore!
You are more important than air and light
Without you, I have no air!
And in the wanderings of a terrible dream
I'm lost, sick and alone.
Do not spare the evening bells...
Don't pity the evening bells,
My unbelieving, sad spirit.
Shut down the pale light,
For it to fade forever.
It's too late to bow down on the slabs of the temple,
Look at the victory towers.
After all, the beautiful blue-maidens
No more beautiful than the blossoming dawn.
Renounce the sadness of the night
My unbelieving, sad spirit.
Hear: shouted three times a long time ago
Golden rooster.
Don't pity the evening bells,
You will find another beauty
In the hands of the hardened and faithful,
That, burning, they carry the sun.
hatred for a friend
Sick of a forgiving disease
The human race is tired.
This book is a hot coal
Everyone gets burned who reads
More than an enemy, fight a friend
Historical law dictates.
That criminal who love is an affliction
Too heavy these days.
He walks a tangled path
And hides from the sun like a thief.
'Cause love forgives too much
And apostasy and disgrace.
Let our goal be dearer to us
Mothers and brothers and fathers.
After all, you have to shoot, maybe
To your favorite face.
Retribution for a right court is not easy, -
Freeze heart and mouth
Tenderness mighty and cursed
Not burdensome.
Hate is clear and frank
Hatred is directed towards the enemy
That's love - forgives all treason,
And she is a painful disease.
This book is a hot coal.
Do you see my open chest?
We hate each other in the name
We curse the family in the name.
No blasphemy, no praise...
No blasphemy, no praise
I do not need. Everything is empty.
Just to meet you
"In the quiet hour of the evening mist."
For an unknown country
All nodes will be allowed.
There we will meet you
"In the quiet hour of the evening mist."
About uplifting deceit
Pieces of meat soaked in mud
In vile pits trampled foot.
What were you? Beauty? Outrageous?
A friend's heart? The heart of the enemy?
Twisted, fiery, vicious
The sky is falling into our dark world.
Have you ever seen something like this
Clear Pushkin, great Shakespeare.
Yes, you would be just as torn
To shreds and trampled into the mud,
Flock of angry metal crows
And it would hover over you in the same way.
Or would they be saved by hiding with a shudder,
Like a mouse, in a mink, in a closet,
Lepech helplessly: low truths are more expensive
The deceit that elevates us.
Oh, if only for my sins...
Oh, if only for my sins
Missing me abyss!
No funeral nonsense
Get into the jaws of the noseless!
How ours perished, like those
Who didn't come back.
Like those who are in the permafrost
They lie incorruptible.
Again barracks dress ...
Again barracks dress,
Treasury ostentatious comfort,
Again state-owned beds -
Shelter for the dying.
me even after the punishment,
As you can see, punishment awaits.
Will you understand my anguish
At unopened gates?
Flattened and pressed into the dirt
Me stupid wheel...
Would sit in a tavern dull
Alcoholic Picasso.
I'm a sucker for literature...
I treat literature dryly,
I am not friends with the faithful VAPP
And support for the woeful spirit
In Anatole France I find.
The gods are thirsty... Let's be patient
Wait until they are fed.
Ruthlessly trampling on an olive branch
Red to the blood of our days.
All will pass. broken trough
We will see before us again.
Maybe by chance we will be full,
Maybe you have to go hungry.
They treated us with an empty nut.
We died for obvious nonsense.
So appreciate the wise smile
And nothing blurred vision.
I do not want to swallow indiscriminately
Food approved by the censor.
Only the great France is my support.
He will help you to wait and endure.
Forerunner
I am a forerunner with a sad look.
I'm destined to broadcast another
tongue-tied harsh speech
And light her way.
I am in the clothes of dark suffering
I am preparing a light reception for her.
I endure the yoke of calling
On my weary shoulder.
I reject flowers and fun,
I dig a grave of tenderness in the shade.
Oh, come, come, majestic!
Change the tired forerunner.
I can't with a gloomy spirit
Bloom the bowels of the earth and the chest.
To everything my heart is deaf,
I'm just preparing the way for you.
I am a week of hard labor,
You are the solemn day of the seventh.
Change the sad-eyed forerunner,
A victorious earthly holiday!
I must, mournful forerunner,
For another to lose their way,
And forward, waiting for the meeting,
Crazed look up.
leper
I am alone, a leper,
At the silent gates of the city,
And prayerfully praises the imperishable
A heavy-sounding stone verse.
A whiff of a terrible infection
Turns people away from me.
I must chants passionate
Chants forever change.
Dark colored bittersweet songs
These ulcers have sprouted.
I sacredly glorify diseases
And I lie at the gates of the city.
This body will exude leprosy,
Knives tore at the heart;
Do not look into the bloody eyes:
I will serve you from afar.
My song is more passionate and sadder
Seeing off the last sunset
And someone far away greets
My solemnly sad look.
rhymes
"Sad", "ideal", "bedrooms" -
Everyone procrastinated to the point of nausea.
Now we sonorous rhyme "Stalin"
Let's shut the critical mouths.
And "tears", "dreams", "roses", "thunderstorms"
The editor gloomily banished.
Now for "tears" and "collective farms"
Any magazine will pay us.
And the majestic powerful "tractor"
With consonances we will go to gloss.
"Contract", "pact", "act", "fact".
Literally my brain explodes.
"Fool something" ... Well, let's say it's bad,
But it is possible at worst.
And "bad" will fit the "epoch",
To the "end", of course, the word "special".
They rhymed with quiet dejection
We are with a miserable "smoke" hot "Crimea".
There is hardly a better
Than the new rhyme "Narym".
With an air prisoner "cage"
We threw it out the door a long time ago.
But this "cage" "five-year plan"
Has returned to us now.
