this last summer we saw, heard. But here we are experiencing now that are going through, and understand: no, we never heard the noise of the wind in the crowns of limes, did not see how the dripping rain on the window glass, did not feel how good it cools the face of the morning mist.
And today I am particularly pleased to introduce you to two poets. One from Siberia and another from the Far East. Each behind – a great life, lots of bitterness and loss. But the experience has not shielded them from the sun, and filled their poems light and wisdom.
“Life is sped, and at the same time,
has not Yet begun the life of…”
Thanks to the readers who discovered us these names: Vasily Kazantsev and Yuri Mikhailovich.
In Tomsk, a book washi Kazantsev. As a student it was the unearthly beauty of a pensive young man with blue eyes and poems, similar to our autumn University grove. He is from the village Taskin Shainskogo district. Tea is a quiet river in the North of the Tomsk region, its water the color of tea. After the historical-philological faculty Bob worked as a school teacher. Now Vasily lives near Moscow.
Emma M. Zhilyakova, Professor of Tomsk state University
I loved…
Tormented secretive disposition,
I was carrying his young ardor
the Bushes, trees, plants.
Silent I wandered
But were well understood.
I forgot.
They remember to this day.
happens to be
Among them – will gather again.
…the Tears will pour,
Listening to their stories.
* * *
Slowly-with a long string of
Like clean steps,
the birch in front of you.
Lay the Sunny shade.
In flower-solar dust
have you Crossed the shadow –
And seemed: up you were,
All led you up the steps.
in the dust
Back walked through the shadows.
And again thought skyward were.
All led you up the steps.
And again forward, forward blacklis
your Steps through the shadows.
And again, and again it seemed up to the sky,
All up, all up, were stage.
* * *
When I walked under these arches
Under the glare and leaves
I waited for the coolness and freedom,
And the light-faced one beauty
And purity. But I didn’t.
That will suddenly hear an extra
the slow influx of noise.
the Breath of happiness itself!
* * *
And the light evasive and quick,
And changeable haze
Suddenly splashed by lightning guesses,
That life has already passed.
What over, sped time
What over, sped life,
Life took off – and at the same time
not Yet started life.
Hello, DMitry. I read your “Calendar” and decided to send you a small selection of the poems of Yuri Georgievich Magnitsky. His father was a brutal General of the army, the mother a refined French. The child would have been born a poet. When in 1945, his parents took Berlin, he was already in the belly of his mother. Born a frail boy with poor health and great instincts for music and literature. At thirteen, tired of her mother’s care, he tore the sheet came down from the balcony of the third floor and joined in the volleyball section. Fees, training, fractures, competitions, foreign travel – this life was to his liking. Soon he was playing in USSR team. And all the while he wrote poetry. He met with Andrei Voznesensky and got his approval for publication in “Youth”. Now he laughs: if after sports I’m not interested in science, poetry would’ve killed me, I don’t know the coast. But the Muse waited in the wings. In forty years he came to Amur oblast, met with me and again began to write poetry. Since then, every morning with brewed coffee and poetry discussion.
Olga magnitskaya, Blagoveshchensk
Haircut
As boys.
a Student.
Exactly.
Hardly mistress.
More “Dynamo” t-shirt
Before hiding the chest.
ever.
Ah… that’s ever!
I’m so
And I
And so
not to breathe.
Wagon wind
Knees stroking.
subway
Toiling luminescent.
From wall
In the guerrilla outfit.
Girl out
demolished
As of Mesozoic
dragging myself clear.
Once in the optic chiasm bustle
Petrified Zoya
Asks:
And you…
What have you done for the Motherland
In this corrupt age?..
we love each other
beams In the icy winter.
snow Bound with a Blizzard
Wrapped up with taiga.
As we threw each other
flats In serial construction,
I went to the girlfriends
You are in the empty beds.
As we have each other to forgive.
Under the sonorous chimes
When frozen was
To Moscow, was returning home.
How basement happiness
For honesty in love and Affairs.
As the North cut into pieces
We have lost the fear.
* * *
On the outskirts of Donetsk.
Blossomed gardens.
In the lane the noise of children,
On the balcony – you.
Old brush clean
You traces of war.
things are Clean and inhale.
the Scent of spring.
��ishite Dmitry Shevarov: dmitri.shevarov@yandex.ru
