I do Not know how anyone, but I thought of this story when I received the manuscript of the book, full of war, death and poetry, sheltered from oblivion by the hand of Dmitry Shevarov, books of this mastermind and originator. She is his report before eternity and at the same time the result of his daily work and worries.
the Book sprouted from its long-standing column in “the Russian newspaper”. The book is a nervous, uneven, and biased, but this is proof of a living memory of the war, clear evidence that the memory this is not all caught up in the parades, the late award lists and academic monograph, was not a tribute to the bureaucratic Moloch, devouring every living initiative. This book is an echo of the folk drama, the lost heat of an empty house, not doschitalis departed from his sons. In short, as said the age of the dead poet David Samoilov:
They were noisy lush forest.
they had faith and trust.
And they were beating iron.
And there is no forest. Only trees.
according to the few people in this generation came out alive from a four-year grinder, it was a very talented generation. Let not all the poems in this book serve as conclusive evidence, but they are mostly write only began; their inherent abilities and talents do not have time to cut the terrible experience of war. As stated in another age, Boris Slutsky:
Life, death, happiness, pain
I would not understand quite,
If not a study in the field
Not lessons on the war.
In these lessons, most of them laid down their lives, and were unprepared to their deaths the memory of loved ones separate lines of poetry and letters, youth photos and short dash between the extreme dates, biography, date of birth usually known, and the date of death, the majority are known very approximately, because the extreme cruelty of this war, it underlined the indifference to those who have already dropped out of live and won’t be able to fight on.
This war even today, almost seventy years later, continues to bury their dead. Mostly in mass graves. No names. “Marble lieutenants – plywood monument – the wedding of those talents. Interchange those legends.”
I quote their surviving peers, because they – Slutsky, Samoilov, Levitansky, Mezhirov and a few others, preserved in the poems the poignant the memory of them, imbued with a sense of guilt alive in front of nedozhivshih. They have experienced the hard way what they write:
Burned in my tanks
To ashes, to ashes, to ashes.
Grass, halfway around the world
Of them, of course, was borne.
My comrades in the mines
Exploded, soared skyward…
And I believe them much more than myself, all is knowledgeable of their poetry and prose. That they have �� read that the crew of the burned-out tank were buried, having collected all the ashes in one tank helmet.
Yes, did all that we could,
Who could, how many could
and how could.
And we were by the burning sun,
And we walked through hundreds of roads.
Yes, everyone was hurt
And one in four was killed.
And personally, the Fatherland needs,
And personally will not be forgotten…
That this Covenant “personally will not be forgotten” and performs the book in your hands, it is fuller, more corrosive and meaningful than others of its predecessor, the carrying out fact in the company of poets killed in the war. Because none of them, except two who died of old wounds, did not live to see Victory, but our grateful memory – a container of their immortality – every one of them worthy. And let them a common monument and named a monument of a poem by Boris Slutsky and the epitaph on it:
Grow out of the ridge like peak
And above the peaks above the earth
And below me still
Not taken by me in battle, height.
Arian Tichacek 20 years
Lieutenant commander of infantry regiment, assistant chief of staff. Died 9 Oct 1943 at the approaches to the Dnieper river near the village Borodaevka.
His name isn’t on the lists of the war dead poets. His poetry is not in any front-line anthology of poetry, although they are issued and maintained for over half a century – since, in 1963, was a collection of “name verification”.
dead of the night.
Lights in the corner
the stove sleeps
Straw on the floor
written in a litter.
I, lying on back,
aimlessly waiting for the morning.
Through the door on the wall
throws a faint light.
I lit a cigarette. Smoke curls
And the wound still hurts.
All night no rest.
Start to moan – not easier:
the pain is still the same.
Begin to dream
the pain and chases dreams
As if all night
is on guard,
to torture and torment