What was considered disgraceful
Again he has power over the verse.
Of course, the new banality
Started up in place of the old one.
"Class" - "us", "Soviets" - "without a gap" -
The hand draws by itself.
And it is difficult, for example, for poets
Avoid: "fist" - "CC".
Robespierre
The caftan is blue. Flower in a buttonhole.
Thickly pomaded head.
So Robespierre goes to pray
For the Feast of the Supreme Being.
Walk like a mechanical doll
Wooden inflexible mill,
Country attorney's hat and boucle,
The habits of a pedant. And it's a tyrant...
“Blackmail, profiteering, heinous bribery
I will wash with blood, I will eradicate!”
And the look is blue, impassive and meek ...
Smiled at the crowd and the Parisian day.
And on the gloomy square a crowd stood gloomily ...
Incorruptible, as if he Himself, "Widow" *
And with a knife blow, creaking,
Confirmed his words.
* So the Parisians called the guillotine.
Russian melancholy
intoxicating, diaphoretic,
You are close to us again
Wide, bottomless
Russian sadness.
We built and destroyed
Like a little child.
And the cards to our souls
The devil himself played jokingly.
No, we are not God's children
And they won't let us into heaven
Ready for the light
We have a big shed.
There are crooked bunks,
Out of tune with the board board,
And there we are waiting for a wide
Russian sadness.
Rus
Trampled by Tatar horses,
And tortured in robbery orders,
And Petrovsky is crippled by experience,
And Peter's club brought up.
And drilled by the Prussians,
And robbed by her circle.
You were all twisted by currents,
Confused by other people's teachings.
Not needed by anyone in the world.
I'm old, with cheerful eyes,
But sometimes my eyes are sad.
I'll go waddling in big villages,
I will go to small towns.
And they will say about me that I am a nun,
Who will throw me a dime, who will scold me.
And I will ask passers-by
At every door and at the gate.
- Open, do not conceal, Orthodox,
Whether the find came across to anyone.
Good and important on the road
I lost it somewhere - I don't understand.
All around, saddened, whining
Woman's stupid sympathetic army:
- This is the custom of robbers,
Rip off humble old women.
And what have you lost, wretched?
Or cut off a pocket?
- I did not go my own way,
I was given a companion by the Lord.
What he was, what kind - I remember
Yes, it's hard for me to talk about it.
And you hardly saw a bigger one,
More beautiful, more eye-catching.
And the look was then light, then brown,
And that look made my soul happy.
And without this look to me, old,
The light of God is finally not sweet.
- What is she, darlings, talking about? -
The women will whisper, blinking, -
This is a demon about some kind of love
He conjures, playing in the old woman.
And the woman will howl with frenzy:
“Drive her away, you old hag!”
And everyone will go at me with a stone,
A poker will be thrown on my shoulders.
Old woman
A cursed cloud hung,
What will happen - hail or thunder?
And I see a strange old woman,
Ancient antiquity eyes.
And her gait is aimless,
In the hand is a wretched stick.
Sick? Maybe a hangover?
Crazy for sure.
Where are you going, grandma?
A storm will begin - do not endure.
I'm waiting for a memorial service. I quit
Yes, only there is no one to sing.
All my roads are well traveled,
And there was no happiness anywhere.
Burning in the fire, frozen,
Drowned in blood and water.
The dress is all worn out on me,
And I have nothing to wear in the coffin.
I've been wandering dead for a long time
Yes, only there is no one to sing.
Longing Tatar
My Volga melancholy, Tatar,
Old and ancient longing,
My share is poor and royal,
Steppe, feather grass, running centuries.
On the salty Kazakhstani steppe
I walked with my head uncovered.
Thirsty grass dying babble,
Wind and wolves sullen howl.
So go without thoughts and without fear,
Without a path, on wolf lights,
To triumph, shame or execution,
Wasting energy, not counting the days.
Behind a prickly barrier
A faded once red flag
Ahead - death, revenge, reward,
Sun or wild angry darkness.
Angry darkness, blazing with bonfires, -
Big cities are burning
Choked in purulent shame,
In the throes of forced labor.
Everything will burn, everything will be blown to ashes.
Why does it hurt so much to breathe?
You are closely related to the Europeans,
Dark Tatar soul.
You're wasting your nerves...
You're wasting your nerves
You will not adjust the string system,
Boredom, boredom is your first friend,
And silence is a second friend.
And the friends who were near
Each went his own way,
All of them have long gone
And you can't get them back.
Even though you squeezed them into your notebooks,
Even if you need them
But they are recorded
And burned in the archives.
And last, and involuntary
Bonded song cry
Take care with great pain,
Take care in the moment of death.
You're leaning towards the sunset
You will go into the darkness of the night
Songs chained, crucified
Don't donate to anyone.
You never ask me...
You never ask me
Beloved enemy, about nothing,
You won't give me a quick smile,
Do not tremble with an eyebrow and shoulder.
But there will be a memory of each meeting
To torment you with sorrows
And once you want
Change your fate.
And in the riot of passionate split,
And in the forbidden struggle
Whispered impetuously to you.
And you remember my gentle murmur
And its merciless ban,
The paths to the past will not grow
Grass experienced years.
Unmerciful torment
Sticks to your shoulder
But from the jealous abyss
I won't come to you.
I will not fly, but I will rise
In response to your late call
And I'll make you crimson
Who will wake up? Who will meet the dawn hour?
Who will remember the dream heavy and vague
And he will ask: was this dream a dream?
Who wakes up in an uncomfortable room,
Like in a cold river mist?
Composition of a reasoning on the topic of my small homeland How to write a story about a small homeland
Types of static electricity
The main characters of the story "Ionych
Feng Shui of the bathroom - inside and out Where should the toilet be in feng shui
Gift for a loved one for the new year