All the verses that you just read, written by Nikolai Panchenko from 1942 to 1945.

In the forty-second Nicholas is 18 years. Boy. For our times – tender age. In the forty-five – 21 years old. Also the boy.

And poetry… well, poetry of Lermontov, too, does not tally with his age.

When we talk about poetry of the great Patriotic war, but why-that only something immutable, canonical, that we can take off the shelf and read.

But there are poems that cannot be read. They remained on the other side of the front that separates life from death.

Therefore, frontline poems have come down to us from Twardowski and Simon to Mezhirov and Slutsk is only part of a huge poetic of Atlantis.

Nikolai Panchenko – the Bulletin those guys are poets, who was killed along with his poems. It is their voice from nowhere.

the last student from Kaluga went to war in forty-two.

And here, on the front, in the wrong place at the wrong verses the time it was captured Russian poetry.

No, nick was not sitting in the lulls with a notebook and pencil stub. He just lived the poems that came to him without any drafts, and certainly without pangs of creativity. Had other suffering.

War is not a mother, stepmother is

Cruel hag.

She taught the boy

No mercy of the enemy,

to Shoot, to pierce,

to Arcanite and knitting

a pity not to show it,

A mind not to get involved.

Panchenko did not write his poems until the mid-1950s. a Young the memory is tenacious kept them. Read trusted friends. The paper did not trust.

War If Panchenko terrible, unsightly. She mangles and disfigures not only the body but also the soul. To write about it was unsafe. Because it was believed that with the war ended and all of its horrors.

meanwhile, the boys who went to war and returned a gray mustache, was afraid to fall asleep because the night they broke out of the encirclement, then died in a swamp, then went to the attack, grabbing the headboard as over the top.

Panchenko died 80-year-old in 2005. He was buried at the cemetery Peredelkino. Near the Church of the Transfiguration, where Nikolai came, until there was nothing left.

Even those who survived the war, it turned out, did not survive.

Here is a poem by Nikolai Panchenko. Steaming hot water from the soldiers ‘ mugs.

For a long life in the poetry of Nikolay Vasilyevich has published fourteen poetry collections, and the first… the First was never released, his manuscript was rejected by publishers scared.

The first collection of Nicholas gathered in the late 1950s of poems composed them during the war.

He and the Preface wrote: “Seventeen-twenty soldiers were recording everything, as per capita will fall. “Lay” in different ways: unlawful to print mischief, and without sufficient respect for the events in which I was. In short, these “samples” a lot one-sided. For practical as unnecessary and unsettled life, many of them lost. Remained a hundred and a half…”


Oh, red! Oh, five hundred fun!

there Is a landing “Bang”.

Creak nutrogena spring,

you calling buffer.

And there, in supply trucks, – Nara, Nara.

the Fire on the floor

Snorting accordion.

Someone arrogant

the Girl gropes in the corner…


* * *

We fell under extreme Khatami –

kids with fuzz on his lip

we are the collective Baba snapped up

and fed as to the slaughter.

tore off his shirt sweaty

Ter back – let them Shine!

Bitten in the morning – vile,

the beloved: “the Lord will forgive…”

And then, howling, crying,

supplies supplied for future use.

And head in feet fell,

to us as children shore.


* * *

End… Just can’t believe

That ends this war.

she Seemed not divertida,

To death, she seemed to.

in 1945

the Ballad of shot heart

I’m hundreds of miles of war-stomped.

With a rifle, drank.

With a rifle were sleeping.

Pull the trigger and the bullet into a spin,

and someone dropped dead.

I rock the curly forelock.

Go, horseshoes ringing.

own this miracle,

there is no Council for me.

Are fascists in the net,

stick crosses to the East.

Go West – the Nazis,

as a tank, the iron and cruel.

To them – the cross

and shadow of Christ,

to me neither God nor the cross:

Kill him! –


walk, horseshoes ringing.

I know: heart subside.

No heart from me.

bullets And barrel heart for.

A bullet-fools they hiss, they hiss.

And no heart,

the order is in me:

do not have hearts at war.

Oh, where I find him then I

performing military vow?

In my pouches and wallets

for the heart not even a place.

to Buy a reserved seat,

and the soon – to mom

to some poor mane,

the widow, the deceived wife:

– Serve the heart!

Me at least a little! –

hit his head.

But tell me:

– Look in the fields under Stream, in Istres,

on the Polish roads Roy sand:

not whistling lead

in your every shot

you heart put a piece.

You lost it, soldier.

You shot him, soldier.

so you owned this miracle,

survived where the men perished.

I am a long time alien will

to go and the heart to collect.

– Serve the heart disabled!

I the earth saved, I took the trouble. –

I’m asking this, as with prayer,

living crucifixion coming.

– Give my heart! – banging into the porch.

– Give my heart! – shout at the door.

– Understand! The man without a heart

much worse than with the heart of the beast.

I “Mostorg” will change.

And somewhere will give the money to the cashier.

a Great and cornered like a demon

idle and in excess of forces

I’ll be something soothing:

What is already there, so live. –

And there will be many wobbly beds

creak under the precariousness of love.

And somewhere, in someone else’s apartment,

I say:

– Honey, there are no miracles:

in the meanest of the postwar world

all issued hearts to spare.